PROLOGUE
“To you in the Danish resistance movement I
say this: we know what price you have paid and are paying for refusing to be
tempted by Nazi threats; we know something of your achievements in harrying and
wrecking the German war machine which rolled across your borders nearly five
years ago. We admire your steadfastness and skill. Your performance is a
valuable contribution both to the Allied cause and to the future prosperity of
Sixteen
year old Lise Jacobson listened and tried to understand. Her young mind was
unable to distinguish between War and hatred. She knew that the words of
Winston Churchill being broadcast by the BBC’s Danish Service were the only
true link to encouragement and hope for most of her countrymen.
‘Hope’,
the girl twisted the word around from each corner of her mind and tried hard
not to despair. Tonight she was muddled and confused. She had been unable to
hate the German conquerors who now occupied her country. Worse, she had become
fond of a young German soldier who patrolled the small town where she lived.
The
two had spoken with each other on a few occasions and had even enjoyed some
short walks together. It was while the girl thought about these encounters with
their timid silences and careful smiles that the piercing sound of shattering
glass interrupted her innocent romantic fantasies.
The
girl was alone; her parents had gone to some friends for the evening. Ignoring
the efforts of Churchill at patriotic propaganda she left her chair to see what
all the noise was about. Her hometown was a quiet place, crime non-existent;
she had no need to fear anything untoward. The cat had probably knocked a milk
bottle onto the floor and was now attempting to lick up as much of the creamy fluid
as it could before human retribution arrived.
Walking
into the kitchen, the girl was confronted by two men. Their heads were covered
by woollen balaclavas; two eye holes had been crudely cut from the material.
Masked anonymity inspired terror. They knew what they were doing.
Before
the girl could scream or utter any sound of shock one of the men grabbed her by
the hair and slammed his hand over her mouth. He spoke
quietly, the frustrated schoolmaster at the end of a long day, suppressed anger
hurting the educated tone.
“Fornicate
with the Nazi’s would you? You slut.”
With
that the other man pushed her onto a chair and gagged her with a stinking
dishcloth. The girl was too terrified to understand what was happening. She had never experienced, never known such
violence and hatred.
Her
hands were tied tightly behind the chair; the teacher spoke again, so far the
other smaller man had said nothing.
“Beautiful
hair you have. What a pity.”
He
hissed the words into the girl’s innocent face. His eyes penetrated. They
detested. She tried to turn her head away but there was no escape from the
horror that stared at her with such disgust and venom.
The
two men tugged and pulled her hair in all directions and began hacking it off
with a blunt pair of scissors, cutting her scalp in various places at the same
time. Within seconds the kitchen floor was covered with long, shining strands
of childish innocence.
Tears
poured down the girl’s face and mixed with the trickles of blood from her
butchered scalp. When the two men had finished cutting, a razor was employed to
complete the mutilation. When they had finished their violent efforts at
hairdressing they untied the girl’s hands and hauled her onto the kitchen
table. The girl tried to fight but resistance was futile against the combined
strength of her attackers. She tore the right shirt sleeve of the dumb, smaller
assailant and even during the nightmare of depraved insanity, saw a dark brown
birthmark on his shoulder that resembled almost exactly some preying eagle
about to lift its prey off the ground, its talons outstretched and deadly, the
wings spread ready for immediate flight.
The
teacher began to undo his trousers, his excitement already apparent, his eyes
mad with revenge and lust.
“Fuck
with Nazis, you bitch! Well you should find us a luxury shouldn’t you,” he
rasped.
His
partner held her arms on either side of the table while the teacher carried out
a savage punishment for her disloyalty. He wrenched her legs apart and thrust
inside her. His eyes empty of mercy.
Her
womanhood was ripped. Torn.
The
girl passed out only to be brought round to consciousness by the smaller of the
two. He had watched for long enough; he was already bitter at having missed the
opportunity to devastate a young woman’s virginity. His attack was frenzied and
quick. His excitement too far gone to savour a long assault.
The
girl never heard the animals leave or their mocking laughter as they slammed
the kitchen door.
The
two patriots had made a loyal contribution to the freedom of
Winston
Churchill would have died of shame.