{"id":12186,"date":"2022-09-22T06:24:00","date_gmt":"2022-09-22T06:24:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/erb.ambition4clients.nl\/uncategorized-da\/borderland\/"},"modified":"2024-06-20T06:27:43","modified_gmt":"2024-06-20T06:27:43","slug":"borderland","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/europeanreviewofbooks.com\/da\/borderland\/","title":{"rendered":"Gr\u00e6nseland"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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The great storm surge is coming, it has always been coming in the borderland between Denmark and Germany. Here, Danish writer Dorthe Nors visits the Frisian island of Sylt, which lost its connection to the mainland in 1362 when it became a thin isle in the Wadden Sea during a flood known as the \u00ab Great Drowning of Men \u00bb.

\u00ab Borderland \u00bb is an excerpt from A Line in the World: A Year on the North Sea Coast<\/em>, in which Nors chronicles her year traveling up and down the coast’s \u00ab storm-battered trees and wind-blasted beaches \u00bb, exploring its history, geography and her own relationship to this wild landscape. The book is forthcoming from Pushkin Press on 6 October<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Det er den samme m\u00e5ne. I mindet sv\u00e6ver den over transformatort\u00e5rnet i skellet mellem vores sted og naboens g\u00e5rd. Jeg legede tit med nabodrengen Peter, og jeg skulle forbi t\u00e5rnet p\u00e5vej hjem. Men nu findes transformatort\u00e5rnet ikke mere; skellet er blevet ligegyldigt. Det forsvandt med eksproprieringen af mine for\u00e6ldres g\u00e5rd. I lang tid stod stuehuset med alle vinduer revet ud, t\u00f8mt for indhold, udstillet for sognet. S\u00e5 fjernede vejdirektoratet det hele og anlagde den nye vej. Jeg k\u00f8reraf og til over stedet i min bil, men alt vender forkert. Syd forvejen ligger Peters families g\u00e5rd. Den er opk\u00f8bt af en svinefarmer, men \u00e6bletr\u00e6erne b\u00e6rer stadig frugt. R\u00e5dyrene, r\u00e6vene, fuglene, musene og bilister, der er holdt ind for at tisse, spiser frugten. Vores lille verdensorden er v\u00e6k. Som skyllet i havet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men det er den samme m\u00e5ne som altid, og det, der er v\u00e6k, lever i mig. Jeg st\u00e5r p\u00e5 en klittop i Listland p\u00e5 Sylt, Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Jeg suger landskabets underlige balance mellem det genkendelige og noget fremmedartet ind. Det er helt hos sig selv, dette landskab. Det taler hverken dansk, frisisk, s\u00f8nderjysk eller tysk. Det taler kropssprog, folder sig udi erindringen og g\u00f8r, hvad det vil. Solen er p\u00e5 vej ned i vest, m\u00e5nen har l\u00f8ftet sig v\u00e6ldig. De f\u00f8rste stjerner er antydet overen kolossal vandreklit mod \u00f8st. Jeg kan ikke se, om jeg er i Colorado og med i en western, eller om dette er verden, som verden s\u00e5 ud, f\u00f8r mennesker formede sig spyd, lavede b\u00e5l, skabteklaner, hegnede ind, p\u00e5kaldte sig gud, kradsede gr\u00e6nser og byggede t\u00e5rne at stille p\u00e5 dem. Men jeg er midt i livet, og den sidste f\u00e6rge til Danmark g\u00e5r fra List om en time. Jeg skal hjem inden natten, men i mindet h\u00e6nger m\u00e5nen over transformatort\u00e5rnet. Jeg er p\u00e5 vej hjem fra Peter. Nede hos ham har de billeder af Jesus i sortlakerede rammer. P\u00e5 et af dem vandrer han i et \u00f8rkenlandskab af ufattelige dimensioner. I lyser\u00f8d kjortel. Hjemme hos os er vi medlemmer af folkekirken, ikke andet. Men nede hos Peter g\u00e5r Jesus i flotte sandaler. Jesussandaler. Men det m\u00e5 jeg ikke kalde dem for Peters far. De varellers p\u00e5 mode dengang; folk gik med dem. Jeg m\u00e5tte heller ikke bande nede hos Peter. Det gjorde vi p\u00e5 vores side af skellet. Ja, i mit f\u00e6dreland bandede vi.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maj m\u00e5ned, men k\u00f8ligt, og jeg skal n\u00e5 f\u00e6rgen. Det har v\u00e6ret en klar dag p\u00e5 \u00f8en med de tre navne: Sild p\u00e5 dansk, S\u00f6lp\u00e5 nordfrisisk, Sylt p\u00e5 tysk. Den er ligeglad med, hvad vi kalder den, og hvad den kalder sig selv, rager ikke os. Den har skiftet territorie i perioder, men det har den h\u00e6vet sig over. Dette landskab er st\u00f8rre end streger i sandet. Altid ved at blive til, altid ved at d\u00f8 og genopst\u00e5, og jeg har k\u00f8rt rundt p\u00e5\u00f8en hele dagen. Klinterne, klitterne og sandstrandene ligner dem derhjemme. Byggeskikken minder om den vestfrisiske, jeg har m\u00f8dt p\u00e5 R\u00f8m\u00f8 og Fan\u00f8 og hele vejen ned til Den Helderi Holland. Friserne kan lide huse med store str\u00e5tagshatte. De er brede i gavlen og knejser ved hovedd\u00f8ren. En tur gennem landsbyen Keitum og ind p\u00e5 det historiske museum d\u00e9r gjorde intet andet end at flytte mig tilbage til Johannes Hus p\u00e5 Fan\u00f8. Kaklerne, de samme. Klenodierne, fortidens hvalfangeriog langfart, de samme. Den frisiske \u00e5nd er g\u00e5et over vandet forat tr\u00e6nge ind i det hele. Og alligevel har Sylt hele dagen virketsom en tysk \u00f8 p\u00e5 mig. Ikke kun p\u00e5 grund af sproget, men ogs\u00e5p\u00e5 m\u00e5den, man er i landskabet p\u00e5. Man sidder i sm\u00e5 nummererede l\u00e6sk\u00e6rme med fodst\u00f8tte p\u00e5 store strandterrasser. I Danmark ville man sidde p\u00e5 et medbragt t\u00e6ppe og t\u00e5le vinden. Men man g\u00e5r ikke ned p\u00e5 udstyr i Tyskland, og slet ikke p\u00e5 Sylt, der kaldes forbundsrepublikkens svar p\u00e5 Saint-Tropez.Og ellers kan jeg ikke s\u00e6tte ord p\u00e5, hvad forskellen er. Ville jeg vide, at jeg var i fremmed land, hvis jeg ikke havde skrevet HUSK PAS i h\u00e5ndfladen? Ja. Jeg ville vide det p\u00e5 samme m\u00e5de, som jeg vidste, at noget skiftede ved transformatort\u00e5rnet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeg har k\u00f8rt fra nord til syd p\u00e5 Sylt. Den er den st\u00f8rste og nordligste af de tyske Vadehavs\u00f8er, men stadig til at overskuep\u00e5 en l\u00f8rdag. I 1920, ved den sk\u00e6bnesvangre folkeafstemning om gr\u00e6nsedragning baseret p\u00e5 nationalt tilh\u00f8rsforhold, stemte den sig til Tyskland. Dens s\u00f8ster i nord, R\u00f8m\u00f8, gik til Danmark. Nu tilh\u00f8rer de hvert sit land, selvom de som landskaber betragtet minder om hinanden, og i \u00f8vrigt er underlagt den samme bestandige trussel om erosion og undergang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hvad erosion ang\u00e5r, er stormfloderne de farligste. Den \u00e6ldst<\/p>\n\n\n\n

daterede er Den Store Manddrukning i 1362. En superstorm meldte sin ankomst i januar det \u00e5r. Den fik isen til at krakelere i store stykker, der virkede som rambukke imod digerne. Tusindvis af mennesker og dyr druknede, store landomr\u00e5der forsvandt, og en del af de \u00f8er, vi kender i dag, blev dannet p\u00e5 den ene nat. Syd for Sylt, der under denne stormflod i \u00f8vrigt mistede sin fysiske forbindelse med fastlandet og bleven tynd \u00f8 ude i Vadehavet, forsvandt byen Rungholt i havet. Imange \u00e5r antog man, at fort\u00e6llingen om, at der skulle findes et Nordens Atlantis kaldet Rungholt, var netop det; en fort\u00e6lling. Men Rungholt blev siden fundet n\u00e6vnt i gamle dokumenter som en by med et blomstrende handelsliv. Og mellem 1921 og 1938 \u00e6ndrede tidevandet sig p\u00e5 en s\u00e5dan m\u00e5de, at rester af volde, bygninger og br\u00f8nde pludselig begyndte at materialisere sig i Vadehavet. P\u00e5 baggrund af fundene vurderede man, at byen havde v\u00e6ret p\u00e5 st\u00f8rrelse med datidens Kiel. Ud over bygningsfragmenter fandt man keramik, m\u00f8nter, smykkesten, rester af et skib fra Kreta, lapis lazuli fra Afghanistan, for ikkeat glemme et anker fra minoisk tid. I sandhed et nordisk Atlantis, men sv\u00e6r at lave udgravninger i p\u00e5 grund af tidevandet, ogi \u00f8vrigt m\u00e5 man ikke grave i et Verdensarvsomr\u00e5de. Teorierneom byen er nu, at den siden antikken var et handelscentrump\u00e5 kysten. Indtil en januarnat i 1362, hvor en enkelt stormflodaf klimakatastrofale dimensioner skyllede den i havet og \u00e6ndrede kystlinjen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stormfloder kommer og g\u00e5r. De er en del af det organiske, foranderlige og voldsomme liv p\u00e5 kystlinjen, men med mellemrum<\/p>\n\n\n\n

kommer der \u00e9n, der er v\u00e6rre end andre. Allehelgensfloden for eksempel. Den skyllede et helt sogn ved M\u00f8gelt\u00f8nder i havet og samme novembernat i 1436 forsvandt byen Ejdum p\u00e5 Sylt i b\u00f8lgerne. I tiden efter de voldsomste stormfloder turde mennesker slet ikke bo i Vadehavet af angst for drukned\u00f8den.De fors\u00f8gte at holde sig til gesten, det h\u00f8jere beliggende landomr\u00e5de inden for marsken. Men for hver generation forsvinder vigtige erfaringer, og i 1634 havde menneskene igen bosatsig p\u00e5 den skr\u00f8belige gr\u00e6nse mellem hav og land. Et af disse mennesker var den hollandske ingeni\u00f8r Jan Leeghwater. Han boede det Herrens \u00e5r p\u00e5 den dansk-tyske gr\u00e6nse bag et lille dige ved landsbyen Dageb\u00fcll. Han boede der sammen med sins\u00f8n, mens han arbejdede p\u00e5 et dr\u00e6ningsprojekt i n\u00e6rheden. Den tiende oktober stak han inden om den lokale t\u00f8mrermester, Pieter Jansz, til en snak, men da bl\u00e6sten tog til, skyndte han sig hjem til drengen. Som aftenen skred frem, voksede stormen og blev til orkan. Jan og s\u00f8nnen gik i seng med alt t\u00f8jet p\u00e5, men sov ikke for larmen. Ud p\u00e5 natten m\u00e6rkede drengen, Adriaan hed han, at noget kom ned fra taget. Det dryppersaltvand p\u00e5 ansigtet<\/em>, far, sagde drengen i m\u00f8rket. Det var b\u00f8lgerne, der havde klatret s\u00e5 langt op ad diget, at skumspr\u00f8jtet nu regnede over huset. Det br\u00f8lede af storm om \u00f8rene p\u00e5 far og s\u00f8n. Det var, som om Vorherre selv skreg dem ned i ansigtet. Sm\u00e5 r\u00e6ve i hulens gennemv\u00e6dede m\u00f8rke, og s\u00e5 bankede det p\u00e5 d\u00f8ren. Opsynsmanden Siewert kom og ville have dem med. Det var nu eller aldrig, og de l\u00f8b gennem stormen. De l\u00f8b med Siewert i et inferno af flyvende planker og br\u00e6dder. De ville i ly p\u00e5 den lokale herreg\u00e5rd, og Siewert skreg et stedi natten, at de havde brug for et mirakel. Mirakel eller ej: De n\u00e5ede herreg\u00e5rden. Det gjorde atten andre beboere fra Dageb\u00fcll ogs\u00e5. S\u00e5 sad de der omkring t\u00e6llelysene og bad om n\u00e5de til den Gud, hvis syndflod nu var over dem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sit vidnesbyrd efter katastrofen, fort\u00e6ller Jan:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeg har v\u00e6ret p\u00e5 stranden, hvor jeg har set forf\u00e6rdelige ting.Utallige d\u00f8de mennesker og dyr sammen med bj\u00e6lker fra huse, smadrede vogne, masser af tr\u00e6, halm og skrammel.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jan Leeghwater og hans dreng overlevede. Det var et mirakel. T\u00f8mreren Pieter Jansz og alle i hans husholdning druknede, og de var ikke de eneste. Stormfloden i 1634, siden kaldet Den Anden Store Manddrukning, kostede mellem otte tusinde og femten tusinde mennesker livet. P\u00e5 Nordstrand syd\u00f8st for Sylt skyllede havet gennem fireogfyrre diger, seks tusinde ud af ni tusinde indbyggere p\u00e5 Nordstrand druknede, og i alt nitten af stedets toogtyve kirker blev skyllet v\u00e6k.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Den er altid derude, den store stormflod. Man ved, den kommer. Digerne vokser og beskytter, men Sylt, som p\u00e5 sine steder er tynd om livet, er konstant i fare for at br\u00e6kke overog st\u00e6vne ud i skikkelse af flere \u00f8er. P\u00e5 alverdens geovidenskabelige og polytekniske l\u00e6reanstalter forskes i fremtidens superstorme, og hvordan man st\u00e5r imod dem. S\u00e5 Mand\u00f8 bliverliggende, s\u00e5 R\u00f8m\u00f8 stadig skyder ryg, s\u00e5 naturkr\u00e6fterne ikke f\u00e5r lov at \u00e6ndre det tegnede billede. Der bliver kortere mellemde st\u00f8rste storme. Og digerne bliver h\u00f8jere, h\u00f8fderne l\u00e6ngere,for vi g\u00f8r vores bedste med at st\u00e5 imod, men det drypper saltvand p\u00e5 ansigtet, far.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Illustration by Signe Parkins<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

I g\u00e5r, det var fredag, krydsede jeg gr\u00e6nsen ved Rudb\u00f8l. Det vil sige: F\u00f8rst spiste jeg et stort stykke br\u00f8dtorte<\/em> p\u00e5 Rudb\u00f8l Gr\u00e6nsekro. Bagefter faldt jeg i snak med en \u00e6ldre lokal mandi krostuen. Jeg spurgte, hvordan det stod til ved gr\u00e6nsen i dag.S\u00e5 sagde han, at tyskerne vist en af dagene sp\u00e6rrede den afp\u00e5 grund af noget vejarbejde p\u00e5 deres side. Det skulle ikke forhindre mig i at tage chancen. Man kunne jo altid lave en U- vending, sagde han. Han sagde ogs\u00e5, at dansk vejarbejde bet\u00f8d, at der stadig var passage, fordi man lukkede \u00e9t spor ned ad gangen. Men tysk vejarbejde medf\u00f8rte som oftest, at man ikke kunne komme over. De lukkede ned i begge spor, selvomde kun skulle reparere noget i det ene.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

S\u00e5dan er det<\/em>, sagde han, og s\u00e5 havde han ikke mere at sigeom den sag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men han fik jo s\u00e5dan set ogs\u00e5 sagt det, han ville, og det erderfor, det kan v\u00e6re sv\u00e6rt at v\u00e6re fremmed i gr\u00e6nselandet. Alt det, der siges mellem linjerne. Alt det, der ikke kan siges. Alle de mark\u00f8rer, der usynligt formidles mellem nationer, s\u00e5vel som mennesker i en krostue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dette m\u00e5 jeg vedg\u00e5 mig: Jeg er forelsket i marsklandets forbl\u00e6ste v\u00e6sen, i sluserne, i f\u00e5rene p\u00e5 digerne, i byggestilen, i vandog vindm\u00f8llerne og de s\u00e5kaldte v\u00e6rfter, man har skovlet op og bygget sine g\u00e5rde p\u00e5, s\u00e5 de ligger i tryghed for stormfloden. De ligner sm\u00e5 borge med hver sin borgfrue p\u00e5. Jeg elsker det s\u00f8nderjyske sprog. Dets forbindelser til nordfrisisk, plattysk, nederlandsk og den m\u00e5de, det s\u00e6tter liv og musik tilmit eget modersm\u00e5l; elsker det. Jeg elsker ogs\u00e5, hvordan ordet v\u00e6rft<\/em> l\u00f8ber ned gennem marsklandet mod syd under besl\u00e6gtede navne som wierde, woerd, warf, warft, werf, werve<\/em> \u2013 indtil det n\u00e5r ned til marsken omkring Rhinlandet i tidernes morgenog kalder sig terp. Det har krydset gr\u00e6nser, det ord, og mine vestjyske bedstefor\u00e6ldre brugte det ogs\u00e5, n\u00e5r de \u2018verfede\u2019 med grus, jord, m\u00f8dding. Det sidste, alts\u00e5 \u2018m\u00f8dding\u2019, kaster man i \u00f8vrigt stadig med i Skotland i form af midding<\/em> og medding<\/em>, for gode ord rejser, hvorhen de vil. Derudover respekterer vandet ingen skelp\u00e6le. Det tager, hvad det vil have, n\u00e5r det vil havedet, og jeg har bes\u00f8gt alle sluserne: Kammerslusen, Konge\u00e5slusen, Ballum Sluse, Vid\u00e5 Sluse, H\u00f8jer Sluse. Jeg har set vandstandss\u00f8jlerne. De st\u00e5r strunke og markerer, hvor h\u00f8jt vandetstod under Den Anden Store Manddrukning i 1634, under Julestormfloden i 1717, under novemberstormen i 1981, underorkanen i 1999. Jeg har set, hvordan sluserne lukker sig selv og en medf\u00f8lgende \u00e5 ud i verden gennem en stor og smukt muret port. Jeg har g\u00e5et p\u00e5 digerne og forestillet mig stormflodernes vandhelvede p\u00e5 jord, men for mig er marsken stadig at ligne med et paradis, som \u00f8jet kan hvile p\u00e5. Margrethe Kog, Ny Frederikskog, Gammel Frederikskog er alle i sandhed royale. Jeg beundrer overlevelsesevnen, himmelhv\u00e6lvet, udsynet og den evige udveksling af st\u00e6reflokke, kultur og folk. Men p\u00e5 trods af min ubetingede k\u00e6rlighed er jeg, n\u00e5r jeg opholder mig i gr\u00e6nselandet, altid bange for at sige det forkerte. Jeg skal ikkehave fortalt om Jesus og hans sandaler. Engang fik jeg et lift med en s\u00f8nderjyde fra R\u00f8dding H\u00f8jskole, hvor jeg underviste, til Vejen Station, hvor jeg skulle med toget til K\u00f8benhavn. Idet vi krydsede Konge\u00e5en, sagde jeg:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hvad er det for en bette \u00e5?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeg vidste godt, at det var Konge\u00e5en! Jeg vidste godt, at den tegnede gr\u00e6nsen mellem Danmark og Tyskland fra 1864 til 1920. At den havde skilt familier ad, elskende, s\u00f8skende, livsforl\u00f8b. Jeg vidste, at det var forskel p\u00e5 liv og d\u00f8d, om manunder F\u00f8rste Verdenskrig var en ung mand p\u00e5 den ene eller den anden side af den \u00e5. Jeg forstod, at det var en hellig \u00e5 i dansk historie, og jeg vidste, at den var ladet med sorg og traumer, men i mit f\u00e6dreland bander vi. Vi siger sjove ting, n\u00e5r viikke m\u00e5, og chauff\u00f8ren blev rasende.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hver gang jeg krydser Konge\u00e5en eller blot h\u00f8rer denn\u00e6vnt, skammer jeg mig, fordi der var noget, jeg ikke forstodr\u00e6kkevidden af, for det er et faktum: Jeg ser ikke alle usynlige skel i gr\u00e6nselandet. Der tales i sindelagskoder. De mennesker, jeg m\u00f8der, har traumer, nedarvede s\u00e5vel som dagsaktuelle. Dekender til tab, og de ved, at alt, der er vundet, kan mistes igen.Er det ikke stormfloderne, er det tiderne: Alt er kun til l\u00e5ns, hvis ikke man k\u00e6mper for det. Jeg kender de gamle landkort, hvor jeg med det blotte \u00f8je kan se, at gr\u00e6nsen ligger smertefuldt forkert. Som om nogen har trukket en sok alt for langt opad et lidt for tyndt ben. Og jeg ved, at gr\u00e6nselandets jord har suget b\u00e5de blod og saltvand til sig p\u00e5 en m\u00e5de, som det er vanskeligt for et menneske opvokset i et \u00f8de hedesogn nordvest for Herning fuldt ud at forst\u00e5. Min barndomsegn er langt fra historiel\u00f8s. Men sammenlignet med det dansk-tyske gr\u00e6nselander den midtog vestjyske hede som en pixibog op imod Prousts P\u00e5 sporet af den tabte tid<\/em>: tretten bind og en madeleinekage.I dette tilf\u00e6lde, br\u00f8dtorte: det s\u00f8nderjyske kagebords rugbr\u00f8dsversion af en lagkage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men tilbage til Rudb\u00f8l, for jeg k\u00f8rte over gr\u00e6nsen der i g\u00e5r. Og jeg var klar til at lave en U-vending. Jeg havde den gamle f\u00e6rdselskortbog liggende p\u00e5 passagers\u00e6det. Den har hjulpetmig op og ned langs kysten p\u00e5 en rolig, nysgerrig facon. Men der er det med fysiske landkort i farveprint p\u00e5 papir, at de holder op med at fungere ved en gr\u00e6nse. P\u00e5 den danske side af Rudb\u00f8l: et overskueligt og detaljeret vejkort. P\u00e5 den tyske side af gr\u00e6nsen: tomt land, et par isolerede stednavne hist og pist, men ingen anvisning til, hvordan man kommer fra det ene sted til det andet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Der m\u00e5 v\u00e6re en gr\u00e6nse<\/em>, har man sagt ved Kortog Matrikelstyrelsen. Hertil og ikke l\u00e6ngere<\/em>, og derfor var bev\u00e6gelsenover gr\u00e6nsen ved Rudb\u00f8l som at k\u00f8re ind p\u00e5 en frossen mark, hvor sneen lige er faldet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Der gik heller ikke l\u00e6nge, inden jeg fik problemer. Det havde manden i kroen ret i. Trafikken klumpede til ved noget vejarbejde. Men inden jeg kom til at sidde for alvor fast, drejede jeg af og lod GPS\u2019en f\u00f8re mig ad de sm\u00e5 veje i Nordfrisland.Jeg k\u00f8rte p\u00e5 diger, ad snorlige ruter forbi stolte g\u00e5rde p\u00e5 gamlev\u00e6rfter. M\u00e5nen stod op over landskabet og hang rund og klar p\u00e5 sin lapis lazuli-bl\u00e5 himmel. Et sted mod sydvest l\u00e5 Rungholtmed sine hemmeligheder intakte. En dag kommer stormfloden igen. S\u00e5 vil menneskene ligge i m\u00f8rket og t\u00e6nke p\u00e5 digerne.Farens ansigt oplyst af telefonen i sovev\u00e6relsets m\u00f8rke. Hankan ikke sove for vandstandsnyhederne. Ud p\u00e5 natten k\u00f8rerevakueringsbusserne rundt og samler folk op. De voksne b\u00e6rer p\u00e5 soveposer, liggeunderlag, b\u00f8rnene p\u00e5 deres bamser. De skal sove i den lokale idr\u00e6tshal. Bare indtil stormen l\u00f8jer af, siger moren. De voksne f\u00e5r suppe i kaffekrus. B\u00f8rnene en chokoladekiks, men s\u00e5 skal de sove. Der er ogs\u00e5 en dag i morgen, og s\u00e5 ligger de der mellem naboer og fremmede. De pr\u00f8ver atfinde ro for et knitrende lysstofr\u00f8r. For stormen, som bliverved. De er i sikkerhed her, men hvad med f\u00e5rene, k\u00f8erne. Oghunden, som ikke kom med. Og katten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Den gemte sig i skunken<\/em>, hvisker barnet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katte har ni liv<\/em>, hvisker moren i m\u00f8rket, og t\u00e6nker p\u00e5 de klaprende tagplader, saltregnen, fremtiden. For stormfloden kommer. Men ikke i dag, t\u00e6nkte jeg i g\u00e5r. Ikke i morgen, t\u00e6nkte jeg og k\u00f8rte forbi gr\u00e6nsehandlerne i den tyske by Aventoft. Gik ikke ind, satte kursen l\u00e6ngere nordp\u00e5. P\u00e5 Rudb\u00f8l Kro havde jeg spurgt manden i krostuen, om gr\u00e6nseovergangen ved Aventoft fungerede som normalt?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ja<\/em>, sagde han, men det hedder den jo ikke. Den hedder M\u00f8llehusvej Gr\u00e6nseovergang.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

S\u00e5 fik jeg det med, og s\u00e5dan falder og rejser jeg mig i gr\u00e6nselandet. S\u00f8ger ud over kogene. K\u00f8rer i min stifinderbil ad digerne, landevejene. H\u00e6ver mig op over ul\u00f8ste g\u00e5der, s\u00e6nker mig i s\u00e6det. Lyset skifter evindeligt: sol for m\u00e5ne, front for front. Erindringsarkivet st\u00e5r \u00e5bent, og her er kun en vej at f\u00f8lge. Den g\u00e5r fra \u00e9n selv ind i alt det, man kom fra, og den er drevet af l\u00e6ngslen efter et sted, man endnu ikke har set. N\u00e5r jeg n\u00e5r frem, vil jeg v\u00e6re stille, men indtil da synger jeg. Jeg synger h\u00f8jt p\u00e5 en enkelt linje. Jeg synger linjen igen og igen; den bev\u00e6ger sig. Se nu g\u00e5r solen ned, og jeg k\u00f8rer ombord p\u00e5f\u00e6rger. Krydser gr\u00e6nser, og sender de faldne, de druknede en sorgfuld tanke, mens st\u00e6reflokkene l\u00f8fter sig over r\u00f8rskovene.Stormfloderne kommer. Katte har ni liv, men p\u00e5 min side af gr\u00e6nsen har vi kun \u00e9t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Portrait of Dorthe Nors by Astrid Dalum<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

A Line in the World: A Year on the North Sea Coast is forthcoming from Pushkin Press on 6 October<\/a><\/u>.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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