Niels Bohr and the Sleeping Dane
by Jonathan Sullivan
“Herr Doktor Bohr!” The captain’s cruel smile returned. “What a relief. We’ve been very concerned about you.”
Bohr sighed, looked up at the Gestapo captain with calm resignation, and took his wife’s hand. He started to get up.
“You are mistaken, sir,” Papa said.
I was nineteen years old. I had followed Bohr’s career for half my life, with something bordering on worship. A terrible miracle of circumstance had finally brought me into his presence. But at that moment his life meant nothing next to my own. Niels Bohr was already a prisoner of the Third Reich–nothing could stop that now. Papa’s action could only put us on a boxcar to Theresienstadt.