MY SILVER CROSS

A TRUE STORY, STILL A MYSTERY

Chapter I - 1969

It was one of those days in spring when Denmark is most beautiful. The weather was perfect. A crisp morning with warm rays of sun and just a few puffy clouds visible in the clear blue sky. It was the kind of day that teases the Danes out of their cozy homes - a must, not a maybe, when you live in an unpredictable climate.

A few months short of my nineteenth birthday, I, a young man content with life, was driving the company station wagon in my native city, Holbæk, on my way to a customer with a broken TV. I felt like a million bucks, singing along to the music blasting from the speakers. 

Thanks to my father, I was accepted into a four-year radio and television technician apprenticeship, as is typical in Europe. The store, owned by my boss, Børge Olsen, had opened when I initiated my apprenticeship just nine months before.

Then, a sudden squelch burst from the radio brought me back to reality.

"John, come in," it was my boss.

I pulled the microphone with its spiral cord off the hanger. "Yes, John here. Over."

"Is there anybody at home in your house? "He asked bluntly.

What an odd question flashed through my mind as I straightened up in my seat. My boss rarely asked about my family. Spurts of questions popped into my mind, but I quickly concluded my brother Hans Jørgen and my sister Susanne were both at school. My mother was out. She had dressed to leave in the morning, and I knew my father was somewhere north of Copenhagen, two hours away.

"Not besides my dog," I answered after a second. "Why are you asking?"

"Your neighbor just called and said your house is on fire. Smoke is pouring out. They have already called the fire department."

I was stunned, in shock, it couldn't be.  My face went white while I managed to mumble a short "Thank you," distracted I continued driving, my brain still processing the message.

After a few seconds, I pushed the button again. "John here. Can I take the company car home?" I asked.

"Of course," my boss replied without hesitation. "Go see to your home."

I checked the mirrors before turning in the middle of the road. The tires screeched as I accelerated, flooring the pedal. My home was about ten kilometers away. I drove as fast as I could. Is our house on fire? Blackie? I worried about our dog.

We had gotten our black Cocker Spaniel soon after moving from Ringsted to Trønninge three years prior. And my dad's paintings? My father bought a new painting every year, which was always a big deal. He loved his paintings and believed they were a good investment. Nonetheless, he had always stressed: "If we ever have a fire, I will save the photo albums first. They are our memories and are irreplaceable," he said.

Photos – that's what he wanted to save, I had thought with the shallow mind of my early teens. Now, his words rang out in my head. What about our photo albums? What about Blackie? What about my new guitar, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, and musical notes in our attic? It all came to me at once.

We lived in a village with about two hundred inhabitants. The properties in the town were a blend of four-sided farmhouses with their traditional center courts, small farmworker's bungalows, the tradespeople's homes, the Master Carpenter's shop and his house, and my father's business. He had bought the village Master Blacksmith's house and workshops to start an installation business using the commercial buildings while living in the adjacent two-hundred-year-old home.

When I left the main road, with two kilometers to go, I could already see the smoke, and any hope of a minor fire dissipated. My heart jumped in my throat. Extremely anxious, I navigated the last curve, and our property came into view.

At first, it didn't look so bad. The commercial buildings were not affected, but heavy smoke billowed from behind them. The firefighters had not yet arrived, but many villagers had assembled in the yard for the event of the year.

The front buildings housing my father's installation business were an antique blacksmith workshop still complete with anvils and a fanned forge fireplace with all the relevant tools. The middle building was for storage. The third and most significant building was a shop initially designed for work on heavy farming equipment.

Behind the gate, a circular driveway had a raised stone-lined center with a gigantic several hundred-year-old Elm tree. It partially blocked the view of the elongated studwork house, which was our home.

A man opened the door to my car even before it came to a complete stop. I just nodded to whatever he said, jumped out, and ran through the gate toward my home.

Smoke was bilging out everywhere, and the flames behind the windows seemed to devour everything inside without mercy. I opened the kitchen door and looked at the blaze inside. Someone told me he had broken the lock and let the dog out.

With Blackie safe, I ran to the main entrance. I had recently traded my full acoustic Gibson Les Paul for a new half-acoustic Burns guitar that stood inside the hallway.

Opening the door, I could see the case just six feet away. Feeling the intense heat burning my face, I hesitated. Then, someone pulled me back from the inferno.

The effect of opening the front door became evident. The new supply of fresh air fanned the flames with a roar, finally breaking through the old tile-covered-thatched-roof. Spikes of yellow and bluish flames lashed out at the sky.

Helpless, I watched our home consumed by the hungry beast of fire. The firefighters eventually arrived with their long hoses with bronze nozzles and started to hose our house down, but it was too late.

Standing there, helpless, I fingered my silver cross necklace. We were never a profoundly religious church-going family, but as a child, my mother always came to my bed every night to pray with me. We belonged to the Danish Lutheran Church, which we rarely visited except for holidays, family weddings, confirmations, and baptisms.

Danes are what I will call pragmatic Christians who respect and see their church as their spiritual and moral guidepost, and most Danes pay their church tax, which funds it. During the confirmation preparations when I was fourteen, my pastor had said. "Son, you do not have to come to church to find God - you can find him anywhere when you need him."

Now, standing before a family tragedy, a recurrent voice in my head repeated the question: Why?

Nevertheless, I quickly realized how grateful I should be. The fire had started during the day and not at night when we were all asleep.  We could all have perished.

The rational me kicked in, focusing on what to do. I was the only one there, and I had to act.

First, I looked for my dog Blackie. She was supposedly a Cocker Spaniel, which the pastor at a nearby church had assured us when we took her in. Not that it mattered, but when she grew curly poodle-like hair, it soon became apparent she was not a pure-bred Cocker Spaniel. She was a good dog, and I loved her dearly. Now, looking for her, I was worried. I could almost put myself in her skin. I instinctively walked the graveled road behind our property leading to a farm with a fire pond. There, I found Blackie sitting on a grassy sticking out of the water.

She whacked her short, stumpy tail and swam to shore, jumping up, wet and muddy. We were both happy. 

My next task was to tell my sister and brother. I drove towards their school, four kilometers away, with a million things on my mind. I was worried about my mother at work and maybe more about my father.  

When I arrived at the principal's office, the personnel had heard about the fire without knowing whose home was affected. I explained the situation to the principal, who allowed me to take Hans Jørgen (15) and Susanne (13) out of school. They were both shocked but didn't quite understand.

From the school, I drove to my mother's place of work to pick her up.  I didn't want her to know from others with nobody present to comfort her. She was a small, strong woman, but the loss would devastate her. She was heartbroken when we told her. We hugged her for a long time, trying to give her some consolation. We were all crying.

When we arrived back home, it was all over. The firefighters had packed up, ready to leave. A smoky heap of rubble was all that was left from what in the morning had been our home.

We were shocked and cried on and off. Our neighbors lent us comfort in the measure possible, and the Master Carpenter in town, whose son Claus was my brother Hans Jørgen's best friend, took us in and offered us to stay at their home for the night.

Now, my father was on our minds. With no means to contact him, we were genuinely concerned. My father was a man with a strong character but soft and sentimental. Lately, he had had his fair share of problems. He never showed it, but I knew.

His business with my uncle and my grandparent's support was struggling. It is always hard to create a new business, but when my uncle accepted a job offer without warning, leaving my father alone with the company at the worst possible time, it took a toll on my dad.

I decided to meet him by the entrance to the village, in the front yard of our property, by the curve.

I needed to tell him before he could see it for himself. At least I could let him know we were alright. I had a gruesome image in my head, seeing my dad driving into the courtyard alone, discovering the heap of smoking rubble, and not knowing the whereabouts of his family. I did not know precisely when he would arrive, but I guessed he would be home for dinner as always, so I just waited.

I suspected he knew when his blue Opel station wagon approached the curve slowly, barely moving forward. When he arrived at the yard, the side window was open, and I could see my dad crying as he leaned over the steering wheel. I had never, before or after, seen my dad so distressed. I later learned that a farm hand had stopped him down the road and said: "Hi Kaj, your house has burned down, you know. There is nothing left!" I was furious at the ignorance of that person.

It was a terrible situation for the entire family, especially my parents. Everything they had ever owned was gone. We sifted through the rubble and ashes the following days, looking for something - anything.

In what had been our living room, the bare metal chassis of our television set, which, in those days, was considered a piece of furniture, stood out on the floor. The teak stand and the teak cabinet burned. When I lifted the chassis, beneath it, we found some relatively unscathed photo albums protected by the metal. Some photos were half-burned but saved. A twist of faith had made my father's wish come true.

Over the next twelve to eighteen months, with our lives turned upside-down, the daily routine returned. We lived with my aunt for a while until my father could arrange for a typical prefab wooden summerhouse, customarily used as beach houses, to be delivered and placed next to his business.

We would live in the summerhouse during the construction phase of our new house. Our temporary living facility had a small living-dining room with an outside terrace and three tiny bedrooms with bunk beds, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

I remember, despite everything that had happened, we were happy. The terrible loss of our home and possessions strengthened the family. Friends visited often, and our tiny house became the center of joy where youngsters from the village would meet.

My mother was an excellent cook, and hospitality was essential in our home. She would always make something delicious for whoever came to visit. There was never a dull moment, and I truly enjoyed our time in the tiny house. I think we all did.

My father bought me an acoustic guitar, and I would sit outside on the terrace and play it. The guitar was far from the one I had before, but I was content, and my audience, the hedgehogs, seemed to like my music. Curiosity brought them out. I have never researched the behavioral patterns of hedgehogs, but I know they want music.

Our new house was to be a four-sided brick house. Yellow brick with dark stained wood trim was in style at the time. We all thought it was a beautiful house. It also gave credence to the architect, a relative on my mother's side.

Our new home was not complete when we moved in. Some details still had to be finalized, like trim, baseboards, etc., but we couldn't wait any longer. Our sizeable living-dining room area was empty without furniture, and the expansive oak floor shone bright and beautiful.

Free from the constraints of the tiny wooden summer house, happy and laughing - one day, my brother and I ruffed it out just for fun. During the bout, my necklace broke, and my silver cross fell to the floor. I tried to catch it as it slid towards the wall, but the cross flipped over, disappearing through the crack into the crawl space below.  

When I told my father, he explained that the floor would settle, and sooner or later, we would have to cut out an access in the floor under the stairs to get into the crawl space and adjust it. Nevertheless, I tried to fish out the cross to find a solution, as usual. But, in the end, I settled for my father's plan. I was confident, though. It would only be a matter of time before I could regain my cross.

Chapter II - 1975

Time passed - but our floor remained flawless, and although it was on my mind at times, I had started to forget about the cross lying on the dark slab below the living room floor.

Three years later, when I finished my four-year apprenticeship/school, I went to college in Sønderborg, a Danish town close to the German border on the Jutland peninsula. After graduation, I moved further away, accepting a job in Erlangen, Germany, close to Nurnberg, a thousand kilometers away from home. By then, years had passed, and I had forgotten about my silver cross hidden in the yellow brick house's dark, inaccessible crawl space.

I made the trip home every so often, together with other colleagues or friends working in Germany. We would take turns driving the German Autobahn to visit our families in Denmark.  

On one such trip at Easter, I arrived at my parent's home in the evening after a long day's drive from Erlangen. My parent had moved from the yellow brick house to another property closer to Holbæk, and it was my first visit to my parent's new home.

My parents, my brother, and my sister were expecting me. The five of us, the family nucleus, together again, talking about nothing and everything around the sofa table, having coffee and cookies, as is customary in Denmark.

Suddenly, my sister got serious and asked me. "John, do you remember the silver cross?"

"Of course I do," I answered, puzzled by her question.

"Do you remember what it looked like?" She insisted.

Something is going on. My folks looked at me, expectant of something I couldn't understand.

"Did you ever open the crawl space before you moved out?" I answered with a question, looking at my dad.

He shook his head and spoke. "No, son, we never got down there."

"What did the cross look like?" My sister insisted once more.

I looked at my mum. "You know what it looked like. It was yours once."

"I am not sure, but do you remember," my mother replied.

"Describe it," my sister insisted.

They stared at me, and I was suspicious and somewhat annoyed by their insistence. "You all know," I said impatiently. I used my fingers to illustrate, "It was about six centimeters tall and three centimeters wide. The bars were maybe half a centimeter wide, with ornate decorative leaves running down the middle. I can even show it to you. It's on my passport photo."

"Do you have your passport?" My brother asked with a frown.

"Yes, of course." I had my passport at hand as I had crossed the border just a few hours earlier.  I showed them the picture with the cross around my neck.

"You see!"

They all looked at the passport photo, then at each other, then back at me.

"What is this about?" I asked, startled - it was so weird.

"Wait, you'll see," Susanne said, leaving the living room.

When she came back, she held something in her closed fist.

"Open your hands," Susanne said, staring into my eyes.

I stretched my hand out, palm up.

Then she placed my silver cross on my palm. Tarnished by oxidation, it looked ancient, but there was no doubt. It was my silver cross.

I shivered, and chills ran down my back. It still does.   

"Is this your silver cross," my mother asked, staring at me with her bright blue eyes.

I looked at the cross and up again, "It is," I said, "Without any doubt." I shivered again.  

I looked from my mom to my dad, brother, and sister, "But how?"

After a moment of silence, Susanne finally explained. "Two weeks ago, Hans Jørgen came home for dinner. He asked me if I had an extra silver necklace as his had broken. I went to my room to check my jewelry box. When I opened it, the cross lay on top."

Susanne looked at my mum, who shook her head.

"There it was on top of all my jewelry. It was so weird, unbelievable. I use my jewelry box daily; the cross was never there before. It just appeared. When I showed it to Mum, we both got the shudders. The cross has followed us to this house."

Chapter III - Many years later

To this day, it still sends chills down my back when I think about my silver cross.

It had once belonged to my mother's favorite aunt, who received it as a gift at her confirmation. Unfortunately, she died very young of cancer, but before she passed away, she gave it to my mother. They had a special bond, according to my mother.

In my early teens, in the sixties Denmark, I had found the cross between my mother's stuff, and one day I asked for it. Ever since that day, I had it around my neck until that day it fell into the crawl space. Now, it had, mysteriously or divinely, returned.

I polished it to a bright shine, and I always kept it close in the years since. It was on my nightstand until December 2010. By then, my parents had both passed.

In December 2010, I had planned to visit my sister in Denmark on my way to the United States to celebrate Christmas with my family. Susanne and I had planned the visit more than a month before. However, the cancer she had been fighting for years had abruptly worsened.

Unexpectedly, she was hospitalized at the beginning of December - terminally ill. My beloved sister Susanne, the youngest of us, was under end-of-life palliative care in the hospital when I arrived. On an impulse, before driving to the Airport in Malaga, Spain. I put the silver cross in my pocket.

When I arrived in Denmark, I went straight to the hospital to see Susanne. In just a few weeks, she had gone downhill fast.  She was in a lot of pain in her hospital bed. I knew I would not see her again after I left, but I called her every day until she passed on New Year's Eve.

"Do you remember?" I asked her when I pulled the cross out of my jacket.

Tears welled in her eyes when she nodded - she could hardly speak, her voice almost gone, affected by her medicine. 

I had a lump in my throat when I asked. "Susanne, do you still believe in God?"

She looked at me with teary eyes, and again she nodded.

"Do you want the cross? Will it bring you comfort?"

She nodded.

Two weeks later, when I next saw Susanne, she was lying in the chapel, dressed for her last journey. After a long battle, she was at peace - a peace she never accepted coming, defiant to the end.

When my mother died, and later, my father, Susanne, had been the one who kept the family together. She would always stay in touch with everybody: my uncles, cousins, distant relatives, my brother, and me. She told everybody what was going on and conveyed greetings from one to another. Maybe all families have such a person, or at least they should have. But when Susanne passed, nobody filled the void in our dwindling family. Modern-day life seems to keep us all entrenched in our daily battle, and the few members of our family may not have much in common with the distant world traveler I am.

As I write this memory, I no longer have contact with my brother and my sister's daughter Louise in Denmark. We have distanced ourselves for some reason. Maybe we have grown apart because I have lived abroad for most of my adult life, and time and distance have dissolved the once-strong family bond.

Louise never told me what happened to the silver cross, and I never asked. I assume she has it? After all, I gave it to my sister, and my sister's possessions became hers, or maybe it went with my sister on her last journey.

I am somewhat disappointed Louise never mentioned it because the cross did mean a lot to me. Maybe she and my brother thought it was stupid of me to bring the cross to my sister's deathbed. They spend more time with her, and it could have upset her in her refusal to face death. I thought it was proper, and hope provided comfort during those challenging end-of-life moments.

At times, I wondered if the cross followed the family - but deep within, I believed it had returned to me. Maybe I am wrong. Perhaps it came back to my sister - or maybe, just maybe, we have not heard the last word yet. Maybe one day – the silver cross, my silver cross, will find its way back once again.

Jon Erii

Note: This is a true and personal story that happened as it's written.