witness the success of others, as business and tourism took off, and Marielyst flourished. It was the worst punishment he could have been given, to see the trains coming and going â to Amsterdam, Berlin, Paris, Rome â people travelling the world, while he stood on the platform whistling and waving his flag, and was left behind in Nykøbing.
He would have liked to have sold everything, to have taken Karen away with him as far as they could go for the money, and then to have lain down to die at the end of the road â the wish was born of despair â but he bit back the urge, said not a word but clipped tickets and collected his wages. And each day that passed his headache grew. It felt as though everything was bearing down on him, was wanting to get out â all the good ideas, the fine intentions, the rosy prospects that had never turned into anything but dust â and he could not think a thought without it causing him pain. There was a whining in his ears, and he would cross the tracks after work and stay there, waiting for the train â he counted to a hundred, to two hundred and on up â and when he came home he would sit down at the table, eat, kiss Farmor and say thank you, knowing all the time that it was only a matter of time.
It was not until his eyes were popping out of his headthat he gave in to the pain and told Father â something wasnât quite right â and was sent to hospital. It was the worst place in town. The doctors didnât have a clue and came up with a diagnosis that was not simply wrong â it was vindictive. Syphilis. Karen wept, and even though she believed him and knew that it was not possible â he loved her more than all the world â the humiliation was not to be borne, and Grandfather spend his last days being ashamed of something that he had not done. He was driven off to be examined at the clinic for sexually transmitted diseases in Copenhagen, where they only needed to take one look at him to know what was wrong. Carl was transferred immediately to the State Hospital, where they could tell him that he had a brain tumour and three weeks left to live â and those weeks were used by the doctors to carry out a trial. He was injected with chemicals, irradiated and encased in a huge cylinder that spun him round and round and round and away into death.
Carl gave up the ghost in 1949 and was buried in Ãstre churchyard, which looked out onto the Sugar Factory â to the site where the knackerâs yard had once stood. It had long since been demolished. It was an irony of fate that fourteen years later a direct rail route was opened connecting Berlin and Copenhagen â just as he had foreseen. It was christened Fugleflugtslinjen and, true to its name, sent trains straight as the crow flies, right past his grave. But it shouldnât make us sad, Farmor said. It had all ended well. Grandfather had only ever wanted one thing and that was to get away, and now his wish had been granted.
T he road to freedom was packed with refugees hauling children and old relatives and as many things as they could carry, and Mother felt ashamed sitting in an American jeep overtaking them all. Then she thought of her mother â and of Papa Schnieder, Eva, her cousin Inge â and joy bubbled up inside her. They were alive and in the West! They had survived the war, all of them, and she was on her way home and had been such a long way away that it was almost too good to be true.
Raegener Division had been annihilated by the 2nd US Armoured Division and the 30th US Infantry Division, and Mother crawled out of her bunker on 18th April 1945. She acted as translator during the capitulation and was sent to a camp for prisoners of war. Germany may have fallen to the Americans, but the American GIs fell for Mother. She played cat and mouse with them, stroking an arm here, smiling there and throwing back her hair until in the end they gave her a Red Cross
He would have liked to have sold everything, to have taken Karen away with him as far as they could go for the money, and then to have lain down to die at the end of the road â the wish was born of despair â but he bit back the urge, said not a word but clipped tickets and collected his wages. And each day that passed his headache grew. It felt as though everything was bearing down on him, was wanting to get out â all the good ideas, the fine intentions, the rosy prospects that had never turned into anything but dust â and he could not think a thought without it causing him pain. There was a whining in his ears, and he would cross the tracks after work and stay there, waiting for the train â he counted to a hundred, to two hundred and on up â and when he came home he would sit down at the table, eat, kiss Farmor and say thank you, knowing all the time that it was only a matter of time.
It was not until his eyes were popping out of his headthat he gave in to the pain and told Father â something wasnât quite right â and was sent to hospital. It was the worst place in town. The doctors didnât have a clue and came up with a diagnosis that was not simply wrong â it was vindictive. Syphilis. Karen wept, and even though she believed him and knew that it was not possible â he loved her more than all the world â the humiliation was not to be borne, and Grandfather spend his last days being ashamed of something that he had not done. He was driven off to be examined at the clinic for sexually transmitted diseases in Copenhagen, where they only needed to take one look at him to know what was wrong. Carl was transferred immediately to the State Hospital, where they could tell him that he had a brain tumour and three weeks left to live â and those weeks were used by the doctors to carry out a trial. He was injected with chemicals, irradiated and encased in a huge cylinder that spun him round and round and round and away into death.
Carl gave up the ghost in 1949 and was buried in Ãstre churchyard, which looked out onto the Sugar Factory â to the site where the knackerâs yard had once stood. It had long since been demolished. It was an irony of fate that fourteen years later a direct rail route was opened connecting Berlin and Copenhagen â just as he had foreseen. It was christened Fugleflugtslinjen and, true to its name, sent trains straight as the crow flies, right past his grave. But it shouldnât make us sad, Farmor said. It had all ended well. Grandfather had only ever wanted one thing and that was to get away, and now his wish had been granted.
T he road to freedom was packed with refugees hauling children and old relatives and as many things as they could carry, and Mother felt ashamed sitting in an American jeep overtaking them all. Then she thought of her mother â and of Papa Schnieder, Eva, her cousin Inge â and joy bubbled up inside her. They were alive and in the West! They had survived the war, all of them, and she was on her way home and had been such a long way away that it was almost too good to be true.
Raegener Division had been annihilated by the 2nd US Armoured Division and the 30th US Infantry Division, and Mother crawled out of her bunker on 18th April 1945. She acted as translator during the capitulation and was sent to a camp for prisoners of war. Germany may have fallen to the Americans, but the American GIs fell for Mother. She played cat and mouse with them, stroking an arm here, smiling there and throwing back her hair until in the end they gave her a Red Cross
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