So I did it again, and one day when Jens began questioning me sternly
could not deny my guilt. "I saw it," said Jens; "the rope is nearly cut
in two, and now you will catch it, now the policeman will come and fetch
you."

For weeks after that I did not have one easy hour. Wherever I went, or
whatever I did, the fear of the police followed me. I dared not speak to
anyone of what I had done and of what was awaiting me. I was too much
ashamed, and I noticed, too, that my parents knew nothing. But if a door
opened suddenly I would look anxiously at the incomer. When I was
walking with the nurse and my little brother I looked all round on every
side, and frequently peeped behind me, to see whether the police were
after me. Even when I lay in my bed, shut in on all four sides by its
trellis-work, the dread of the police was upon me still.

There was only one person to whom I dared mention it, and that was Jens.
When a few weeks had gone by I tried to get an answer out of him. Then I
perceived that Jens did not even know what I was talking about. Jens had
evidently forgotten all about it. Jens had been making fun of me. If my
relief was immense, my indignation was no less. So much torture for
nothing at all! Older people, who had noticed how the word "police" was
to me an epitome of all that was terrible, sometimes made use of it as
an explanation of things that they thought were above my comprehension.

When I was six years old I heard the word "war" for the first time. I
did not know what it was, and asked. "It means," said one of my aunts,
"that the Germans have put police in Schleswig and forbidden the Danes
to go there, and that they will beat them if they stay there." That I
could understand, but afterwards I heard them talking about soldiers.