Silent Refuge

by Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

  Onkel Hermann stayed with us another day. I can still see him and my mother sitting at our dining room table discussing our future. He was very concerned about our financial situation, and, as he had done in Alingsås, he offered his help. It was hard for me to understand that he felt it necessary to bring up the subject of money the day after my father had been buried, but the conversation did not have the same effect on my mother. She knew that money might become an issue and had already begun to worry. Even though many people came to visit us during the shiva, the seven days of mourning, our house seemed empty after Onkel Hermann left. He was unable to stay with us longer because Tante Ruth was sick. We found out later that she was seriously ill, suffering from cancer.

  After the shiva ended, my mother and I had to pick up the pieces of our lives. It was hard for me, but it must have been so much more difficult for my mother. She had lived with and for my father for nearly twenty-five years and almost her whole raison d’être was gone. The fact that she and I had never been really close further complicated the situation.

  My father’s colleagues at Nordiske Destillationsverker were shocked when they were told about his sudden death. He had never told anyone about his ongoing health problems. The company offered my mother a lifelong modest pension in exchange for the complete ownership of my father’s formulas, which she accepted. This small but steady income, combined with the interest on a small savings account, would at least enable us to make ends meet.

  Once again our lives were difficult. An ad in Aftenposten, Oslo’s principal newspaper, offered a part-time job for a fast typist to type manuscripts. I applied and was hired on the spot. From then on until the end of the school year, I spent every afternoon in the back of the bookstore, typing as fast as I could. (School started at 8:00 a.m. and finished at 2:30 p.m.) My typing improved considerably, and every Friday I was handed an envelope containing my payment, which made it all worthwhile.

  My mother spent most days at home and began to do knitting for friends and their families, for which she was paid small amounts of money. Although she had loved to knit, I think she didn’t enjoy it now that it was for a different purpose. She was without a doubt very lonely, particularly since I was gone all day and had homework to do when I came home. I did not have much patience for her, and she complained bitterly that I never had time for her. We settled into a strained coexistence.

  One day coming home on the train, my mother met Mrs. Guttmann, a Hungarian woman who had come to Norway that spring with her husband and two daughters, Susan and Marianne. They lived in a barrack a few stations away from us, and she and my mother promised each other they would stay in touch. Mrs. Guttmann spoke fluent German, and although she was somewhat older than my mother, the two quickly became friends. Both of them were going through hard times, and they found comfort in each other’s company.

  Since my mother could not bring herself to use the room in which my father had died, we decided to rent it out, which would augment our income. We let it be known in the Jewish community that there was a room for rent in a newly constructed house, and it was not long before we had a call from Dr. Martin Markus, who rented the room for his fiancée, Ruth. Her brief stay in our home benefited all three of us. Ruth was compassionate with my mother, and she became my friend and confidante. When she left to get married, we missed her sorely.

  The Guttmann family came one Sunday afternoon for coffee, and that was the first time I met them. Mrs. Guttmann, although younger than her husband, was obviously the spokesperson for her family and the one who gave the orders. Mr. Guttmann, in his late fifties, was a dour-looking man who contributed little to the conversation. Of the two daughters, Susan and Marianne, I immediately liked Susan better, although she was seven years my senior. Marianne was eighteen years old at the time, and she talked about going back to school as soon as her family could afford it, as she hated the radio factory where she was working at the time. Susan, who had been a secretary in Hungary, had already found a similar position in Oslo. She spoke and wrote several languages, and she very quickly mastered the Norwegian language as well. All four of the Guttmanns detested the barrack in which they lived. They had been promised better housing in the not-too-distant future.

  On May 17, 1948, I marched again in the students’ parade, this time as a blå russ (blue graduate), wearing a blue tasselled cap indicating that I would graduate from the business school. Even before graduation, I had interviewed for my first full-time job and had been hired by Ole Bull A/S, a medium-sized structural steel import company. I would be Ole Bull’s secretary, taking dictation in Norwegian and English.

  The evening before my first day of work, I attended a small party. Drinks were served, and since I was not used to drinking, the alcohol soon had an effect, making me happy and relaxed. When I came home, however, my room seemed to be spinning, and I did not sleep all night. How would I be able to work the next day, my first day on the job? Except for a drop of wine here and there, I have never had a drink since.

  I really enjoyed working at this job. Ole Bull was a very pleasant boss, patient and always ready to explain my work to me. It was not long before he had trained me to be the type of secretary he had been looking for. The office hours were from 9:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. The rest of the day was mine to do with as I pleased, a luxury I had not enjoyed in years. I began to see friends from the Jewish youth organization and frequently visited our friends the Meierans (formerly the Meiranovskys) with my mother.

  Susan Benyovitch (formerly Guttmann) and I took the same train to work every morning, and we became good friends. Little by little, she told me her story. She and her family had lived in hiding in Budapest during the war, thereby avoiding deportation. She had been engaged to be married, but her fiancé had been sent to work camps and then to a concentration camp. He survived, and he and Susan were married in Germany after the war. One year later, they divorced. Susan’s husband wanted to live in Palestine, but the Guttmanns, who were not Zionists, claimed that they could not manage without Susan’s help. She chose to stay with her parents.

  It was around that time that young men finally took some notice of me, and I had a few dates. I met a young gentile Norwegian who was a teacher and a gentle, compassionate person. We went out a few times, but when he asked me to meet his mother, I backed off. I did not need any more complications in my life. I was not a popular girl; I was too shy and serious. I also lacked self-confidence and thought of myself as being unattractive because of my somewhat protruding teeth. I had seen a dentist soon after my family returned from Sweden. The dentist quoted an exorbitant price for new braces and stated that I’d have to wear them for three years. At the age of sixteen this was an eternity, and I refused. Nevertheless, an old photograph of me reveals a smiling, pleasant-looking young girl with brown, wavy hair and a rather nice figure — all in all quite ordinary.

  In Norway in 1948, we were still short of almost everything, including clothing and material. I was, however, able to get hold of cloth for two dresses and was soon the proud owner of one beige, brown-trimmed “new look” dress and a brown dress with a fitted waistline. These were the only nice dresses I owned for a long time. I had also splurged on a pair of platform shoes to go with my new outfits. I was ready for bigger things.

  In November 1948, the mourning period for my father was over and I was finally able to go to a dance at the Jødisk Ungdomsforening with my friend Celia. Even I had to admit that I looked quite nice in my new dress and my new rimless glasses. When we entered the hall, I noticed a few new faces and assumed that they belonged to some of the new immigrants who had arrived the previous year. I was having a wonderful time with my friends, whom I had not seen much lately, and enjoyed the music and the dancing. Suddenly, a young man I had never seen before stood before me and asked somewhat gruffly, “Do you want to dance?”

  Standing before me was a slight young man with an intense face and a head full of curly brown-black hair. He to
ld me his name — Stefan Szilagyi, that he was originally from Budapest and that he was a new immigrant to Norway. That evening he did not leave my side, and when the music ended, he offered to take me home. I warned him that this would involve a train ride, so he took me to the station instead and promised to call me soon.

  And call me he did. For the first time in my life, I was dating someone on a regular basis. In the beginning, I was not quite sure if I liked my new friend, but he was persistent, and I soon came to enjoy his company. We went to films and restaurants, and on Sunday afternoons we often went dancing. Although Stefan had been in Norway for less than two years, he had already been involved in a profitable business venture with Hungary. At the time we met, he was able to afford the kind of entertainment that had always been beyond my reach. My two nice dresses were put to good use.

  During the war, Stefan had been in Hungarian forced-labour camps and had spent the final six weeks prior to liberation in Mauthausen concentration camp. There he became seriously ill with typhoid fever but fortunately managed to survive.

  When the war was over, Stefan made his way to Budapest, only to find that most of his family had perished. His father had died when Stefan was sixteen years old, and now his mother, too, was gone, along with many other family members. An uncle and an aunt, both on his mother’s side, had survived. However, after a brief stay in the city of his birth, Stefan decided that staying in Hungary was out of the question. Antisemitism remained rampant, and he thoroughly hated his surroundings.

  Stefan felt he had no choice but to return to Germany, where life was chaotic to say the least, but, along with other young survivors, he made a life for himself. He attended university in a town called Erlangen and lived for a while in a home for elderly people in Nuremberg, Germany. On an errand to Bamberg, he and his friend Otto Moses happened to meet a Polish Jew who had astonishing news: Norway had opened its doors to four hundred displaced persons, and all they needed to do to be considered was to give their names and addresses to the proper authorities. Although this seemed like a big joke to the two young men, they registered and then promptly forgot the whole thing. To their enormous surprise, they were contacted about ten days later and asked to pack for their journey to Norway, a country they knew nothing about.

  The winter of 1948–1949 passed quickly. I was attending night school twice a week, learning German and French shorthand, and Stefan often met me after classes for a cup of coffee. Although I was by now head over heels in love with him, I doubted that our relationship would have a future. First, I believed that Stefan did not think about the future, and second and very important, we were so different. We grew up in different countries, spoke a different language in more ways than one and came with different “packages.” Stefan’s cynical smile often upset me, as did his dark humour, which I could not understand. Yet we kept on seeing each other.

  That winter, my mother went to Copenhagen to visit some of the people she had become friendly with in Malmö, and then went on to Stockholm to see Tante Ruth and Onkel Hermann. Tante Ruth was very ill by then and my mother realized that Ruth did not have long to live and that this would be the last time they would see each other. Indeed, Tante Ruth died in May 1949. I took two days off work and arrived in Stockholm in time for the funeral. I cannot describe how sad I was for Onkel Hermann that day. He had neither children nor relatives. I could not imagine what life would be like for him. I would soon find out.

  In the meantime, Stefan and I were still a couple. My mother liked him very much, as did Beks and John Meieran and Jack and Helena Ganz. Jack and Helena were now living in their small apartment with their baby daughter, Irene, and in the summer of 1949, they arranged for two little girls from an orphanage in France to spend two months with them despite their cramped living conditions. After visiting them one afternoon with Stefan, I saw Stefan putting something into Helena’s apron before we left. He had given her money for the girls even though he had by now spent his windfall and had little money to spare. I was very moved by his generosity, as was Helena.

  I can no longer remember exactly why Stefan and I broke up that summer, except that we both realized that the relationship was not going where we wanted it to. We each had our own goals, but they were different and conflicting. To get away from my problems, I attended the yearly Jewish conference, and although I enjoyed it more than I had before, I kept thinking of Stefan and wondering how he was.

  My work at Ole Bull A/S was going well, and I was becoming a proficient secretary in the process. I took dictation in Norwegian and English, and although I did not want to leave my present employ any time soon, I kept a lookout in the newspaper for a position where I could make use of my German language skills. But Norwegians were still not interested in doing business with the country that had occupied their own, and such requirements were practically non-existent at the time.

  My mother had meanwhile been in constant touch with Onkel Hermann, so I was not surprised when she asked me one day if I would mind if she went away with him to a hotel in the mountains for a few weeks. I was truly happy for her; she needed a vacation in the worst way. What I was not prepared for was a letter I received from my mother soon after their departure telling me that she and Onkel Hermann had decided to get married in December. I was shocked. I had seen the same man at the grave of his wife of more than thirty years, grief-stricken and inconsolable, only two months earlier. How could he decide to get married again so quickly? In less than a minute, my feelings for Onkel Hermann changed completely. I was too young to understand that life goes on; I only knew that I was deeply hurt. My thoughts were completely jumbled. On the one hand, I resented Onkel Hermann’s decision, but on the other hand, I had no problem with my mother’s. She had been alone for more than a year and a half, and ever since Tante Ruth had died, it had occurred to me that she and Onkel Hermann would eventually marry. But not so soon!

  Feeling lonely and abandoned, I read the letter over and over again. Thoughts whirled in my head. I knew that this situation would also drastically change my own life. For one thing, I would have to give up our apartment, since I would not be able to afford it on my own. How would I be able to find a small place to live in light of the continuing severe housing shortage? And although my mother and I were not particularly close, I would certainly miss her company.

  A couple of weeks later, the two returned from their vacation. Since he was a sensitive and astute person, Onkel Hermann immediately knew that something was amiss. Exactly what the problem was he did not know. He assured me that, although he was sixteen years older than my mother, he was in perfect health. In case he ever got seriously ill, my mother would not have to become his nurse as he had the means to make alternative arrangements. Always generous, he now proposed to pay the tuition for any university of my choice, be it in Scandinavia or elsewhere in Europe. Should I, however, prefer to live in Stockholm, he would gladly rent a small apartment for me as his own was too small for three people.

  If anything, these choices left me more confused than ever. Although my mother’s marriage was not imminent, I felt I had some very serious decisions to make, and I became ill thinking about my muddled future. Stefan reappeared one day without knowing anything of what had happened in the interval, but not even his presence could alleviate my depression. I therefore decided to take a few days off work and go somewhere quiet to sort out my feelings. Lillehammer was just such a place. I stayed at a small inn and spent the days roaming in the mountains surrounding the small town sometimes just sitting on a rock and enjoying the scenery below me. It was still warm, and the lovely clean air did wonders for my frayed nerves.

  My brief vacation was almost over when Stefan unexpectedly arrived in Lillehammer. He had found out from my mother where I was staying and came to be with me for the last two days before I went back to Oslo. It was then that we both realized that we really did not want to be apart, no matter what. And when Stefan suggested that it might be for th
e best if we got married, everything fell into place and I was happy to say yes.

  My mother, I am sure, breathed a big sigh of relief when we came home and told her our decision. Beks and John were also delighted at the prospect of our marriage, as were our other friends. We bought gold rings, and, as was the custom in Norway, I wore mine on my left hand, signifying that I was engaged. Since our wedding would be very small, there was not much planning to do, and the next few months just flew by. I was happy and could not wait for the day when Stefan and I would not have to say goodbye to each other in the evenings. I wanted to be with him always.

  There was one thing Stefan wanted to do before we got married — change his difficult Hungarian name to a name that would be easier to pronounce. Coincidentally, his ancestors’ names had been Rosenberg, the same as my family’s name, before they changed it to the Hungarian name Szilagyi. It was a standing joke that both of us would change our names when we got married, but we did not know that it was not a simple affair to get rid of one name and adopt another. We were given a book of names that the proper authorities would consider. We chose the name Stagre, only to be refused — not Norwegian enough. We ended up with Stenge (meaning “to close”) and today I find it amusing that no one in Israel, where much of my family live, can make sense of this surname. It is also funny that when I am in Norway and, for instance, have to leave a message with my name, I often have to spell it. So much for a simple name in Norway, let alone in Canada or Israel.

  As planned, Onkel Hermann and my mother got married early in December 1949 and barely made it back from their honeymoon in time for my and Stefan’s wedding on December 22. A snowstorm was raging outside when I arrived at the synagogue with my mother and her new husband. The plan was that Beks and John would pick up Stefan on their way to the wedding ceremony, but the bad weather delayed them so much that my mother began pacing the floor outside the sanctuary. When the three of them finally arrived about half an hour late, they were upset and nervous. To top it off, Stefan had rented a tuxedo and was visibly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting outfit. In spite of everything, the ceremony eventually began, with John as Stefan’s best man and Onkel Hermann and my mother at my side under the chuppah, the wedding canopy. I listened to the chanting of the cantor without really hearing him, but when Stefan put the ring on my finger with a somewhat shaking hand, I knew without a doubt that the two of us were right for each other.