Silent Refuge

by Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

  As soon as I received my ticket for the crossing to Oslo, Herr Nussbaum began looking for someone who was scheduled to sail to Norway on the same ship as I was and who would be willing to keep an eye on me during the trip. Herr Stern, a middle-aged German Jewish businessman, fit the bill — that is, at least he was booked on the same ship as I was. That he seemed to have little or no experience with young children was another matter.

  It was a sad little girl who parted from the Nussbaums in early January 1939. They left me at the pier in the care of Herr Stern, and the two of us boarded the ship that would take us to Norway. I remember very little of our voyage, except that I was lonely and frightened. Herr Stern’s cabin was on a different deck than mine, so he checked on me once or twice a day, and, for the rest of the day, I mostly stayed in my cabin reading. On the second day of our trip, I ventured on deck to look for Herr Stern in his cabin. The wind was blowing, and I struggled with the door leading to a different part of the ship. I could not open it, but another passenger came to my rescue and then addressed me in a language I did not know. Fortunately, I did not get seasick during the voyage. On the third day, we arrived in Oslo.

  It was a cold, dark winter day, such as you find in the North in the middle of winter. I was nervous and apprehensive. Not only was I arriving in a new country, but I knew that my life with my parents would be very different than it had been until now. My parents had told me that we were poor now, so I was wondering what that meant. It would be the very first time the three of us lived by ourselves, without servants or relatives. Would Mutti still be impatient with me? What would school be like in Norway? A million thoughts whirred through my head while I looked for my parents as the ship approached the wharf.

  Finally I saw them, bundled up in their winter clothes, eagerly looking for me. A great feeling of relief surged through me. I thought everything would be all right.

  Norway on the Cusp

  At first my life in Norway was totally confusing. Everything was different from what I had been accustomed to. I slept on the Murphy bed in the living room, instead of in my own room. My mother did the food shopping, cooking and cleaning. Walking through the streets of Oslo, I heard a language I did not understand.

  It was imperative that I start school as soon as possible, since I had missed more than four months already. So a few days after I arrived in Oslo, my mother took me to a neighbourhood school and tried as best she could to explain the situation to the principal. The principal suggested that I start Grade 4, which in fact was the appropriate grade for my age (ten). I would just listen in the beginning and do as much homework as I could. The principal assured my mother that I would learn the language in no time at all because I was still very young. Little did he know just how quickly I would speak and act like any other Norwegian little girl! My mother also enrolled me in cheder, Jewish classes attended after regular school. I met Jewish children my age there, and one of them, Celia Century, became my lifelong friend.

  My first day of school was quite an event. All the girls in the class wanted to be my friend; I was a celebrity, a girl who could not speak their language. But it was Else who became my best friend. Every afternoon, she came to our apartment and we did our homework together. Since there was no other way to communicate, I had to try to speak to her in Norwegian. With Else’s encouragement, it took only about three months until I was able to speak Norwegian fluently, without a trace of a German accent. It was not long before I refused to speak German to my parents in public, such as on streetcars or in stores. I was doing well in school and was soon a better student than my mentor Else.

  On their many business trips to Norway, my parents had befriended the Meiranovsky family. Now that we were settled, the Meiranovskys, despite their age difference, became my parents’ closest friends. Moritz and Rosa Meiranovsky had five adult sons. One son, Elias, lived in the United States, and four sons — two of whom were married — lived in Oslo. The youngest, Sigmund, who was nineteen years old, was my hero. To Sigmund, I was the little sister he never had, and he was very proud of me, mainly because of my scholastic achievements. He taught me to ski and took me on hikes in the mountainous areas around Oslo. I also became very close to his brother John, who had recently married Beks. John and Beks lived in a lovely new apartment, and I was always welcome in their home.

  The Meiranovskys also introduced me to a language that was entirely new to me — Yiddish, which was spoken mostly by East European Jews. The majority of the Jews in Norway (only about seventeen hundred souls) had originally come from East European countries, and the older generation still spoke Yiddish at home. Yiddish is a colourful, expressive and melodious language, which was rarely, if ever, heard in Germany at the time.

  The descendants of Rosa and Moritz Meiranovsky (later changed to Meieran) played a very important role in my life. Sigmund left Oslo on April 11, 1940, to join the Norwegian army in an unoccupied area. It was not long, however, before Norway had to surrender completely to the Germans. Sigmund escaped to Sweden and made his way from there to the United States. He decided to get back into the fight against the Germans and went to Toronto, where he joined a contingent of Norwegians who were training to become airmen at a place called Little Norway. Upon completion of their training, the airmen went to England, from where they flew bombing missions over Germany. Sigmund was shot down and taken prisoner of war. He managed to hide the fact that he was Jewish and tried to escape numerous times, unfortunately with little success. After liberation, he returned to Norway for a short while and then immigrated to the United States.

  During World War ii, John and Beks fled to Sweden. They returned to Oslo in 1945. After the war, Beks and John were my family’s closest friends. When I got married, this friendship extended to my husband.

  The summer of 1939, my first summer in Norway, was a calm and quite carefree time — at least for me. My parents and I moved into a larger apartment in an adjoining building on Kirkeveien road, in which I had my own bedroom. Although she occasionally lost her patience, my mother seemed to adjust quite well. My father’s health was better than it had been for a long time, despite the fact that he had a festering wound on his back, which refused to heal because of his diabetes. No one knew about this problem except the family doctor, my mother and me. The wound needed a new dressing every day, which my mother tirelessly took care of.

  The days were long and bright, and for a ten-year-old girl there was always something to do. I played hopscotch with my friends on the sidewalk outside our building and often went to see our new neighbour, Fru (Mrs.) Prager, when she was at home. Herr and Fru Prager, in their late fifties, were Jewish and childless and seemed to enjoy my visits. During the day, Fru Prager often helped out in her mother’s candy store. Our friends Beks and John lived very close by, and I would walk over to their apartment in the late afternoon to say hello. On Sundays, we would sometimes take the ferry to Bygdø, a peninsula in the Oslo Fjord, to go swimming. That was always the highlight of the week.

  In the fall of 1939, I began Grade 5 and felt quite grown up. Norwegian newspapers and radio broadcasts were full of news about the war in Europe. But it was far away and did not concern me — or so I thought. My parents were in constant touch by letters with our family in Cologne. They were still living in the house on Marienburger Strasse. Onkel Gustav was still waiting for his visa. Realizing the danger that our family was in, my mother urged my aunt and uncle to let Elfriede come to Norway while they waited for their visa. This was an extremely difficult decision for Onkel Gustav and Tante Selma. It was one thing to part from your only child for a few months, knowing that you would see each other again, but quite another to send your daughter off all by herself, while you were unable to leave and did not know what lay ahead.

  Late in 1939, Elfriede also arrived in Oslo by ship, without her family, as I had before her. The following months were not easy for her. Although happy to be with me, she was often homesick for her parents
. She did not start school because my parents hoped that my aunt and uncle would receive their visa soon and come to Norway to pick up Elfriede on their way to the United States. It would be more than three months until they arrived.

  By the beginning of April 1940, the threat of war was palpable even in Norway. Almost by a miracle, Tante Selma and Onkel Gustav received their visa and came to Oslo. We were happy to finally be together again, but we knew it could not last. By then, both Elfriede and I were eleven years old and understood that a long separation might be ahead of us. The day of departure came all too soon. My uncle and my father were inconsolable the evening before the departure. They had always been very close, and they feared that they would never meet again.

  On April 4, we accompanied my aunt and uncle and Elfriede to a ship. They went on board only to be told that they would have to disembark and take a train to Bergen, where the ship would meet them. No explanation was given. What could this mean? That evening, we were all upset and apprehensive, and after a sleepless night we once again said our goodbyes, this time at the train station. Despite the delay, they managed to get away in time.

  Four days later, the war broke out in Norway.

  Tracks in the Snow

  By April 8, 1940, my father knew that a German attack on Norway was imminent. Before going to work that morning, he asked my mother to go to our bank and withdraw a considerable amount of money in order to be prepared for any eventuality. However, my mother decided to postpone the banking until the following day because she had other plans, a decision that would prove to have very serious consequences.

  Norway was ill-prepared for an attack. There were no bomb shelters to speak of, and the air raid sirens that woke us in the middle of the following night caught the population of Oslo by surprise. Although my father knew that the makeshift bomb shelter in the basement of our building would not protect us from a direct hit, he nevertheless insisted that we join the other residents there. It was dark and crowded in the relatively small room, and everyone was nervous and frightened. Our peace had been short-lived. What would become of us? Where could we go?

  My father knew with absolute certainty that we had to get away. During the past year, he had on two occasions visited the German consulate. I am not sure why, but I know that he had lost his temper both times he had been there. No doubt our name was blacklisted at the consulate, and we could be easily located. As former German citizens, albeit declared “stateless” (citizens of no country) by that time, we were even more vulnerable.

  In the cellar during the air raid, my father formulated a vague plan: he would ask someone at Nordiske, his workplace, to drive us out of the city. We went upstairs as soon as the all-clear signal sounded, and my father made his phone call and actually convinced one of the salespeople at the company to agree to his plan. We immediately started to pack, ensuring we took an adequate supply of insulin and syringes for my father, who injected himself with insulin two or three times a day. We packed only a few pieces of clothing for each of us, since we had no idea of how we would travel, for how long or where we would end up.

  While waiting for my father’s colleague, my parents realized that, in addition to all our other problems, we had insufficient funds. Despite the early hour, my mother rang the doorbell of Herr and Fru Prager. They lent us a few hundred kroner, the Norwegian currency, which was not a large sum of money and did little to alleviate my parents’ concerns.

  It was still early morning when my father’s colleague arrived in his small car. War was in the air, and many people had already taken to the roads leading to the countryside, where they felt it would be safer. In Oslo, there had been no snow, but when we got farther away from the city, it became apparent that winter had not lost its grip. The lakes were still frozen, and there were icy patches on the road. After a couple of hours’ drive, the car stopped at an inn. My father’s co-worker told us that he had to return to Oslo to look after his own family. He had done us an enormous favour under difficult circumstances, and we were forever grateful to him.

  We spent the rest of the day at the country inn, which gradually filled to capacity. Everyone spoke to everyone else about the war. My parents soon realized that the other people in the day room had noticed us and were beginning to wonder about us. Not only were we foreigners, but my parents’ accent betrayed our origin. In a country that was under attack by the Germans, this was a most undesirable position to be in. So my father decided that he had better tell the truth about us, who and what we were and that we were in urgent need of a safe place to stay.

  Since there were only about seventeen hundred Jewish people in Norway at the time, many Norwegians we encountered then and later during the war had never even met a Jew. Nevertheless, in the tense atmosphere of the little inn, people seemed to understand our plight, and a man came forward and told us that he knew of an electrician in a remote village who might be willing to take us in to augment his income. The name of the village was Rogne, located in the Valdres region.

  Although we had never heard of this area, we then had a destination, a goal. The following day, we were able to get rides on a truck, a milk wagon and a horse and carriage, arriving late in the day in Rogne. Since the electrician, Nils Granli, and his wife, Alma, were well known in the village, we were directed to their house. A steep dirt road led up to a comfortable-looking, green painted house above the highway.

  Alma had obviously seen our approach through the window and opened the door before we even had a chance to knock. When we told her that we had been sent by one of Nils’s customers, she immediately let us in.

  At the time, Nils was approximately forty-five years old. Alma was a few years his junior, and they had a little girl, then about a year and a half. We never found out how this lovely, cultured woman ended up in such a remote place as Rogne and married to Nils. She had been a governess in France when she was younger, and she was surprised and delighted when she heard that my father also spoke French. The common language immediately forged a bond between the two of them.

  We explained to Nils and Alma that we were Jews originally from Germany, yet they both readily agreed to rent us a room in their house with kitchen privileges. I don’t think that they quite realized how our presence in their home put them in grave danger. Nils did understand, however, that our situation warranted the protection of the lensmann (police officer) in the village, whom he considered completely trustworthy. He went to see him immediately and returned with the assurance that the lensmann would not give us away and would do everything in his power to protect us. We had no choice but to trust him.

  Alma’s life was a difficult one. As we discovered somewhat later, Nils was an alcoholic, with the unpredictable temper and behaviour of an addict. We stayed away from him when he drank, but Alma had no such option. For this reason, I believe that our presence in their home might have been somewhat of a comfort to Alma and a distraction from her worries. Nils and Alma were not farmers, but they kept a cow and a pig in the barn adjacent to their house. The cow supplied our milk, and each Christmas Nils and Alma slaughtered a pig. There was never any shortage of food in their household.

  That first night, we gathered around the radio and listened to the news. The war was raging on several fronts, but it seemed to us that the situation was desperate and that it would not be long until Norway, too, would be under Hitler’s rule.

  The following day brought the war close to Rogne. Around noon, the air raid siren sounded in the village, and all of us in the house, as well as the neighbours, ran into the dense forest nearby. Suddenly, an airplane appeared overhead, and before we realized fully what was happening, the sound of gunfire tore through the air. I looked up for a minute and saw to my horror the face of the German pilot as he flew low to the ground. And just as suddenly, I was lying on the ground with my father’s body protecting me, while he ordered everyone else to lie down wherever they were. By some miracle, only one person was injured. That
day my father became my hero forever, and he gained the respect of all the people who were with us in the forest.

  Later that day, my parents went for a walk along the highway. A German plane flew overhead, and when the pilot saw them, he began shooting. Only my father’s presence of mind saved their lives: they both jumped into the ditch next to the highway and escaped injury.

  That night, some friends and neighbours of the Granlis suggested that we all move to an area higher up in the mountains. Equipped with knapsacks filled with provisions, we set out during the night, walking for miles through the deep snow. Besides all our other concerns, my mother and I worried about whether my father would be able to keep up the pace. But as usual, Vati did not complain, and eventually we all reached our destination, a small cabin, where we spent the rest of the night and part of the next day. Then word reached us that the fighting in Norway was over and that the Norwegians had capitulated to the Germans. We all returned to Rogne.

  Now that the fighting was officially over, I was allowed to play with the other children on the road below the Granlis’ house. This road was also the main highway in the area. I did not understand the dialect of the region, known as New Norwegian, but the games children play everywhere are similar, and after the tension of the last week, it felt wonderful to run around with my new playmates. Schools were still closed because of the war, although the German occupation was now a fait accompli.

  A few days later, on a balmy spring day with the sun melting the snow on the road, I was again playing with my friends. Suddenly, a jeep with four German officers approached. Imagine my horror when they stopped and asked me in German for directions to the police officer in the village. German was my mother tongue, which I spoke with my parents every day. But now it was spoken by the enemy, and I knew that if I answered in German, the officers would immediately become suspicious. How could a little girl in a mountain village speak German so well? With my heart almost jumping out of my chest, I pretended not to understand, and they drove off. Although I was just an eleven-year-old girl, I think those few minutes ended what was left of my childhood.