‘Harald Olesen had an almost supernatural power in critical situations. He could smell danger like a predator – by instinct more than intellect. On the third afternoon that they were with us, he came and said that he had a feeling that there was an acute danger, and out of consideration to both us and them, he could not let the refugees stay in town any longer. So he came to collect them in his car around two in the morning. It was a hasty farewell. I remember the tiny baby shoe that was left behind on the floor.’
Anton Hansen’s head fell back on the pillow again. I took the opportunity to fire a question.
‘Can you remember what kind of car Harald Olesen was driving?’
He nodded weakly, without raising his head from the pillow.
‘He was driving his black Volvo 1932 model that evening, as always.’
I smiled, hoping to encourage both him and myself.
‘Good, good. And what happened to the refugees after that?’
First a fleeting smile and then a sharp spasm passed over Anton Hansen’s face.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about that. We were never told their names or anything else about the people who stayed with us, or which route they followed from here. I never saw them again, but I don’t think it ended well. I asked Harald Olesen about it once, later. He suddenly looked extremely grave and said that they had been very unlucky and that I must never ask again. It would be best if I didn’t know more, he said. So I never asked again. I had the utmost respect for what Harald Olesen said, but I often wondered about it. Images and memories have dogged me through the years. I presume that none of them survived the war.’
He paused briefly, coughed a couple of times and then carried on.
‘On the other hand, one thing I know for sure is that Harald Olesen’s instinct saved both me and my wife that time. Somehow we’d been found out or someone had informed on us. The following morning, I was woken by five soldiers from the Gestapo kicking down my door and tearing the flat apart. The baby shoe on the floor was one of the things they asked about, but luck was with us and it fitted our youngest son.’
There was another short pause. The memories were obviously potent and his voice got weaker.
‘But I was arrested all the same and locked up in Grini Prison Camp. As I was escorted out of the flat that morning, I was sure that it was the last time I would see my wife and children. I was questioned and beaten up for four days before they let me go. On the third day, they said that I would be shot if I didn’t tell them immediately where the refugees had gone and who had gone with them. I said my final farewell to life. But it was just a bluff – they lined me up and pulled their triggers without having loaded the guns. That convinced them that I had nothing to confess. The next day, they let me go. I came home minus three teeth and ten nails, but that did not bother my wife and me. If that had been the worst damage, I guess we would have lived happily ever after. My involvement in the Resistance ended there and then. Harald felt that it was too dangerous for us, and them, to hide any more refugees, and I didn’t protest.’