La Brioche d'Or is on Stroget, near Amager Square, on the second floor, a couple of buildings past the Royal Porcelain store.

Even in the doorway there are photographs of the cornucopia, three feet in diameter, that the pastry shop delivered to the royal court with a crane. On our way up the stairs there is a display of particularly memorable cream cakes that look as if they've been given a coat of hairspray and will remain there for all eternity. The entrance is guarded by a life-sized model of the boxer Ayub Kalule – that was made out of dark chocolate when he became European Champion, and inside there is a long table covered with cakes that look capable of practically anything except flying.

The ceiling is decorated with plaster curlicues like whipped cream, and there are chandeliers, and on the floor is a carpet as thick and spongy and the same color as an angel-food cake soaked in sherry. Elegant ladies are sitting at small tables with white tablecloths, washing down a second piece of Sacher torte with pint cups of hot cocoa. To ameliorate the expected shock of the bill and the encounter with the bathroom scale, a pianist wearing a toupee is sitting on a platform absentmindedly playing a Mozart potpourri, which turns downright sloppy when he attempts to wink at the mechanic at the same time.

In one corner, sitting alone, is Benedicte Clahn. Certain people don't seem to match their voices. I can still remember my own surprise when, for the first time, I stood face to face with Ulloriannguaq Christiansen, who had delivered the news for twenty years on Greenland Radio. His voice had created expectations of a god. He turned out to be merely a human being, only slightly taller than I am.

The voices of other people mirror their appearance so precisely that once you've heard them speak, you're bound to recognize them when you see them. I spoke to Benedicte Clahn on the phone for one minute, and I'm sure that's her. She's wearing a blue suit, she has kept her hat on indoors, she's drinking mineral water, and she's as beautiful and skittish and unpredictable as a racehorse.

She's in her mid-sixties, with long reddish-brown hair partially pinned up under her hat. She is straight-backed, pale, with an aggressive chin and flaring nostrils. She's a complex person if I've ever seen one.

I have only the time it takes to cross the floor to make a few crucial decisions.

Several hours earlier I called her from a phone booth at Enghave Station. Her voice is deep, hoarse, almost lazy. But underneath the calm I think I can sense a volcano. Or maybe I'm hearing a mirage. After spending an hour at Berth 126, I don't trust my ears anymore.

When I tell her that I'm interested in her work in Berlin in 1946, she refuses to discuss it.

"It's absolutely out of the question. Completely impossible. It's a matter of military secrets, you know. And, by the way, it was Hamburg."

She is quite determined. But at the same time there is a glimmer of curiosity strictly reined in.

"I'm calling from Svanemolle Army Base," I say. "We're putting together a publication commemorating Danish participation in the Second World War."

She does an about-face.

"Are you really? So you're calling from the base. Are you from the Women's Corps, perhaps?"

"I have a master's in history. I'm editing this commemorative publication for the army's historical archives."

"Are you really? A woman! I'm pleased to hear that. I think I'd better speak to my father first. Do you know my father?"

I haven't had the pleasure. And if I'm going to meet him, I'd better hurry. According to my calculations, he must be about ninety. But I don't say this out loud. "General August Clahn," she says.

"We would like the publication to be a surprise." She understands perfectly.

"When would you be free to talk to me?"

"That will be difficult," she says. "I'll have to look at my calendar."

I wait. I can see my reflection in the steel wall of the phone booth. It shows a big fur hat. Dark hair underneath. Beneath the hair a smirking smile.

"I might just be able to find time this afternoon."

That's what I remember on my way through the cafe. As I look at her. A general's daughter. A friend of the military. But also a hoarse voice. The way she looks at the mechanic. An explosive person. I reach a decision.

"Smilla Jaspersen," I say. "And this is Captain Peter Fojl, Ph.D."

The mechanic freezes.

Benedicte Clahn laughs radiantly at him. "How exciting. Are you a historian, too?"

"One of the best military historians in Northern Europe," I say.

His right eye starts to twitch. I order coffee and raspberry tarts for him and myself. Benedicte Clahn orders another mineral water. She doesn't want any cake. She wants Dr. Peter Fojl's undivided attention.

"There's so much. I don't know what you're interested in."

I take the plunge. "Your collaboration with Johannes Loyen."

She nods. "You've spoken to him?"

"He and Captain Foil are close friends." She nods archly. That's natural. That one sheik would know the other.

"It's so long ago, you know."

The coffee arrives in a bistro coffeepot. It's hot and aromatic. Meeting the mechanic is what has lured me into the dangerous practice of drinking this damaging intoxicant.

He leaves his cup untouched. He hasn't yet grown accustomed to his academic distinction. He's sitting there looking down at his hands.

"It was in March of 1946. The Royal Air Force had taken over Dagmar House on Town Hall Square from the Germans in Copenhagen. I found out that they were looking for young Danish men and women who could speak German and English. My mother was Swiss. I had gone to school in Grindelwald. I'm bilingual. I was too young to join the Resistance. But I saw this as an opportunity to do something for Denmark."

She's talking to me. But everything is directed at the mechanic. A large part of her life has probably been directed toward men.

She laughs hoarsely. "To be quite honest, I had a boyfriend, a second lieutenant who had gone down there six months earlier. I wanted to be wherever he was. Women had to turn twenty-one within the first three months they were there. I was eighteen. And I wanted to leave at once. So I lied that I was three years older."

Maybe, I think to myself, this was also your chance to escape from Daddy General in a legal way.

"I was interviewed by a colonel in the blue-gray uniform of the RAF. There was also a test in English and German. And in reading Gothic German handwriting. They said they wanted to check my conduct during the war. They must not have done that, or they would have found out about my age."

The raspberry tart has a bottom layer of almond custard. It tastes of fruit, burnt almonds, and heavy cream. Combined with the surroundings, it is for me the quintessence of the middle and upper classes in Western civilization. The union of exquisitely sophisticated crowning achievements and a nervous, senselessly extravagant consumption.

"We took a special train to Hamburg. Of course, Germany was divided among the Allied powers. Hamburg was British. We worked and were housed in a large Hitler Jugend barracks. Count Goltz Barracks in Rahlstedt."

Being the untalented listeners that they are, most Danes cheat themselves out of experiencing a fascinating law of nature. The one now taking effect in Benedicte Claim, the transformation of the speaker the minute she becomes absorbed in her story.

"We were housed in double rooms with two beds across from the buildings where we worked. It was a large hall. We sat twelve at each table. We wore uniforms, khaki-colored battle dress with skirts, shoes, stockings, and a cape. We had the rank of sergeant in the British Army. At every table there was a Tischsortierer, a table monitor. At our table this was a female British captain."