To cross a strait in a boat at night like my mother. To cross a strait at night in another cutter like my father. To flee like growing crowds of displaced persons. The black water is open. My mother without luggage, but wearing layer upon layer of clothes, crammed into the hold among many others, down to her mother and sister with a hat to throw up in. The order is for dead silence until the boat is out of the harbour. On the deck in the pitch darkness follow my mother's father at sea the voyage to Swedish territory lashed to the mast so as not to fall overboard. No German patrols, only tugboats. The black water is open. Relatives are left behind — friends houses belongings a beloved country. To cross a strait on a dark October night with a fisherman and crew who don’t know the exact route. To try to find port by sounding the depths, try to find port with signals from searchlights’ glare. At last to dock at the right berth in Höganäs shouted in by Swedish soldiers. A way across the water homecoming with no home to what future? Not to flee from oneself, but be allowed to be oneself.
translated from Danish by David McDuff