War and Love - Swinging Copenhagen

War and Love - Swinging Copenhagen

© JoeMo1619 - Juni 2025 ff

Prologue:

A big thank you to all readers of the first two 'War and Love'-stories in English translation.

"Swinging Copenhagen" is located in Nyhavn, the entertainment district of Denmark's capital Copenhagen. For more than 150 years this location has been the attractive centre of entertainment and amusement for Danish and international citizens as well as tourists with all its restaurants, pubs, music and jazz clubs, galleries and a number of small theatres.

This story picks up two historically difficult topics: the racists motivated holocausts against Jewish people by Germany's Nazis all over Europe and the behaviour of the Danish public during the five-year-period of German occupation. To give a simple illustration about this difficult topic: during World War II 1,750 Danes lost their lives as fighting members of the Waffen-SS, but only 500 Danes died directly or indirectly as fighters for Danish resistance groups.

Copenhagen, Denmark, April 1940

For the petty bourgeois Denmark of the interwar years, I was rather unusual. Born and baptized as Oscar Nyrup Olsen, I was the youngest of three sons of the government director Rasmus Nyrup Olsen. After World War I, my father, as an administrative lawyer, had helped reintegrate the regions of Sønderjylland (North Schleswig) -- which had been lost in the 1864 war against Prussia and returned to Denmark in the Treaty of Versailles -- into the Kingdom. He held a prominent position in the Danish Ministry of the Interior until his retirement in 1925.

My two older brothers also entered civil service after studying law and held respectable positions in the Interior and Finance Ministries, respectively. I alone was the odd one out. I dropped out of law school after my first year at university and became a musician. Still, my father, recognizing my talent, paid for me to study piano at the Copenhagen Conservatory starting in 1909, a course I completed with a concert diploma.

Then I truly diverged from the family path. When the Great War broke out -- later known as World War I -- my homeland remained neutral. This fortunate circumstance allowed me, at the age of 25, to travel to the likewise neutral United States, where I quickly abandoned classical piano and fell for jazz. I was good enough to earn a modest living as a soloist, band member, and performer in various jazz orchestras.

By the time I turned 40, the Great Depression had severely impacted the entertainment industry. Gigs and performances became scarcer and poorly paid, and prospects grew bleaker by the month. My letter to my now-retired father asking for help with the funds to return to Denmark was, fortunately, met with approval. He arranged and paid for a second-class ticket on Denmark's only transatlantic steamer, which was waiting for me in New York. Thus, I returned to my homeland in 1930.

The Great Depression, which had hit the U. S. and our neighbouring country Germany so harshly, had far less severe effects in Denmark. Life, especially in Copenhagen, continued with little disruption for ordinary citizens and young people. The city's entertainment district, Nyhavn, remained lively, and with my years of American jazz experience, I quickly found opportunities to perform and a new audience.

Three years later -- a major political shift had just occurred in Germany, bringing to power an Austrian-born man largely unknown in Denmark named Adolf Hitler -- my family's financial support enabled me to take over a respected jazz venue in Nyhavn.

Over the seven years leading up to my 50th birthday on April 7, 1940, I established my club and restaurant as an attractive destination for jazz lovers of all ages and social classes. I benefited from Copenhagen's dynamic and creative art scene, which embraced my jazz club, "Swinging Oscar," as a trendy hotspot. I celebrated my birthday that Sunday with a twelve-hour party that continued privately after official closing time until five in the morning. When the last guests left and I collapsed into bed upstairs, above the club, I felt all was well in my world. One day later, the German Wehrmacht invaded Denmark.

The German army's attack on Denmark was essentially a passageway to quickly reach their real target: the conquest of Norway. At 4:15 a. m., the first Wehrmacht units crossed the barely twenty-year-old border north of Flensburg. By noon, after minimal military resistance, the Danish government accepted the terms of an armistice.

Following this turbulent day -- which saw firefights with fatalities and injuries between the Royal Guard and Wehrmacht units just a few hundred meters from "Swinging Oscar" at Amalienborg Palace -- the restaurants and clubs in Nyhavn remained closed. Nevertheless, I had my entire staff, including the jazz band booked for the week, gather at the club behind closed doors to discuss the change in circumstances.

"Today has brought lasting changes," I began my opening statement. I looked into many serious, worried faces. Beside me sat my long-time friend and lover, Helle Schmidt, a professor at the Copenhagen Art Academy, two years my junior. With her were her daughters, Friederike and Christiane, 22 and 20, respectively, both art students who worked as waitresses to help finance their studies. Hans Rudolf Mortensen, my long-time head bartender and a true entertainer behind the counter, looked unusually troubled. I knew Hans was Jewish, though religion played little role in his daily life. Victor Christensen, my head chef, and his kitchen assistants were already changed and ready for the evening when I announced my decision not to open the club that night. Also present were the five musicians in our house band, who usually ensured good spirits with their lively music -- often joined by my own piano playing later in the evening. But that night, no one was in a festive mood.

"From what I've learned, King Christian and the entire royal family remain in the country, and the government under Prime Minister Thorvald Stauning is still in office," I continued. "The German ambassador is now acting as the Reich's representative. Whether this will affect our lives and work here at the club is something no one can say for sure tonight." I leaned back, took my beer glass, and drank half of it in one gulp. "Best-case scenario: like all Copenhagen establishments, we'll be closed for a few days, maybe a week or two."

"And in the worst case?" Hans Mortensen voiced the question on everyone's mind.

"No idea." I shrugged. "But I currently have the impression that the Germans don't care much about us. And our king and politicians want to maintain as much Danish-led normalcy as possible. I even heard that King Christian plans to take his usual ride through the city tomorrow to symbolize this normalcy."

"There's still my Jew problem," Hans added. "I don't know if the Nazis will leave us alone, given how quickly they hunted us Jews in the Reich, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland."

"Lay low for now, Hans. If you need protection, come to me."

"You're not the only one with that problem," Helle suddenly interjected. I looked at her in total surprise, which she answered with an embarrassed smile. "I was born as Helle Rosenborg in German Apenrade, the daughter of two Jewish parents. I only converted to Protestantism when I got married. That's why Friederike and Christiane were baptized as infants. But if I understand correctly, under the German racial laws, I'm considered a full Jew and my daughters half-Jews."

"What?" I was completely stunned. Though I had been in a semi-public relationship with the art professor for over five years, I was hearing this part of her past for the first time. I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "So, we now have this so-called Jewish problem four times over." I looked around the room. "Anyone else affected by this danger?" Fortunately, everyone shook their heads.

I finished the rest of my beer in a second gulp. "Then the four of us will meet later to discuss our precautions." I looked around again. "I hope to reopen the club by next Tuesday. Until then, stay home as much as possible and wait. I'll pay your wages for this week as if you had worked normally. No need to worry about that." You could feel and hear the relief in the room.

"You really shocked me tonight," I said to Helle as we climbed the stairs to my apartment above the club.

"Why?"

"Helle! Even if I'm an apolitical musician and restaurateur, I can still read a newspaper. And what the Nazis did to the Jews during what they called Kristallnacht and later in the occupied countries -- any halfway intelligent person could read about it in the Berlingske or other papers. And now, for the first time, I learn that the woman I've lived with and loved deeply for years is a born full Jew? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I never thought it mattered. Denmark was neutral in the last war. And I expected that neutrality would be respected this time too. By all sides."

Helle stood before me like a drenched puppy. I felt infinite pity for her. I stepped forward and wrapped her in my strong arms. "We'll find a way, my love. But we need to be cautious now and see how things develop."

My guarded optimism was a bit like whistling in the dark. Because of course, from my daily newspaper reading, I also knew that there were serious political factions in Nazi Germany who denounced the jazz I loved so much as "Negro racket."

Helle trembled in my arms. "I'm scared, Oscar."

"What are you afraid of tonight? For Denmark, the war ended at noon today -- no gunfire, no bombs."

"That's not it. But the Nazis hate Jews, as we both know. And I was born 48 years ago in imperial German Apenrade -- which has been called Aabenraa again since 1920 -- and I have a German birth certificate that lists my parents' religion as 'Jewish.' That's the problem, one that even my conversion at marriage can't erase."

"Hm." I thought for a long time while still holding her and stroking her back. It soothed her; she stopped trembling. "I'll talk to my father and brother. Let's see if the Interior Ministry can issue you a Danish replacement birth certificate that doesn't list your parents' religion." I truly intended to address this matter with my family as soon as the situation in Copenhagen allowed.

Though it was still relatively early in our daily rhythm, we went to bed. Given the day's heavy events, neither of us had any interest in intimacy. But it did us both good to fall asleep wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

The next few days felt almost surreal. Life continued nearly unchanged. King Christian resumed his daily horseback rides through Copenhagen to be visibly present to the public. He did so explicitly without any military escort and would stop if a citizen approached him.

Helle stayed in my apartment in the days following the invasion and did not return home. The Art Academy extended Easter break for a week due to the unclear situation and was closed, freeing her from her teaching duties.

I had learned from the city authorities that restaurants and venues could reopen by the weekend, though a new curfew required them to close by 9:30 p. m., so citizens could be home by 10:00. Helle and I, like all Danes, closely watched whether the previously insignificant Danish National Socialists would now play a dominant political role. Prime Minister Thorvald Stauning was a Social Democrat, and every moderately educated Dane knew what fate the German Social Democrats had suffered under the Nazis. But even a week after the capitulation, the leader of the Danish National Socialists, Fritz Clausen, was ignored by both German diplomats like Cécil von Renthe-Fink -- promoted from ambassador to Reich Plenipotentiary -- and the few generals and officers present. The Wehrmacht focused on occupying strategically vital Norway and saw no further need to intervene in Denmark.

"I'm reopening our venue on Saturday evening," I announced the evening before and sent out messengers to summon my staff for duty the next day. Indeed, by Saturday afternoon, the entire team had returned to work. Helle also saw her two daughters again for the first time; they had spent the week safely at the studio of one of the art professors, along with other students.

"We had a lot of fun," Friederike reported. "We were totally cut off from the outside world."

"And how did you sleep in the studio?" Helle's question was a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Like at a camping trip -- just without tents. We don't know where Professor Knudsen got all the mattresses and bedding, but it was enough."

"If some of us shared blankets, it worked quite well," her younger sister added with a grin.

Helle didn't ask further, certain that the group of art students hadn't consisted solely of girls. But her daughters were old enough to know how to enjoy life without getting pregnant. She had made sure of that in time.

My team was noticeably happy to be able to work again. I myself reinforced my house band on both Saturday and Sunday for several hours. The guests at my jazz club consisted almost entirely of regulars who had heard about the reopening through word of mouth.

"Feels like a family celebration today," I joked between two solo numbers. "Last weekend was my fiftieth birthday. And this weekend we celebrate that we've got away unscathed -- at least for now." I was so elated that I offered two rounds of drinks on the house. "Who knows what the future holds," I proclaimed loudly as a toast. "So, let's just celebrate tonight."

My girlfriend and partner Helle, as well as the entire staff, were swept up by their boss's positive mood. At the early curfew, they headed home in an unusually cheerful manner for such uncertain times. We would face the future, come what may.

"As long as the war doesn't bring its horrors to Denmark," was the general sentiment. "We just want to live in peace."

"How do you do it?" Helle asked me later that evening when we were back at my apartment.

"Very simply, my dear," I replied. "It's the music. You can unload your worries into it, express your feelings, and pour all your hope into it. The rhythm of jazz and its styles -- like swing or boogie-woogie -- is uplifting and speaks to the soul. It sets you free!"

This time, I didn't have a Helle trembling with fear in my arms. On the contrary, that Sunday evening she was exhilarated and yearning for love. Fifteen minutes later, we lay naked on my large double bed, and Helle rode out all the frustration and gloom of the past days with wild abandon. She practically bounced on my rock-hard erection until we both drove each other loudly to orgasm.

"It's so nice not having to worry about getting pregnant anymore," she said afterward with a cheeky grin. "I love it when you pump your sperm deep inside me. I can really feel it when you come. That's what pushes me over the edge too."

I grunted a satisfied but unintelligible response. I loved this stress-free lovemaking with Helle just as much.

After the usual Monday rest day -- which I used, as always, for orders and shopping -- my jazz club reopened on Tuesday, April 16, 1940, with particularly cheerful energy. One week after the start of the German occupation, Copenhagen's public life had returned to its normal rhythm. The few German soldiers hardly stood out in the city streets; newspapers ranging from the conservative 'Berlingske Tidende' to the Social Democratic 'Politikken', along with the tabloids, were being published without noticeable censorship and reported relatively neutrally on the progress of German and British military operations in Norway. Most of the papers, however, featured ordinary news and sports coverage.

But by midday, newspaper boys ran shouting through the streets of Copenhagen: "The Crown Prince Couple announces the birth of a Princess!" Indeed, Crown Princess Ingrid had given birth to a girl seven days after the German invasion. Margrethe was King Christian's first grandchild.

I took this happy news as an occasion to toast the newborn princess with a proper glass of champagne with my entire staff. A toast I would repeat a few hours later in a nearly full venue.

"As you've probably all heard by now, the royal family announced the birth of Princess Margrethe today. Mother and child are doing well, according to the papers." I raised my glass, followed by everyone present, and gave a traditional Danish "Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" which the crowd echoed loudly. "May this joyful birth in such a dark time be a sign of a better and more peaceful future!" The strong applause showed that I had spoken from the hearts of many.

I had booked my house band for the week again, and in honour of the new royal princess, I played the piano myself for an hour and a half. Our joy in playing transferred directly to the audience; it felt like the pre-war days.

"You gave your guests a gift today," Helle told me later at the bar after congratulating me with a heartfelt hug and several kisses. "For an hour and a half, they forgot the uncertain and nerve-wracking reality and enjoyed the evening. Wonderful!"

"Then we should try to keep it up. Who knows how long our new overlords will let us go on unchecked." I knew well what kind of tightrope German musician colleagues walked when they drifted too far into jazz with their art.

All through April and May, Helle and I, her daughters, and the entire culinary and musical team at Swinging Oscar waited for something to happen -- for the authorities to impose new restrictive rules. But nothing came. Danish newspapers continued to report in their dry, relatively neutral tone about the war: Germany's final victory over Norway, then the lightning-fast conquest of the Benelux countries and France. The Danish population was largely relieved to have been treated gently by the seemingly unstoppable German war machine and simply carried on with their lives. Given the existing treaty between Germany and the Soviet Union, even the political and union cells of the Danish Communists remained quiet. An eerie calm normality prevailed across the city and countryside. Danish agriculture, in particular, benefited from the food demands of the large neighbouring country and its ever-expanding military. The collapsed exports to Britain -- especially bacon and pork -- were fully offset by increased exports to Germany.

By early June, life in the Danish capital had normalized enough that Helle returned to living with her daughters in her own apartment. At 'Swinging Oscar' and at my home, she was once again "just" a regular guest, like before the occupation. Only the slightly earlier curfew had shortened our opening hours by an hour -- a change that my team and I actually welcomed, as it allowed us to have some private evening life.

"Surprisingly, the shortened hours hardly affect our daily revenue," I noted while having a final glass of beer. "The audience just comes earlier and drinks faster." Then I took Helle by the hand and led her upstairs to my apartment. "I have a surprise and a gift for you."

"Oh, how lovely," said Helle. "Have you moved my birthday up?"

"No," I grinned. "But it does have something to do with your birthday."

I solemnly handed her an unsealed envelope. "I hope this solves a problem for you."

Helle opened the flap and carefully pulled out a sheet of paper. Her astonishment grew as she examined the document. "Unbelievable. I can't believe it!" she murmured. Then she looked at me with the happiest smile I had ever seen on her face. "You got me a new replacement birth certificate?! How did you manage that?"

I was as delighted as a little boy with a successful surprise. "My father and brother helped a bit. There's actually a legal provision that allows Danish citizens born before 1920 in the returned territories to get a replacement birth certificate. It's long forgotten, but my father, who used to work in the Ministry of the Interior, remembered it -- and my brother took care of the rest."

Helle looked at her new birth certificate. "Everything's correct -- except the religious affiliation of my parents is missing."

"But your baptism is listed. That makes it an official document confirming you're Protestant."

Helle threw her arms around me and kissed me with the passion of a woman freshly in love. "That deserves a big reward," she said, and pulled me straight toward the bedroom. There, despite the late hour, we undressed each other at record speed and stood naked in a tight embrace before the bed. Our intense kiss had me ready for action and her clearly aroused. "Do whatever you want with me. I'm so happy about your gift -- I consider myself your gift in return."

What a wonderful invitation. Helle knew exactly my preferences. First a long lasting 69 for both at the same time, something she had teached me at the start of our love affair. "Women make love to each other most effectively in this way", had been her comment. After a first oral climax she would prefer to position herself on hands and knees and invite me to become her stud.

This time she used our 69-pregame entirely. "I want to comfort your manhood with my mouth and throat", was her wish. "Until you creampie me."

Helle was really horny, sucked my best friend deep into her throat and massaged me full extended cock with all her experience. What unbelievable intense pleasure. I counterattacked her pussy with my mouth, my tongue and my fingers, resulting in a constant flow of love juices over my face and into my mouth.

Half an hour later we laid exhausted on top of each other. Helle had won the climax contest 3 to 1, but I had ejected a really full load into her throat, which had been swallowed by her entirely.

"Do you need some rest?" was her kinky and demanding question after some cuddling.

"I could be ready very soon, if you spend me another blowjob", was my laughing answer.

"Okay. Ready, steady, go!" Helle worked herself down south and became successful in less than five minutes. As usual, we found ourselves in Doggy-Style-position and I found no resistance moving forward and into her love canal. We found a fast and hard rhythm, assisted by the fact that we had some orgasms before we had enough power and endurance to treat each other in the most exciting way. Helle experienced several waves of orgasms, one after the other, until she jumped over a special climax cliff with a loud and deep cry.

We were sweating heavily; our bodies had become hot and greasy. Helle's pussy squelched with each penetration. After her final climax Helle became stiff and quiet and milked my cock with her vaginal muscles only. That was too much for me and I pumped a second full load deep into her. I was so excited that I smacked my hands on the arse cheeks, which Helle acknowledged with unheard grunts and squeaks.

"Oh my god, that was heaven", confessed Helle later, kissing and cuddling me."

"You're absolutely right, my love. I haven't experienced you in such a wild manner for a long time."

"I wanted to reward you", was her answer with a smile. "And in the same moment, I rewarded myself too."

We were so sweaty and filthy that we finally pulled ourselves together to go to the bathroom and freshen up for the night. Then we truly fell asleep happily. We were certain that the coup of the new birth certificate would provide sufficient protection for Helle as well as for her daughters against racist-administrative persecution by the National Socialist authorities.

Copenhagen, summer and autumn 1943

The German occupation of Denmark had now lasted more than three years. The first year had been relatively calm. After Germany's rapid conquests of large parts of Europe -- from the North Cape to Crete -- only Great Britain and, with it, the British Empire remained as the last enemy of the Nazi Reich. The rest of Europe was either allied with the German Reich, occupied by it, or more or less friendly and neutral. The German Luftwaffe and the British Royal Air Force fought daily air battles and bombed each other, with British cities suffering more than German ones. Given the bitter and costly submarine war in the Atlantic, even the conservative and anglophile segments of Danish society were becoming increasingly sceptical about whether the last opponent of the German Reich could hold out much longer.

The mood in Copenhagen changed for the first time when, on June 22nd, 1941, the Wehrmacht attacked the Soviet Union with a massive army. Until that day, Danish communists and left-wing trade unionists had remained absolutely quiet due to the so-called Hitler-Stalin Pact and had come to terms both with the occupation administration and with Denmark's national unity government, composed of all political parties. I had two friends and regular guests with communist trade union backgrounds who both worked as highly skilled and respected professionals at the large shipyard and in the engine and ship motor plant of Burmeister & Wain. There, they were heavily involved in the maintenance and repair of Danish and German naval and cargo ships. Both came into my jazz club on the Wednesday evening after the German invasion of the Soviet Union but, unlike the other guests, appeared deeply depressed and had withdrawn with their beer into a quiet corner.

"And what will you do now?" I asked them curiously as I sat down at their table and bought a round of beers.

Niels shrugged. "For now, stay quiet and keep our heads down. The Communist Party was banned on Sunday. Our Danish police, acting on German orders and under German control, is hunting down every registered party official and arresting them. Some comrades have gone underground or fled to Sweden. Arne and I were only ordinary members of the union, not the party. For now, we're continuing to work, but we're not going home, just to be safe."

"We feel safe at the plant," Arne added, "because the police don't dare enter to make arrests. A small number of comrades are currently living at the plant for their own safety. Under difficult conditions."

"And what about you two? I've known you for years as friends of my club. How can I help you?"

"That's why we're here. We need someone to look after our families. There's enough money -- we made sure of that over the past fifteen months through our organization. We've quietly built up a support network in parallel. But our wives need a discreet, neutral place to go -- first, to get money for themselves and the children, and second, to get help and advice if the police start threatening them too."

"Hmm. And you think a jazz club is the right place for that?" I was hesitant and sceptical.

"Exactly. No one would suspect a supporter of our cause here. It's all about music and entertainment. And your clientele isn't exactly working-class, is it?"

I had to laugh. I remembered working-class jazz clubs in America -- but they were almost exclusively Black. My place was more oriented toward the Danish middle class and especially Copenhagen's art and artist scene. "All very bourgeois," Helle used to say about my clientele.

"And what exactly do you have in mind?"

"Simple. In the next few days, a man named Sven-Olaf Bengtsson will come to your club. He's a normal, well-respected Danish-Swedish businessman. He'll be your contact with our organization. He'll explain all the details."

"Does he have any identifying feature?"

"Absolutely not. He doesn't want to attract attention. But he'll ask if you can play 'Kitten on the Keys' for him."

"The ragtime hit from the twenties?"

"Exactly."

"That's funny. I can actually play that. Still remember it from my New York days."

"We know. That's why he'll ask for it."

Through supporting Niels and Arne's families, my contacts with the slowly emerging resistance against the German occupiers began. The two mechanics did indeed go into hiding a few days later, after the police had unsuccessfully tried to arrest them at home.

The aforementioned Sven-Olaf Bengtsson -- I was absolutely certain that wasn't his real name -- did show up about a week later, late in the evening at my jazz club. He discreetly handed me one thousand kroner in small bills. "The support fund you are to manage," he explained. "Don't hand out more than fifty kroner at a time."

"And how will I recognize those entitled to it -- if I may put it that formally?"

"The women, possibly also men, will have a sheet of music for a ragtime piece with them. That's their voucher. Just note the title in a list, like a royalty record."

I nodded appreciatively. That was indeed discreet.

Mr. Bengtsson said goodbye and announced he would return in fourteen days.

The real surprise came a few days later, when Lone Arendsen, Niels' wife, showed up at the jazz club early in the afternoon. I had expected a typical working-class woman, visibly worn down by life and a growing number of children. But standing before me was a young woman, plainly dressed but strikingly attractive -- mid-twenties, I'd guess -- with light blonde, well-kept hair and gray-blue eyes, radiating pride and confidence. "I know what my husband is doing. And I support it," she said without hesitation.

But what fascinated me most was her voice -- a calm mezzo-soprano, almost veering into alto. I looked at Lone thoughtfully after handing her the money for the first time. "Have you ever sung?"

Lone laughed. "Yes. A lot as a girl, even in a choir. But now, there's not much reason to sing anymore. Why do you ask?"

"Would you mind singing something for me? There's a piano on stage -- I'll accompany you."

Lone hesitated a bit but agreed, since no guests were around yet. We agreed on two Danish folk songs we both knew. What happened next was, to put it mildly, a sensation. Lone had -- without knowing it herself -- the perfect jazz voice.

"I want to hire you as a singer for my house band, starting immediately," I declared without hesitation after we finished the second song.

Lone was thoroughly shocked. "What kind of songs?"

"Jazz, swing. The music we play here at the 'Swinging Oscar.' I'll teach you everything you need to know."

Lone looked at me with wide eyes. "Me? On stage? Singing in front of an audience?"

"Yes. It will be a huge success. I can already promise you that."

Lone asked for two days to think it over. She especially needed to consider how she could balance such a commitment with her job as a seamstress and her two children.

"If this works the way I imagine," I told her as she left, "you'll earn significantly more with your voice than you do with sewing. And then you won't need the party anymore either."

I walked Lone to the door and watched her head home. She looked very thoughtful -- but in a confident way.

Lone kept her word. Two days later, she agreed to give it a try as the frontwoman of our jazz band. Her sewing work, which she already did from her workers' apartment in Amager, could be shifted to the late evening hours. She didn't want to give it up right away.

Eight weeks later, Lone was so established that she gave up her sewing job entirely. I could see from our increased daily revenue that she was a huge success for my jazz club.

One summer later, Lone suddenly came to the club early in the afternoon before we opened -- her eyes swollen and red from crying, and she was trembling with fear. She happened to run into Helle first, who was there to discuss something university-related with her daughters. Helle was so shocked by Lone's appearance that she instinctively embraced the young singer, calming and comforting her.

I entered the club while Helle and Lone were still standing at the bar in this embrace. "What's going on here?"

Lone sobbed like a woman who had been abused. I would soon find out that this was, more or less, true.

"The police were at our apartment this morning. With two Germans -- apparently Gestapo. Niels was caught in a trap during one of his group's operations two nights ago and was shot. And I was arrested and taken to police headquarters for interrogation. Five hours!"

"Did they hurt you physically?" Helle asked faster than I could.

"No. But they pressured me heavily, clearly threatening to do just that. But the worst was the threat to take my children into custody. I had managed to leave them with a neighbour before I was taken away."

"And where are your children now?"

"At my sister's. But they're not safe there either."

"Okay," I said with all determination. "Was there anything else at the police station that's important?"

"Yes. They asked about Niels' and my religion -- or rather our 'racial background', as they put it. From their point of view, my family is apparently the worst they can imagine: communist Jews with children." She took a deep breath. "One of the German officers muttered something about 'vermin we need to exterminate.' Unfortunately, I understand enough German to know what he meant."

Helle and I both took a deep breath and looked each other in the eye. I could clearly read a command in her gaze: "We have to do something! And fast!"

"Alright!" I clapped my hands. "How quickly can you pack what you need, get your kids, and come back here? And how many helpers do you need?"

Lone looked at me with wide eyes, her tear-streaked, almost hopeless expression even more visible. "And then? Where will we go?"

"Here. There's an unused attic apartment in this building, big enough for the three of you. It's only accessible through my apartment. Then we'll immediately change your hairstyle -- your whole appearance. Including your stage name. We'll create an entirely new woman who has nothing in common with Lone Arendsen, as far as the police are concerned."

I looked at Helle, who nodded in agreement. "I know the lead makeup artist from the Royal Theatre. He'll change your look so much that even your kids will barely recognize you."

"And what will I be called?"

"We need a snappy stage name that you'll also use privately." I thought for a moment. "How about 'Birte Birtson Bird'? Shortened to 'BB Bird'."

Lone -- now Birte -- stayed in the restaurant, but for safety reasons, I decided to pull her from the evening music program. Helle and Friederike picked up the two children from Lone's sister after Lone gave them a brief note for identification. We also decided to go to Lone's apartment early the next morning with several suitcases to collect her most essential belongings so she could settle into the attic apartment. Everything else we would arrange gradually.

The entire operation went off without any issues from the police. Apparently, her modest worker's flat wasn't yet under constant surveillance. And since Lone's children were not yet of school age, that wasn't an issue either.

The slowly intensifying actions of the Danish resistance led to a major change in November 1942 in the role of the German Reich Plenipotentiary in Denmark. Dr. Werner Best, SS Obergruppenführer and a notoriously meticulous German career jurist, was appointed as the successor to the recalled, previously very restrained Cécil von Renthe-Fink. This leadership change came with a clear mission: to restore order in Denmark in line with German interests. Dr. Best came from France, where he had led the occupied territories administratively with a small, loyal staff, relying heavily on the existing French administration. He brought part of this team with him to Denmark, with the goal of applying a similar indirect model to oversee top-level police and security matters and ensure continued deliveries from Danish agriculture and industry.

This fundamental political shift also had consequences for my jazz club, the "Swinging Oscar." Dr. Best brought along a young lawyer named Klaus Norden. As a child, Klaus had contracted polio -- a nearly healed condition but one that made him unfit for military service. Dr. Best had hired him after an outstanding law exam when he was leading the Department of Administration and Law in the newly created Main Office of Security Police, which had been under the SS leader Heinrich Himmler since the 1936 police reform. Dr. Best quickly grew fond of the young man, who worked diligently and with strict legal formality. Klaus Norden followed Dr. Best's career path through the police apparatus, first to France and ultimately to Denmark. His Danish language skills, learned while growing up in Flensburg, proved very useful and enhanced his importance within the team. His main role was day-to-day cooperation with the Danish police, which had appointed Commissioner Magnus Nyrup Olsen as their liaison officer to the Reich Plenipotentiary's administration. This commissioner happened to be the son of my eldest brother -- my direct nephew.

Magnus had known my club since his student days at the police academy, loved our music -- as so many young Danes did -- and was a more or less regular guest. So, it was no surprise that during the pre-Christmas season he brought his new colleague to the 'Swinging Oscar'." The new colleague already had some experience with our music, which was discredited and partly banned in the German Reich.

I joined Magnus and his colleague at their table, and we chatted for a while about trivial things when Helle's daughters, Friederike and Christiane, entered the jazz club. Friederike, the elder, had completed her exams and now worked as an art teacher in Hellerup, just north of central Copenhagen. Christiane was in her final year of studies and hoped to follow a similar career path. During the war, this was the only way to make a living from art. Helle's daughters only occasionally worked as waitresses at the Oscar now, especially when we were short-staffed. That was what brought them in today--we had company Christmas parties almost every day for the next two weeks and needed more help. So, the five of us sat close together at the little table and had a great conversation. This Klaus Norden turned out to be a charming guy who could tell exciting and amusing stories from his two years in Paris.

"And what do you prefer -- Copenhagen or Paris?" Friederike suddenly asked our new guest.

"Answering that would be unfair right now," he replied diplomatically. "I've only been here for four weeks. And the weather has been so miserable that I haven't seen much of the city."

"True," added Christiane. "If you compare Paris in spring to Copenhagen in late autumn, we don't stand a chance." She grinned mischievously at Klaus Norden. "And where are the more beautiful women?"

His first response was a clearly raised eyebrow. I already suspected the two were flirting. His answer confirmed it. "Personally, I prefer tall, blonde women. And there are more of them here than in Paris."

The two sisters burst out laughing. "That's exactly the problem for young Danish women. So many good-looking tall blondes -- fierce competition."

That comment got a round of laughter as well.

I had to get back to managing the club and my guests, leaving the four at their table. Glancing over now and then, I could tell the mood was excellent. Birte's (we all used her stage name now) performance was met with thunderous applause.

"Well, well," I whispered to Helle later that evening after she had greeted her daughters and come over to the bar. "We now have a direct link to the Danish and German police axis. Magnus and his colleague over there are the official liaison." Helle looked at me with surprise, then turned to study the group again. "That young man is a German police officer? Possibly even SS, like the new Reich Plenipotentiary?" She was visibly shocked.

"I don't know. I'll ask Magnus sometime when there's an opportunity. Anyway, this Klaus Norden isn't wearing a uniform, he's in civilian clothes. And he's a trained lawyer, as I gathered earlier."

"Aha." Helle pretended to understand. But in reality, I could see that the thought of her two daughters -- who, under Nazi racial ideology, would be classified as "half-Jewish" -- flirting with a German police lawyer made her very uncomfortable.

The quartet consisting of Helle's daughters and the German-Danish police duo visited the Swinging Oscar regularly on Saturdays, even during the winter months. They would always reserve "their" niche table a week in advance. Saturday was always the best day -- not only because of the show and music lineup but also due to special offerings at the bar and in the kitchen. This suited Helle's daughters very well, as the two gentlemen always picked up the tab, keeping the evening free of charge for them. The Saturday crowd largely consisted of regulars: a mix of jazz enthusiasts, artists of all kinds, and longtime friends who sought a bit of uplifting distraction during these bleak wartime days.

The Danish newspapers, too, were full of reports about the Battle of Stalingrad, which, for the first time, seemed to mark a major defeat for the previously terrifyingly successful German war machine. But at the tables of the Swinging Oscar, there were no political or military discussions. Still, the Danes had learned to talk about such events -- and their own moods -- between the lines, in a way that everyone understood.

That this quartet was more than just a public Saturday night amusement, I found out in mid-February, when Helle came to the Swinging Oscar one weekday evening, unannounced and visibly unsettled, looking for me.

"I need to talk to you," she said after a quick greeting kiss. "Where can we sit down undisturbed?"

I looked over the still well-occupied tables. The band was still playing, with Birte as the frontwoman, so it was unlikely the club room would empty anytime soon. "Best if we go upstairs to the apartment," I suggested.

Helle nodded, took my hand, and practically pulled me along behind her.

"What's going on with you?" I asked with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Did something happen?"

"Yes and no." Helle took off her thick winter coat, casually draped it over the back of the sofa, and dropped herself onto the couch. She took two deep breaths, then looked at me intensely. "I came home earlier than expected tonight -- my last class was cancelled because no students showed up. There was an exam scheduled at the same time, and nobody had time for my lecture." She shook her head, then looked at me again. "I expected my daughters to be home. They were -- but so busy with other things that no one noticed when I opened the front door and entered the hallway."

"And what were they so busy with?" I was beginning to get genuinely curious.

"They had their police suitors over and were... engaged with them."

"And?"

"All four of them were naked and cavorting around in our living room."

"Truly in the full throes of ecstasy?" I couldn't help but grin at the slightly formal turn of phrase.

"Indeed. Friederike was riding your nephew like a jockey at full gallop, while that German lawyer was pounding Christiane from behind -- in your favourite position, no less."

"Oh, how amusing! A full-on foursome."

Helle gave me a disapproving look for the remark. "Yes, Oscar. A full-on foursome. And as I stood there watching through the half-open door, they swapped partners and carried on with undiminished enthusiasm."

"Magnificent," I responded to Helle's vivid description, perhaps not the most appropriate remark. "I wouldn't have thought the four of them had it in them."

"Neither would I!" Helle had grown loud and a bit shrill.

"And what did they say when they noticed you?"

"Nothing. I was so quiet and discreet that I slipped out of the apartment unnoticed and came straight here."

I took my longtime lover in my arms and gave her a heartfelt kiss. "Calm down, sweetheart. Your daughters are old enough to know what they're doing."

"Yes! They are! But not with policemen."

"Don't worry, my love. One of them is my nephew, and as far as I know, a perfectly sensible guy. And this Klaus seems to have gone from colleague to friend rather quickly." I chuckled softly. "A friend of the family, so to speak."

"Oscar, sometimes you're such a child." Helle pushed herself away from my embrace, even giving me a slight shove. "You know the danger we're in if Klaus Norden finds out about the Jewish roots in my family."

I nodded. "That's why you have a clean Danish birth certificate. And your daughters too -- they're officially listed as the children of the Protestant couple Schmidt, complete with baptismal certificates dated four months after their birth. I don't think you need to worry."

"You're too naïve, Oscar." Helle now sounded angry. "If the Germans, in their anti-Jewish madness, start confiscating synagogue records like they did in France, they'll find my parents and me listed in Aabenraa. Klaus Norden openly told my girls that's how they did it in France." She gave me a challenging look. "So, what now?"

"Hmm." That was new information, and I needed to think about it. "Let's go back downstairs. The place is still open for another hour. The music helps clear your head. Maybe we'll come up with an idea by then."

Unfortunately, it only helped temporarily. When we returned upstairs after closing, we still had no new plan. But we did ended up having a late-night gathering with Birte. We treated ourselves to a good Carlsberg when Helle, who of course knew Birte's real past, asked her directly:

"How is it with you? Your late husband and you were both Jewish, so your daughters are too. Are you listed in the records of the local Jewish community?"

Birte, a. k. a. Lone, shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know. But probably yes, since we were married in the synagogue."

"Then we might have the same problem." Helle shared everything she knew, which left Birte visibly puzzled and concerned.

"I thought I had put that behind me," she eventually groaned. "Oscar arranged everything so perfectly for me and the kids that I even got them enrolled in school without any trouble. And now this."

"We need to keep a close eye on this new commissioner. Unlike his predecessor, he likes to parade around Copenhagen in his SS uniform and acts far more Nazi."

"Good to know," Birte commented. "I'll have to think about what that could mean for us." She shook her head sadly. "What kind of times are we living in? Everything could be so good. My show and singing are successful, the children are healthy. And we've escaped the misery of working-class life." She exhaled deeply, almost groaning. "Can't they just leave us alone?"

"Nothing has happened yet," I chimed in, trying to lift the gloomy mood between the two women. "We just have to stay alert!" I clapped my hands on the armrest. "And I'll get so chummy with Magnus and Klaus Norden that I'll learn about every police plan and measure in advance."

That conversation brought the three of us even closer together over the following weeks than we already were in our living and working arrangement. The discreetly observed foursome involving Helle's daughters must also have sparked my lover's imagination. On a glorious spring evening, she made an entirely unexpected proposition.

"Poor Birte lives up there with her children, like in a monastery. Can you imagine that after all these years of abstinence, she might want a man -- or even a woman -- in her bed?"

I looked at my partner -- whom I'd had a very satisfying romantic encounter with just half an hour earlier -- surprised in the half-darkness of our bedroom. "Hmm. Birte is a very attractive woman, if I may say so. But I've never really seen her looking for a partner. She flirts from the stage -- professionally -- with both men and women. But always in a way that no one actually approaches her."

"Wouldn't work easily anyway. The jazz club is always packed when she performs."

"Why do you ask?" My curiosity was piqued.

"I'd like to invite her to bed. For you and for me. You know I like women too. And my long-time girlfriend moved to Sweden last fall."

"Yes, I know. She was Swedish after all."

"Got a great offer from the university in Lund. Can't blame her for going back."

"And how do you imagine this happening? One can't exactly send a formal invitation."

Helle laughed softly. "No, definitely not. But if you're okay with it--let me handle it."

I was okay with it. What man would have said no to that prospect?

Helle needed a week and two attempts, but then Birte was back on our sofa -- this time not frightened, but full of anticipation.

"I've never been in bed with more than one person," Birte confessed without any false modesty as she sat down on the large sofa between Helle and me. "I loved my husband, I loved two women--twice--but never together." She took a deep breath. "But after this long period of enforced abstinence, I long to be held and loved again. And both of you love and protect me every day. With you, I feel somehow safe and unafraid."

Helle responded to Birte's loving and at the same time confident words with a long, intense kiss that finally ignited the inner fire in both women. Birte turned her head to the other side, kissed me with the same intensity, and the three of us quickly became a tightly entwined trio, with six hands setting off on a journey of caressing and exploration.

Suddenly, Helle stood up and pulled Birte and me to our feet, one by each hand. "I think we need more space."

We agreed and found ourselves in my bedroom a few moments later. Our desire for immediate naked body contact resulted in an incredibly fast, mutual striptease; then we stood in a close, naked embrace and continued the stimulating exploration of each other's bodies with our hands. To Helle's and my astonishment, we found Birte's love centre completely hairless, which prompted me to take a step back and examine her from head to toe.

"You really look fantastic," I gave her an unreserved compliment. "And your pussy, especially. Do you shave?" I had genuinely become curious.

"Yes. The makeup artist who fundamentally changed me two years ago recommended it to me so there wouldn't be any irritation with my stage costumes. He told me that all ballerinas at the Royal Theatre do it. And by now I find it very pleasant and hygienic."

Helle had gone down on her knees before her and was looking at the bare paradise with great interest. "Wonderful!" she murmured, then pulled Birte closer by her buttocks and kissed her Venus mound, her tongue tip reaching up to the head of Birte's pussy and immediately making contact with her slightly prominent clit there. Birte moaned lustfully with her wonderfully deep alto voice.

A little later, quite spontaneously, we found a position on my bed that would become our absolute favourite for the next few months. I lay flat on my back, my cock hard and erect, heated up by both mouths and tongues, sticking straight up. One lover was riding the good piece, while the other lover was in the same riding position on my mouth and tongue, which at the same time gave me full freedom to move both of my hands. Birte wanted to avoid another pregnancy at all costs, so she mostly preferred the position on my head and left the ride to Helle until the explosive orgasm. Only on days when she felt absolutely sure did my two lovers swap positions, sometimes multiple times. What was very beautiful and stimulating for both Helle and me were the intense, very wet, and loud orgasms of our jazz singer, who, after the cautious first threesomes, felt absolutely confident and completely uninhibitedly expressed her inner feelings.

What a wonderful life you have given me," I confessed to Helle and Birte one evening after we had thoroughly indulged ourselves in a very warm June night. "It feels like paradise." Both women thanked me with a long sequence of intense French kisses, which prepared my best friend for an extra round. Then Helle and Birte started a playful riding-switch game, alternating on me every few minutes. Inside and in my head, I exploded once again, but in reality, I had already spent my creamy powder beforehand.

The three of us, but also Helle's daughters and their two German-Danish police lovers, could have lived like this forever. We had enough to eat and drink, we had intact houses which -- except for the British bombing raid on the large shipyard Burmeister & Wain in Christianshavn in January 1943 -- had no war-related damage up to that point, we had work, we had my and our 'Swinging Oscar' with its music and guests, and we had a wonderful love life. But the war, which until then had affected us comparatively little, would profoundly influence and change the lives of the seven of us, as well as many others.

Since the catastrophe at Stalingrad in January 1943, Danish newspapers had reported throughout spring and summer with surprising neutrality on the increasing defeats of the German Wehrmacht, which until then had been considered invincible. The German Africa Corps was eliminated with the surrender in Tunisia, and the Allied landing in North Africa in winter 1942 was followed on July 10, 1943, by the successful landing in Sicily, which led to the fall of the Duce as Italy's undisputed ruler. Furthermore, on the Eastern Front, in the largest tank battle of the war so far, the German Wehrmacht suffered another defeat. In this atmosphere, the previously cooperative-indifferent attitude of the Danish population slowly but steadily shifted toward a more hostile stance. At the end of August, the first communist-driven underground strikes and demonstrations broke out in Odense, which continued in other Danish cities. Initially concentrated on Funen and Jutland, the actions also reached the capital during August.

By the end of August, Hitler and his Reich government had had enough of the situation in Denmark. They summoned the Reich Plenipotentiary Dr. Best to the Führer Headquarters and ordered him to end the previously cooperation-focused supreme administration of Denmark by imposing martial law and thereby assuming direct control over the country.

On the evening of August 28, 1943, despite the heated political situation, the 'Swinging Oscar' had fully occupied tables and the usual casual Saturday evening atmosphere as Magnus Nyrup Olsen, Klaus Norden, and Helle's daughters arrived at their reserved niche table. The two men looked dejected; they had worked all Saturday and had been involved in apparently intense negotiations between Dr. Best, the German military commander General von Hanneken, and the Danish government.

"Tomorrow morning, the German Reich will declare a military state of emergency over all Denmark and introduce direct military administration," Klaus Norden blurted out after his third quickly downed beer. "The peaceful coexistence is over. And so is our happy time in the 'Oscar'."

Friederike and Christiane looked at him and Magnus in disbelief. He just nodded his head. "That means the Danish military will be disarmed and dissolved. And our police will be subordinated to direct orders from the German police leadership, including the security service and Gestapo."

"And what does that mean for us?" The two women and artists looked visibly panicked while the lively, festive Saturday night continued around them at the 'Oscar'. "And for the 'Oscar' here, including its people?"

Klaus Norden shrugged. "It will almost certainly become less friendly. I don't know if the venues and restaurants in Nyhavn will be allowed to continue with reduced hours. Maybe they will be closed. Or some establishments might lose their liquor licenses. Jazz here is already frowned upon by our higher-ups."

"Do we have to be afraid for ourselves?" Christiane now looked Klaus directly in the eye.

He again shrugged awkwardly. "Actually, no. I've seen this in France. Everyday life normalized relatively quickly. But if I were you, I'd always stay home in the evenings. And just be cautious during the day." He looked at his three table companions with visible melancholy. "Even if the 'Oscar' stays open, I don't know if I can come here again. Relations between you Danes and us Germans will surely become frostier."

On her way back from the restroom, Christiane took a detour and came back to the bar to Helle and me, visibly disturbed. "From tomorrow morning, we'll be under German military administration and martial law," she said simply. "Prepare yourselves and the 'Oscar' for that!" Then she hurried back to her table.

"And now?" It was Helle's turn to look visibly disturbed. "German military administration and German martial law means, in my opinion, also German racial law. Right?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. But the risk exists." Then I stood up. "I'm going to talk to all the staff now and tell them to stay here until closing time. I have to do that urgently."

My suggested order was fully obeyed.

"I have reliable information that the wild political situation of the last four weeks will be answered by the German side tomorrow morning with the declaration of a military state of emergency. That means Denmark will officially become an occupied country and be placed under German martial law. And that will have consequences. The first consequence is that we will remain closed tomorrow. The same regulation as three years ago applies. I will pay you your full wages next week, then we have to see if we can open again and are allowed to."

The news hit my staff like a bomb. And all the fears and anxieties that had repeatedly occupied us since April 1940 and in the last three years resurfaced.

"That means that the German racial laws will also apply here from tomorrow," my longtime bar manager Hans Mortensen asked hesitantly.

"Probably yes," I answered just as hesitantly. "I just don't know if and when the German police will enforce this in Denmark. Their main interest right now is more on communists and resistors."

"Then, unfortunately, you'll have to do without me from tomorrow," Hans said slowly. "Too bad, the 'Oscar' was my home." He stood up, walked straight over to me, and hugged me spontaneously. "You're the best boss one can imagine," he said quietly. Tears ran down his cheeks. "I hope we'll see each other again in this life." He grabbed his light summer jacket, put it over his uniform, waved to the group, and left the place quickly, heading somewhere unknown. I only found out two summers later what had happened to Hans.

The following two weeks, the 'Swinging Oscar,' like almost all restaurants, theatres, venues, and concert halls, was closed. The newspapers, now fully under German censorship, reported that the royal family was still in the country, but the Danish government had officially resigned. Administrative work was now carried out by state secretaries under German supervision. The parliament, newly elected in March, was suspended indefinitely.

Helle, Birte, and I debated heatedly about what we should do in the future; Friederike and Christiane also occasionally joined our discussion rounds in the empty 'Oscar' restaurant. At least we had a well-stocked supply of drinks, which we also made good use of.

In mid-September, Sven-Olaf Bengtsson suddenly appeared in front of my deserted establishment. "You have rendered good services to our organization in recent years," he began the conversation. "Our support payments to needy families have been managed by you with brilliant accuracy." He took a deep breath and a large sip from his coffee cup. "The conditions have become worse and more dangerous in recent weeks. Many comrades have been arrested and taken to camps in the last two weeks. On the other hand, we are sure that victory will be ours. We only have to hold out to establish a free and just Denmark afterward."

I nodded silently. I didn't feel like a resistance fighter; I was a musician and a restaurateur.

"We assume that by October at the latest, the German military administration will try to restore normality. That's what they did in other occupied countries too. Therefore, we want to continue using your 'Swinging Oscar' as an important hub in our network. That means the money flows being funnelled through the establishment would significantly increase. Would you be willing to do that?"

I folded my hands and nervously played with my fingers. Then I replied hesitantly. "Condition number one would be the reopening of my venue. Without the daily cash flow here, this type of resistance bank would be immediately noticeable."

Sven-Olaf Bengtsson laughed. "'Resistance bank' -- I like that. I'm adding that term to my vocabulary."

I smiled back. "It's true. I accept deposits and make withdrawals." Then I took a deep breath. "Basically, yes. Because this form of the new German rule really gets under my skin."

"Thank you," replied Sven-Olaf. "Then we'll continue as before. You'll keep a list of royalty payments for various jazz pieces submitted to you as sheet music. And I'll ensure the necessary deposits are made." He extended his hand to me as if concluding a successful contract. "We won't forget who worked with us fairly and uprightly in these dark times."

Sven-Olaf Bengtsson had already stood up when he added a remark. "If you find yourself in a situation where action is needed, our organization has discreet means and ways to bring people to safety in Sweden." He took a perfectly normal-looking business card from his wallet. It had only an address on it, no name. "Send a trusted messenger to this address if necessary. The password is simply the name of your venue, 'Swinging Oscar.' I'll take care of everything."

I gratefully accepted the business card. "Thank you. You never know when you might need that kind of help."

Three days later, I had a feeling that this card might become extremely important. 'Swinging Oscar' remained closed under the ongoing state of emergency, which we used to carry out some long-overdue renovations. Optimistic by nature, I expected a reopening soon. Late in the afternoon, the doorbell rang persistently, so I answered the door myself. To my complete surprise, Klaus Norden was standing outside.

He looked left and right like a hunted man, then pushed his way inside. "We absolutely need to talk. And no one must see me."

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him in surprise. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. That's why I'm here. Where can we talk undisturbed?"

I thought for a moment. My helpers were renovating the main hall and restaurant. "The kitchen is empty. Let's go there."

Moments later, we entered the deserted kitchen. I switched on the light and went with Klaus to the back corner behind a wall projection, where even a sudden visitor wouldn't see us right away.

"What is it?"

"A hell of a lot," Klaus said angrily. "The Reich Plenipotentiary, that is Dr. Best, and General von Hanneken as the military commander have received orders from the Führer's headquarters and Reichsführer SS Himmler to make Denmark 'Judenfrei' -- free of Jews -- as quickly as possible."

I took a deep breath. "I expected something like that."

"At our headquarters, the SD, Gestapo, and their helpers are compiling lists under intense pressure of Danes with Jewish ancestry. The Gestapo has confiscated a shocking number of documents and church records from synagogues and is currently analyzing them. I managed to glance at some of the lists and saw the name 'Professor Helle Schmidt.'" Klaus looked at me sharply. "Why is your Helle on a list like that?"

"Because her parents were Jewish and she was born in German Aabenraa," I snapped back. "And apparently your Nazis found an old German church or family record from there."

"So that means Helle is a 'full Jew' by legal definition?"

"Yes. And I'll do everything to protect her from you people!"

"Calm down, Oscar. That's precisely why I'm here. Your answer also means Helle's daughters are at least 'half-Jewish'?"

"Yes. According to your twisted racial laws, you're right."

"That's the problem. In the SS, SD, and Gestapo, many interpret the laws exactly like that. So, from my perspective, all three are in serious danger of being arrested and deported."

I understood. "So, they need to leave here as soon as possible."

"Exactly. Our naval attaché Duckwitz has spoken with the Swedish government about accepting Danish Jews and received a positive response. Dr. Best is aware of this and doesn't care how the Jews disappear from Denmark. But you can probably see that we Germans can't organize this ourselves."

"Good!" I said decisively. "I know what I have to do. Thank you for the information, Klaus. I won't forget this."

As quickly and secretly as he came, Klaus Norden disappeared again. I now had several conversations to conduct. First, I went upstairs, sat with Birte, a. k. a. Lone, and told her the news.

"And what do you advise, Oscar?" she asked clearly.

"I don't think your disguise will hold much longer. And that puts you and your children in serious danger."

I saw tears well up in Birte's eyes. "But how will we survive if we flee to Sweden? We have nothing."

"Hm." I thought for a moment. "I think I have a solution. I have a good friend in Gothenburg who runs a jazz club similar to 'Swinging Oscar' and also works as an artist agent. I'll write him a letter that you can take as a letter of recommendation. Once Lasse hears your voice, he'll sign you immediately. He probably even pays better than I do." I gave a faint grin. "Lasse has always been more generous than I am."

After informing Helle and her daughters and receiving their agreement to flee as well, I got on my bicycle and rode across town to Vesterbrogade, right behind the main train station. The address on the business card turned out to be a proper office building, marked by two polished brass signs as housing Swedish shipping and trading companies. After I rang the bell, a giant of a man with a very Swedish appearance -- at least 2 meters tall and easily 100 kilograms, a real athlete -- opened the door. When he asked my purpose, I gave the password as instructed, and without hesitation, he let me in. Two minutes later, I was sitting across from Sven-Olaf Bengtsson in a finely furnished merchant's office.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Olsen," he greeted me with a sly smile. "How many people are we talking about?"

"Three artists -- the mother is a professor at the art academy, and her two daughters, both graduates. And then the Lone Arendsen you know, with her two underage children. She's lived and worked with me for the past two years."

"I know. Your 'BB Bird', the singer."

"Yes."

"Good," said Sven-Olof Bengtsson slowly. "Here's what we'll do: the four women and two children should be ready tomorrow in the late afternoon with light luggage -- no more than one suitcase and a backpack per person. They'll be picked up. We'll bring them across the Øresund during the night. Do the women know where they'll go in Sweden?"

"Helle Schmidt, the art professor, wants to go to a former colleague who moved to the university in Lund in 1941. And BB Bird has my recommendation letter to a colleague and music agent in Gothenburg."

"Good. Then we'll also organize further transport."

As we parted shortly afterward, the Swedish businessman added, "That's my thanks for our cooperation, Mr. Olsen. Especially in times like these, we must stand together in solidarity."

The following afternoon, I said goodbye to the four women and two children -- people who had grown very dear to me over the past years -- with a heavy heart. Helle and I had made love one last time the night before, not knowing how long we would be separated.

As we said farewell, Helle told me she had made an unusual arrangement for her apartment and belongings, including those of her daughters. "Klaus Norden will take over my apartment as it is and live there. That way, no Nazi will lay hands on our property. He promised me he would keep a careful eye on everything." When I looked at her in complete surprise, she added, "I trust him. He loves Christiane, and only because of his treacherous initiative are we able to escape without harm. Help him if he ever needs your help."

I promised Helle I would. Then suddenly, my house felt incredibly empty and quiet. The jazz club remained closed, the two top-floor apartments abandoned. I sat alone at my bar. I had lost my partner, my bar manager, and my beloved jazz singer. "And all of this because of the Nazis' insane hatred of Jews," I suddenly yelled into the empty venue. Then I opened a bottle of my best whiskey and drank myself into such a stupor that I didn't even make it to bed. It was empty anyway.

Copenhagen, summer 1945

More than a year and a half had passed since Helle, her daughters, and Birte with her children had fled to Sweden. In November, I received two letters via Sven-Olof Bengtsson in which they reported their successful escape and how they had managed to settle into their new lives. Helle and her two daughters had quickly found jobs as art teachers and secured their livelihoods. Birte, on the other hand, had burst onto the jazz scene in Gothenburg like a meteor. Within a few months, under Lasse's patronage, she had established herself in Sweden's jazz circles and had even planned her own tour through jazz clubs across the country for the winter of 1943/44. Her letter radiated happiness -- even on the second and third reading.

The Swinging Oscar reopened at the end of the state of emergency in October 1943, but it was clear that the lightness and joy of life could no longer be restored, not even through our music. War reports from the summer of 1944 -- especially about the Allied landing in Normandy and the Red Army's advance from the east -- gave us hope that the war would end in a German defeat and Denmark would be free once more.

At the same time, the German administration in Denmark was becoming increasingly harsh and unpleasant. From the summer of 1944 onward, public life was more and more restricted. Violent strikes and repressive countermeasures rocked life in the Danish capital. At times, the German occupiers cut off our electricity and water supply. Initially, my Oscar had to limit its opening hours, and by the winter of 1944/45, it alternated between opening and closing in quick succession. From March 1945, my venue remained permanently closed. With the introduction of rationing, supply conditions became significantly harder. The only thing that continued to work without any problem for the Swinging Oscar was the beer supply from the Carlsberg brewery. Towards the end of winter, beer was practically all we lived on.

Since my women had fled, my venue and I had secretly functioned as a bank for two Danish resistance groups. These had joined forces with other groups under the Danish Freedom Council to increase their effectiveness through shared networks. On Sven-Olof Bengtsson's recommendation, I replaced Hans Mortensen as head bartender with Gustav Hinrichsson, who was both an excellent bar manager and a trusted handler of resistance funds. Our "banking business" was now shared across four shoulders.

Even though I wasn't actively involved in resistance operations, we -- and our customers -- were very aware of the importance of our role as the resistance's "bank." The money flow (which could hardly be called revenue) grew steadily, and I often lay awake at night wondering how the German secret police hadn't yet discovered us. On the other hand, we had noticed that the previously smooth cooperation between Danish and German police had completely broken down. This escalated in September 1944 when the German administration disempowered the Danish police and interned large numbers of officers in various camps. Only the criminal police and the royal palace guards were excluded.

Magnus Nyrup Olsen, who had been relieved of his now-obsolete role as liaison officer to the German Reich Plenipotentiary in September 1943, had returned to his original post in the Copenhagen Criminal Police. Like many other officers, he joined the underground police formed by the Freedom Council in late summer 1944 to counter the growing chaos across the country.

In early May 1945, the Reich government -- now based in Flensburg and led by the new Chancellor, Admiral Dönitz -- surrendered to the rapidly advancing British forces under a separate ceasefire. On May 4th, I managed to secure a few kegs of Carlsberg beer and reopened the Swinging Oscar at my own risk with continuous music and free beer for everyone. The streets of Copenhagen were packed with people celebrating our liberation. My house band and I took turns playing for hours until late into the night. On May 5th, British Major General Dewing landed in Copenhagen and was welcomed with an almost orgiastic liberation celebration.

That same day, the first paramilitary Danish exile units crossed the Öresund from Sweden and began, alongside the now publicly visible underground army, systematically arresting German police and intelligence agents, as well as detaining Wehrmacht soldiers stationed in Denmark. The latter, according to an agreement with the new Danish government under Prime Minister Buhl, marched in orderly columns on foot, unarmed, back to Schleswig-Holstein, where they were received and interned by advancing British forces.

Despite my personal joy over the liberation, I had only two priorities: first, to resume regular business operations at the Swinging Oscar -- after all, I wanted to earn my living again as a musician and innkeeper -- and second, to reclaim my private life. Apart from one brief exception, I had spent the twenty months of Helle's (and Birte's) absence like a monk and yearned for a loving woman.

After the two wonderfully chaotic opening days on May 4th and 5th, the Swinging Oscar officially reopened on Saturday, May 12th, after we had cleverly restocked our beverage supplies. Due to rationing, the restaurant remained closed for two more weeks, but we offered over four hours of live music with two alternating jazz bands and me as the intermission entertainer at the piano. To my great joy, two beloved guests showed up that Saturday evening.

First, my nephew, Chief Inspector Magnus Nyrup Olsen, suddenly appeared at my piano and placed a freshly poured beer on top.

"When I see you and your club, I feel years younger," he joked with a broad grin. I stopped my tune with an improvised ending, stood up, and hugged him.

"Man, Magnus! Great to have you back!" I sat back at the piano, grinned at him, and played his favourite -- an old ragtime hit he had once called "our song," referring to himself and Friederike.

"Where have you been all this time?"

"Where a good Danish policeman belongs -- in the underground police. That's why, as of yesterday, I've officially been promoted to Chief Inspector and now head the Copenhagen war crimes division. You'll laugh -- my office is back at the old station. The Dagmar House, the former headquarters of Dr. Best and his cronies, is now the seat of the Allied military mission."

"Is that Dr. Best still around?"

"Indeed. But I expect he, like all other German police officers, will be arrested in the coming days. We're already working full force to gather court-admissible evidence for upcoming war crime trials. That'll be my main task in the years ahead."

"Good luck with that. Is Klaus Norden still around too?"

"Not exactly sure. I just know that Dr. Best's staff remained in Denmark. Klaus was part of his personal team, though he was a civilian -- not in the security police or SS."

I looked him straight in the eye. "You know he warned Helle, her daughters, and Birte in time -- and helped them escape to Sweden?"

"No, I didn't know that. I haven't seen or spoken to him since the state of emergency was declared 20 months ago."

"Well, I'm curious where he'll turn up again." I announced a break to the audience, grabbed my beer, and went with Magnus to the bar. "The Chief Inspector gets free drinks tonight -- on the house," I instructed Gustav, who had resumed his place behind the bar with tremendous energy.

It was already late when another guest came to pay his respects: Sven-Olof Bengtsson.

"You see, Mr. Olsen, we've won the war," he greeted me warmly. "And the Gestapo never figured out where our bank was located. You've helped so many people with your service. I hope we find a way to express our gratitude properly."

I appreciated his praise but replied, "You already helped me tremendously organizing the escape of those dearest to me. That's thanks enough."

"One hand washes the other, as the saying goes." He raised his glass of beer. "To the happy moment when we can close our bank. We don't need it anymore."

We clinked glasses and took a long drink.

"I'll miss Copenhagen," he said, setting down his glass.

"Oh? Where are you headed?"

"My mission ends with this fortunate war's end. I want to live a quieter life than the last five years. Dangerous times here." He looked at me intently. "I'm Finnish, Mr. Olsen -- even if I used a Swedish name all these years. I'm from Turku and a native Swedish speaker. I had excellent ties to the former Comintern and now to Moscow. My mission was simple: 'Take care of our Danish comrades and their families. We'll need them for building a progressive and just Europe.' And thanks to your help, I fulfilled that mission."

"So, are you going to Moscow now?"

"Heavens, no," laughed Sven-Olof Bengtsson. "I'd like to live a bit longer. No -- I'm going home to Turku. Our communist movement will have considerable influence in Finland in the coming decades. I'll be part of that."

He finished his beer and said goodbye. "Farewell, Mr. Olsen. It's been a pleasure working with you."

Years later, I would see a photo of Sven-Olof Bengtsson in the Berlingske Tidende, handing his credentials to King Frederik IX as Finland's ambassador. Shortly thereafter, I received an invitation to the embassy for Finland's national day on December 6th, where we met again in warm friendship. Late that evening, the ambassador asked me to play the piano "to lift the spirits of the company." I accepted his invitation with great joy.

Two days after the Swinging Oscar reopened, Danish postal services also resumed regular operations, with morning and evening deliveries. Newspapers reported that all mail between the Nordic countries would once again be uncensored, aiming to reach prewar delivery speeds within a month.

In my case, this paid off quickly. In the first week, I received two letters from Lund and Gothenburg, which I opened with admittedly trembling hands.

Helle's letter from Lund was sweet, brief, and to the point:

"We three have earned our daily bread as art teachers over the past twenty months," she wrote. "Though we long terribly for Copenhagen -- and I for you -- we must and want to fulfil our teaching duties here until the school year ends. I promise to come to you on July 1st. As kind and helpful as the Swedes -- especially my friend -- have been, I want to return home and hope you'll receive me with your strong, open arms, just as I've dreamed during these lonely months. I'm also curious whether my apartment still exists and what became of our possessions after our hasty escape."

Two things were clear from this letter: first, Helle wanted to return to me -- and I wanted nothing more than to hold her again. Second, I'd have to wait another six weeks. My reply left Copenhagen the next morning, and over the next six weeks, we exchanged almost daily letters -- overflowing with love and intimacy.

The second letter was unmistakable from the gold-embossed return label "BB Bird." While I'd occasionally received short messages from Helle during the war, I'd heard nothing from Birte/Lone beyond confirmation of her arrival after the escape.

So her letter thrilled me:

"Dear Oscar, you've saved my life twice and opened up a secure and incredibly exciting future for me and my children. With Lasse's help, we've settled in Sweden -- Gothenburg is now home. Carl and Grete go to school here and are becoming little Swedes. I've conquered Sweden with the voice you discovered and nurtured. This past winter and spring, I toured twice with my own band, from Luleå in the north to Karlskrona and Malmö in the south. I've performed with real big bands in Stockholm and Gothenburg. An incredible feeling -- twenty top musicians behind me. In March, I recorded my first two records. The label seems happy with sales, and we'll record again later this year. I'd love your help in conquering liberated Denmark and propose coming for three or four weeks in October. You can decide where and how we perform -- likely best with your house band and/or you on piano. I'd also like to stay in our old attic apartment instead of a hotel -- that way, I'll be close to you. With love,

Birte aka Lone"

I was so moved by Birte's letter that I reread it several times that day. Then I got to work planning her concert tour and visited Copenhagen's top jazz agent the next day. Hans Reinsch Hansen knew BB Bird from several visits to the Swinging Oscar and had previously arranged guest appearances for many artists at my venue. We agreed within 30 minutes to co-manage BB Bird's tour. The preliminary plan included a week at the Swinging Oscar and shows in Odense and Aarhus.

Helle arrived, as promised, on July 1st at Copenhagen's main station. I couldn't wait and went to meet her myself. It was probably the most emotional and passionate reunion of my life. We clung to each other like ivy, hugging and kissing, both in tears of joy. Helle brought as little luggage as during her hasty departure -- one suitcase and a backpack.

"I hope you still have all my clothes in the closet," she laughed. "Otherwise, I'll need a whole new wardrobe."

I grinned. "Not a single thing is missing, my love. Sometimes, when I missed you too much, I'd open your side of the wardrobe and imagine you picking out a new dress."

"Then everything's perfect!" We were eager to get back to my place, so we took a taxi -- another small normality restored.

Less than an hour later, we were lying naked on my bed, making love with an intensity and abandon that released all the frustration of nearly two years apart. We didn't skip a single one of our favourite positions. From an initial 69 that drove us both to orgasm, to a long-lasting session that had us soaked in sweat in the summer afternoon heat as we switched between doggy style and cowgirl -- it was all there. I think we went at it for two hours, completely exhausting ourselves. Then duty called at the 'Swinging Oscar', and the evening that followed was one we both thoroughly enjoyed.

The following day, the two of us set off for Helle's former apartment, which she had handed over to Claus Norden with a few brief words when she fled.

"I'm really nervous about what I'll find," she admitted to me as we walked the short distance. "Honestly, I don't have much hope, but I had so many beautiful pictures and artworks, each with its own story. It would be a real shame if all that were lost forever."

A new name was on the doorbell and mailbox: "Claus Mogens Nørmark," also displayed on a brass plaque next to the apartment door.

"Should I ring the bell or just unlock the door with my key?" Helle looked at me questioningly.

"Let's ring first. We don't know what or who to expect. If anyone." I pressed the doorbell. Inside, we heard a fairly shrill chime, quickly followed by audible footsteps on the wooden floor. We noticed that the peephole was being used from inside to see who was at the door. Then we heard a bolt being drawn back and apparently a safety chain being removed.

The heavy apartment door opened fully. A man bowed slightly with a welcoming gesture and simply said, "Welcome home." The man was unmistakably Klaus Norden.

We stepped inside, and Helle was thunderstruck. "You really did look after my apartment, Klaus." She walked into her living room, then turned around, went up to Klaus, and hugged him. "Klaus, you're amazing. Everything is just like it was two years ago!"

Klaus smiled sheepishly. "Helle, I was a guest in your apartment for two years. And I behaved like one." Then he laughed, looking at both of us in turn. "And it gave me the perfect opportunity to protect myself and prepare for my own future. Want a coffee? I managed to secure a very good supply."

We gratefully accepted his invitation and then sat together in Helle's living room. "So, what now?" Helle eventually asked.

"Simple," Klaus replied immediately. "It's your apartment. When do you want it back?"

Helle was visibly taken aback by Klaus's direct answer. She took a deep breath. "Right now, I'm more than happy staying with Oscar, in his restaurant and in his house. I came from Sweden yesterday. I'd been working there as an art teacher, and now it's summer vacation. I'll be honest -- Oscar and I haven't had time yet to talk about our future."

"Do you even want the apartment back?" Klaus laughed. "All your things are safe and sound."

"Give Oscar and me the chance to talk about our future in the next few days. Then we'll find a solution that works for all of us."

I followed the conversation with great interest, and growing curiosity. "Why are you actually walking around Copenhagen freely, without any restrictions?"

Klaus laughed again. "I can tell you two the truth. I spent over a year preparing for this. And this apartment was very convenient. I gradually transformed myself into Claus Mogens Nørmark alongside my work, acquired new, authentic Danish documents, and even applied for -- and received -- a Danish license to practice law under my new name. And since I was never part of the Wehrmacht, the SS, or the German police, no one is searching for me as Klaus Norden. I was a civilian assistant to Dr. Best. Sure, the Reich Commissioner has been arrested, along with a number of other German officials who worked in Denmark. But as far as I know, there's no arrest warrant for Klaus Norden. And certainly not for Claus Nørmark."

"So, you're planning to stay in Copenhagen?"

"Yes. Definitely better than going back to Germany. I grew up in Flensburg, but I was born in Haderslev." He smiled at Helle again. "Just like you -- born in Sønderjylland, before it became Danish again. So I also have a legal claim to Danish citizenship. And I made use of that."

"And where did your new name come from?"

"It's not really new. It's the name of my maternal grandfather."

At the end of the coffee, we said our heartfelt goodbyes and went back to Oscar's. "That was a surprise, huh?" I asked Helle.

"It really was, Oscar. Klaus kept his word. All my belongings are intact and completely preserved." She took a deep breath. "I really didn't expect that."

"Neither did I. I hadn't seen Klaus since his last visit with his urgent information. But credit to him -- he's cleverly arranged his future."

Helle and I did indeed spend three days discussing how we wanted to shape our future. Between our conversations and the evenings at the restaurant, we made love as often as I had the strength for. And when that wasn't enough, we used our mouths, tongues, fingers, and hands.

"We're making up for the last two years, more and more each day," we joked to each other. And we enjoyed each other like two newly in-love people. By the end of the three days, it was clear: Helle would give up her job in Lund, come home, and move permanently into my house.

We would bring over her artworks and best furniture and integrate them into the two upstairs apartments. Klaus would keep the remaining furniture, as he intended to permanently live in Helle's apartment.

A week later, Helle's daughters arrived in Copenhagen. Friederike immediately went looking for our newly appointed chief inspector and found him at the Danish Criminal Police headquarters. Their greeting was brief but intense, due to official circumstances. They made plans right away to celebrate their reunion that evening at Oscar's.

Christiane, on the other hand, stayed with us at first and listened as Helle told her about the first meeting with Klaus Norden.

"He really looked after our apartment so that nothing was lost?"

"Yes, he did. And we've now come to a very fair and friendly agreement on how to move forward," confirmed Helle.

"Do you think he'll just welcome me like that?" Christiane was still cautious and sceptical.

"I'll give you my house key. That way, you can get into the building easily. Klaus will look through the peephole, and I'm sure that as soon as he sees you, he'll fling the door open."

That afternoon, Christiane went to the old family apartment. And Helle's prediction came true. Thirty minutes after she rang the bell, Christiane was lying on top of Klaus, riding his fully erect penis with a passion and abandon neither of them had ever experienced. Their desire for each other was so overwhelming that they didn't leave the bed -- neither for dinner nor for anything else except a quick bathroom visit. They kept going through half the night before falling asleep, tightly entwined, completely exhausted.

Two nights later, the three reunited couples were sitting once again at their old regular table in the central booth of the Swinging Oscar, and they vowed never to let anything separate them again. Oscar brought out six glasses of champagne from his private stock, which he had preserved undamaged through the last two years of occupation.

He raised his glass. "In the end, it was Klaus's warning in September two years ago that allowed us to sit here today, healthy and unharmed.

We've lost two years of our lives together because of this terrible war.

So let's drink to making sure that never happens again."

The six glasses clinked brightly.

Epilogue:

Oscar Nyrup Olsen and Professor Dr. Helle Schmidt were married in the spring of 1946 with a truly magnificent wedding celebration at the "Swinging Oscar," which featured twelve nonstop hours of live jazz music performed by two big bands, three jazz bands, and two piano soloists. The highlight of the event was, of course, the now Scandinavia-wide famous jazz singer "BB Bird," accompanied by the Denmark's Radio Big Band, an established jazz orchestra. Their performance was later broadcast nationwide as a one-hour live recording.

Helle's eldest daughter, Friederike, did not stay in Copenhagen for long and returned to Sweden. Oscar's nephew, Chief Inspector Magnus Nyrup Olsen, had become so deeply engrossed in his role as an investigative officer uncovering war crimes committed during the occupation that he had no time or mental capacity left for any personal pursuits.

In contrast, the reunion between Helle's younger daughter, Christiane, and Klaus Norden, a. k. a. Claus Mogens Nørmark, ended in a happy ending three years later. In 1946, following his lover's advice, Claus revealed his German identity to the Danish authorities and agreed to provide detailed testimony to Danish investigators. In his trial, he received only a short prison sentence of 12 months, which was suspended in consideration of time already served in pre-trial detention. Surprisingly, he retained his dual legal qualification to practice law and established himself as an expert in both Danish and German law. He went on to found law firms with local partners in Copenhagen and, after the founding of the Federal Republic of Germany, in Hamburg. Claus and Christiane were married on September 20 th, 1949 -- the sixth anniversary of the successful escape of the three Schmidt-women to Sweden.