The Helsingør Sewing Club Read online

  The Helsingør Sewing Club

  Ella Gyland

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  * * *

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022

  * * *

  Copyright © Ella Gyland 2022

  * * *

  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022

  Cover photographs: David Stromback/EyeEm/Getty Images (lake and jetty), PATSTOCK/Getty Images (boat), © Marie Carr/Arcangel Images (figure) and Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  * * *

  Ella Gyland asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  * * *

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  * * *

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  * * *

  Source ISBN: 9780008519667

  Ebook Edition © January 2022 ISBN: 9780008519650

  Version: 2021-12-17

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Thank you for reading…

  About the Author

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  29th September 1943

  Golden trees flanked the streets around Rosenborg Castle Gardens, also known simply as the King’s Garden, in the centre of Copenhagen. A fresh September morning, the sun high in the sky and the air crisp, it was the perfect day for cycling, to work or to the shops, and something David always enjoyed.

  But today he was troubled. It was the final year of his Law degree, and he hadn’t done well in his last exam. Truth be told, he’d probably enjoyed student life a little too much; the late nights in the jazz club dancing with pretty girls, or debating politics with his fellow students in dingy, smoke-filled taverns till the early hours. He hadn’t focused enough on the actual work and was feeling the effects of that now.

  A convoy of German troop transport vehicles thundered down Gothersgade, and David stopped and watched as they drove past. Despite being under German occupation, Denmark had more or less been able to carry on as normal, with their own government and their own laws. Except lately the Germans had tightened their grip, and after increased pressure the Danish government had resigned.

  He wondered what the consequences of that might be for himself and others like him.

  This morning, a special service was to be held at the Great Synagogue in Krystalgade, on the occasion of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and it was the first time he was celebrating the holidays without his mother who was in hospital. He would visit her, of course, as he did every day, but she tired easily, and it wouldn’t be the same.

  A man was singing in the street, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his rich baritone joyful and hearty, and normally David would have smiled and nodded in recognition, but today neither the singing nor the glorious sunshine could dispel his worries and the strange sense that clouds were brewing.

  What happened if he didn’t do well in his next exams? It had been his late father’s dearest wish that his only child received an education, and he had scrimped and saved to give David that opportunity. An opportunity David welcomed with immense gratitude, but it also came with the responsibility not to disappoint.

  A greater worry was his mother. What if she didn’t recover from her illness? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Turning right into Landemærket, which led into Krystalgade, he parked his bike outside the synagogue. When he spotted the rabbi and his fourteen-year-old son about to wheel their bicycles behind the building, he realised that he was early.

  ‘Good morning, herr Melchior,’ he said. ‘I trust all is well with you and your family.’

  Frowning, the rabbi gave a curt nod. ‘As well as can be expected under the circumstances. I had a visit last night.’

  David raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I may as well tell you. It’s been on my mind all night.’ The rabbi lowered his voice and placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, worry etched on his face. The boy looked set to cry.

  ‘As we were getting ready for bed, a lady turned up. An elegant lady, soberly dressed, but with an urgency about her. Turns out to be Hans Hedtoft’s secretary.’

  ‘The politician?’ David felt a sliver of unease.

  ‘The very same. She was relaying a message, through Hans Hedtoft, which had come from none other than Georg Duckwitz. You’re familiar with the name, I take it. The German naval attaché?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The rabbi drew a deep sigh. ‘Well, here’s what the secretary had to say…’ He motioned for David to come closer.

  When he’d finished, David felt the blood leave his face. This was what he’d both expected and hoped would never happen.

  ‘And now it rests on my shoulders to pass the message on to our community,’ said the rabbi, ‘but I worry that people will not listen. I’m not the official rabbi. This is what’s been keeping me awake. That and whether we can reach everyone in time. It seems almost impossible.’

  David understood his concern. The chief rabbi had been arrested the same day the government had resigned, along with some of the leading figures in Danish society. Suddenly Melchior, who was relatively young, was faced with a heavy task.

  ‘Of course people will listen to you, herr Melchior,’ he reassured the rabbi. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help…’

  The rabbi smiled for the first time. ‘You can stay and hear my full message to the congregation; I would find that reassuring. But – and I apologise – I plain forgot to ask after your mother. How is she?’

  ‘A touch of pneumonia. She suffers regularly, but the doctors assure me that she’ll be out of hospital soon.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it. As for my own burden, may God forgive me if I’m too late.’

  Later, David sat amongst the congregation, listening to herr Melchior again. The rabbi had changed into his robe, hat, and black and white tallit, the Jewish prayer shawl, and there was no sign of the doubting and worried man he had been earlier. Standing before the Torah, he gave out nothing but authority as he looked out over the wooden pews flanked by a two-tiered gallery on either side.

  More than one hundred people had gathered in the early morning hour. Some of the men, not all, wore kippahs and some of them prayer shawls; the women had donned sombre dresses with a modest hemline. There were young children too, restless with youthful energy, innocent and unsuspecting.

  Clearing his throat, the rabbi began. ‘My friends, we have no time now to continue prayers. What we have long feared is now upon us. There has been news that this coming Friday night, the night between the first and the second of October, the Gestapo will come. They will come and arrest all Danish Jews.’

  David felt the mood change immediately, from one of expectancy to horror, as he’d known it would from the moment the rabbi had confided in him.

  Eyes widened with fear stared back at the rabbi, and several of the women put their hands over their mouths to stifle their cries of distress. Even the children stopped fidgeting, sensing a change in their elders. One old man, his body bent with age, sobbed openly, and the sound of his despair cut right through David.

  We believed ourselves safe in Denmark, in Hitler’s so-called model protectorate, he thought. But no longer.

  Rabbi Melchior continued. ‘They have a list of addresses, and they will come to every home on the list and take us all to two big ships waiting in Copenhagen harbour. Then, from what we know, on to camps further east. We must warn as many of our community as we can.’

  They’d all heard stories from German and Austrian refugees who had joined their congregation earlier on in the war. The unspeakable horrors of the camps. The unimaginabl
e fear and persecution. Now, for the people in this synagogue and those all over the country, these weren’t just rumours or stories anymore. This was their reality.

  As people recovered from their initial shock, they began to mutter urgently, too many voices at the same time for David to make anything out.

  ‘There are two things you should do,’ the rabbi went on, more firmly. ‘Number one, you should stay away from your homes on Friday night. What will happen after that we don’t know, but on Friday night, in any case, don’t be at home.’

  Several of the congregation rose, shuffling and talking urgently as they began to leave the pews.

  ‘Number two,’ he said, raising his voice to drown out the commotion, ‘tell everyone. Pass this news on to as many friends, family, whoever you can, so that they also know to leave home by Friday. We must look after each other. We must protect as many as we can.’

  Those about to leave stopped and looked back at him, and he delivered the final part of what he had planned to say.

  ‘The synagogue will be closed for the New Year. This will be another way of telling people something is going on.’

  As the congregation left, as quickly as they could without causing suspicion or panic, many of them nervous and tight-lipped, heading home to pack or pick up their children from school, David caught Melchior’s eyes.

  The rabbi had delivered the message. People had believed him, and it was now up to them all to get themselves to safety.

  And I must go to my mother, David thought.

  How on earth do I explain to her that, once again, she has to flee for her life?

  Chapter One

  Helsingør, Denmark

  August 2018

  The smell of old carpets and empty rooms greeted Cecilie Lund as she unlocked the door to her grandmother’s ground-floor flat in a quiet neighbourhood of Elsinore. The flat was in a low-rise red-brick tenement block, flanked by several other similar blocks and all built in the 1940s, and was only five minutes’ walk to the centre of the large town if you walked at a quick pace. The train station, the ferry, the beach, and a lively pedestrianised shopping street were all within reach, and her grandparents had loved living here.

  Like most tenement buildings in Denmark, the ground floor was actually a sort of mezzanine, one short flight of stairs above the ground, with the area next to the steps set aside for prams and pushchairs, or other items too cumbersome for the tenants to carry up and down the stairs each time they were going out or returning home.

  And as in many tenement buildings in similar neighbourhoods, these items would be left largely undisturbed by the other occupants; in Denmark you could trust your neighbours. There was faith in the community. Stealing someone else’s pram was the lowest of the low.

  A deep sigh escaped Cecilie as she pushed the door to the flat shut behind her whilst clutching a large cardboard box, and she tried to close her mind to the idea of prams. In spite of the area designated for prams and the like, there were no babies amongst the tenants who used the same stairs, as the five other flats were occupied by older people like her grandmother, Inger.

  Just as there would be no babies in Cecilie’s life.

  Balancing the box in front of her, she leaned back against the door as the feeling she vaguely recognised as grief and loss came over her, that giant emptiness she faced every morning as she woke and which caught her unawares several times during the day. A sense of having failed, of having flunked an important test with no chance of a re-take. It was an obsessive thought she would spend the first half hour of every day contemplating.

  Unexplained infertility, the doctors told them. Sometimes they used the words ‘biologically incompatible’ too. At any rate, it was clearly her fault. Her husband, who had looked deep into her eyes when they vowed ‘for better or for worse’, wasted no time in finding a woman who could give him children, and the happy couple were already expecting.

  ‘We had a good thing, Cici,’ he’d said as he turned in the doorway and smiled sadly at her, which somehow made everything ten times more unbearable. ‘But I want children, and we’re wearing each other down over it.’

  She’d flinched at the casual cruelty of his words, even as she understood that at thirty-eight and forty respectively, time was running out for them both.

  Her mother had been one of five, and the rest of her family had been similarly blessed. Of the twelve cousins, she was the only one who hadn’t had children, fit for nothing except a full refund.

  Stop it.

  Angry with herself for dwelling on what she couldn’t change, she shrugged off her summer jacket and hung it on the fitted coat rack beside the door, one of the few items of furniture left in the almost empty flat. It would soon be taken over by the next council tenant. The death of her grandmother, Inger, had provided Cecilie with an opportunity to focus on something other than her own self-pity, and today she would make a start on clearing out the cellar room as she’d promised.

  Two months ago, the fiercely independent ninety-six-year-old Inger Jensen, who had refused to wear an alarm around her neck or stop living on her own, had fallen on her way to the bathroom in the night and had lain on the floor with a broken hip for a few hours, listening out for the sounds of her neighbours waking. Always resourceful, she’d managed to use a coat hanger to pull her duvet over her to keep warm, and when she’d heard people stirring next door, had used the same coat hanger to bang loudly on her wardrobe, shouting for help, until the neighbours realised something was wrong and called the fire brigade.

  A few weeks later, Cecilie’s funny and affectionate grandmother, who knew how to wolf-whistle better than any builder, had unbelievably succumbed to pneumonia in hospital.

  Afterwards, the family discovered that she’d suffered from stage-four cancer, which she hadn’t told anyone about. Her death, and not being taken into her confidence, had devastated her children, in particular Cecilie’s mother.

  Cecilie wondered why her grandmother had chosen not to say anything, but perhaps it was a matter of pride, of not wanting to worry them. Or maybe not wanting any fuss.

  ‘An old person’s best friend’, people would say, referring to the pneumonia and shaking their heads as they made their condolences. ‘A blessing, really.’

  A blessing…?

  Cecilie wanted to spit whenever someone said that. She’d never known anyone to embrace life as wholeheartedly as Inger Jensen had. Her grandmother had lived for the present and taken things as they came, tackling life’s ups and downs with common sense and a willingness to roll up her sleeves if required.

  I could learn something from that, she thought. Maybe we all could.

  On the doormat of her beloved grandmother’s flat lay the post. Inger had been a keen correspondent of the old-fashioned letter-writing kind, and had acquaintances in several countries. Briefly, Cecilie glanced at the postmarks – Santa Barbara, Tel Aviv, Rotterdam. Full of admiration for her well-travelled grandmother and suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that Inger was truly gone, she swiped angrily at the tears welling up in her eyes. She had grieved like the rest of them – oh, she had grieved – but had hoped she was over the worst by now.

  ‘Grief doesn’t come with a sell-by date,’ she remembered her grandmother saying when Cecilie had asked if she was getting over it, following the death of Cecilie’s grandfather almost twenty years ago.