HANNE AND HER friend Lisbet stood in line in the bakery, playing a clapping game while they waited for bread with Hanne’s mother. Their hands flew like bird wings, crisscrossing and connecting in a dancing pattern until Hanne missed a beat. Both girls laughed while the line of women chattered around them.
The bell on the door jangled, and two German soldiers walked in, a familiar sight in Copenhagen in 1943. Everyone in the shop fell silent. Hanne, Lisbet, and all the women in the morning bread line walked outside to stand quietly in front of the building until the soldiers bought their pastries and left.
“Mama,” asked Hanne, “why doesn’t anyone ever say anything to the soldiers? We leave when they come into shops, but it doesn’t feel like enough.”
“Going outside when they come in shows the Germans that they are not welcome in Denmark without anyone saying a word,” replied her mother. “Talking back only causes trouble.”
Since Germany had invaded Denmark three years previously, Hanne had grown accustomed to German soldiers patrolling the streets and troops marching through the city, hanging their hated red, black, and white flags on Copenhagen’s buildings.
Hanne had heard how harsh conditions were in other countries the Germans had invaded, and how much more terrible it was
