Across the Øresund: Danish Antisemitism (Part One)

I stood at the edge of the Øresund in Dragør, Denmark, the northern wind slicing across the water. Eighty-plus years ago, this same strait carried nearly 7,000 Danish Jews to safety in tiny fishing boats, under threat of arrest, deportation, and the death camps of the Gestapo.

Just three miles separate Denmark from Sweden, now spanned by bridge and tunnel. A true testament to human engineering.

While geography can be conquered, courage cannot. And yet as I traced the shoreline, it became clear that the true measure of history is not the distance traveled, but the bravery, ingenuity, and resolve that propelled ordinary people into extraordinary acts.

Moving carefully along the harbor’s edge as the northern wind cut across the water, and taking in each detail that hinted at lives once carried across these same shores, I explored Dragør under the guidance of Bente, a touring professional from Jewish Copenhagen.

My feet crunched along the harbor as I traced the waterline, imagining families huddled in 10-meter boats. My throat tightened with a mix of awe and helplessness.

I had traveled far, from South Texas; but here, the past forced me to confront how small one human life feels against systemic power.

Even earlier, when we’d walked past and ventured into Copenhagen’s Trinitatis Kirke, known in English as Trinity Church, where Torah scrolls and ritual objects were once hidden from Nazi eyes, I felt a pulse of that vulnerability. The cathedral’s gilded if not in serenity, glamour almost ordinary, yet even its walls hum with the courage of people who risked everything. 

So I shivered in Dragør, though only partly from the below freezing late-February weather. The other part came from the weight of awareness.

Denmark Under Occupation: The Calculated Threat

In April 1940, Nazi Germany invaded Denmark, a nation of 3.6 million.

The Danish government negotiated a tenuous peace, maintaining civil administration while Jews lived integrated lives. About 6,500 Jews called Copenhagen home; the rest were spread across Odense, Aarhus, Dragør, and Gilleleje.

By late September 1943, German authorities ordered the complete deportation of 7,800 Jews to Theresienstadt. The operation involved over 2,000 soldiers and meticulously compiled lists. Families received no warning except for a quiet, vital leak that would save thousands.

Georg Ferdinand Duckwitz, a German attaché, tipped off Danish authorities. Subsequently, Jewish authorities spread the warning during High Holidays; families went into hiding. Entire neighborhoods coordinated escapes. 

Danish fishermen risked execution, ferrying up to a dozen people per 10-meter boat across the freezing Øresund, often under fog, snow, or storm. Within weeks, 7,200 Jews and many non-Jewish spouses reached Sweden.

King, Church, and Civic Resistance: Moral Infrastructure

King Christian X’s courage was emblematic, if largely symbolic. Resisting Nazi directives, he maintained visibility and moral authority. When the Danish government resigned rather than comply with German orders in August 1943, he remained a beacon of subtle, steady defiance.

The Danish Lutheran Church organized protection for Jewish families, issuing letters to congregants instructing them to safeguard Torah scrolls and other priceless items. Trinity Church itself housed sacred archives, hidden under clerical supervision. Civic networks, including the Danish Freedom Council, coordinated hiding places, transport, and logistics. 

Modern Threats and Friendly Fire

In 2026, the shadow of antisemitism has returned to Denmark, and it’s amplified by international events. 

In present-day Copenhagen, young Jewish children must navigate fully-fortified schools and all congregants endure checkpoint-style synagogue entrances, while in contrast, government ministers ride unguarded across Copenhagen.

Next Week’s Installment: Part Two

Part Two of this exposé will document the daring escape of Danish Jews to Sweden in 1943 aboard fishing boats like the Elisabeth, and the courage of those who risked everything to carry them to safety, posing the preponderance of whether or not such historical acts would exist today.

I will tell share the story of my guide, whose shadow is next to mine in the image accompanying this feature. Her family were among those Danish Jews rescued by Elisabeth, and Bente–a guide from Jewish Copenhagen–lives in Denmark even today. I thank Bente and Jewish Copenhagen, both for facilitating gold-star access to sites as well as helping illuminate the city’s Jewish heritage–past and present–in a breathing and humanitarian way.

May we never forget.

Until next time,
Heather Cathleen