Part 29
And they kept on taking me along, although I often had to listen for hours to how they had not collaborated during the war. Finally I reached the riveted arch of my lost paradise: the ferry from Putgarden to Rodbyhavn. On board, I did my ultimate best to get a lift direction Copenhagen. I don’t like this type of begging, I rather stand by the side of the road and leave the choice to the ‘gifter’. Then at least you know that you are welcome. Or not, of course. But this was sheer emergency, the last threshold, customs and that with only 60 dollar on me; I could not afford a single risk.
But my luck had run out and when I set foot on Danish soil as a walking passenger I was taken aside and asked if I could show enough money or an invitation.
I lit up, of course I could, my most treasured possession, my letter from Karen, here, read it, I kept no secrets from them as long as I could go on. Suddenly I was even happy for them. But one of the customs officers said:
‘The oldest trick in the book’ and the other just grumbled.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The stamps, what did you do with the stamps?’
I felt my heart sink into my shoes,
‘I gave them to some Israeli kids’.
‘We think you wrote this yourself’.
I felt overcome by the kind of weedy logic that thrives on denial. Things went black before my eyes and I tried to reach a bench. The customs officers each caught me by an arm and with an ‘Afvist’ (=rejected) stamp in my passport I was put back on the ferry.
To be continued: '…one and only…'
Jan Ploeg
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