Silent Refuge

by Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

  Our next stop was Yalta, the beautiful resort city on the Black Sea, also famous because of the Yalta Conference that took place there at the end of World War ii. Our hotel was located near the beach, which was crowded at this time of the year, mostly with Russian vacationers.

  We flew to Leningrad (now Saint Petersburg) three days later and arrived there at 10:30 at night in brilliant sunshine. I had not experienced the midnight sun for a long time, and the scene was almost surreal. Leningrad is the most amazing city, beautiful beyond belief with its bridges, palaces and the famous Hermitage. A hovercraft took us to Catherine the Great’s summer palace, where we spent hours visiting its ornate rooms and gardens, and the following day, we spent a few hours at the Hermitage.

  The following day we left for Oslo, where we spent three wonderful days. We walked the familiar streets, visited with Beks and her sister Hanna and bought trolls and lusekofter (hand-knitted Norwegian sweaters) for the children. I promised myself that my next visit would be much longer.

  In November that year, we left for Florida for a four-month stay. What I remember of that winter 1989–1990 was that we lived day to day. On good days, when Stefan felt well, we were happy, and on bad days, we hoped that the next day would be better.

  The following winter, Stefan finally underwent a second procedure for his tic douloureux, this time at the Montreal Neurological Institute. Dr. Prokrupa was more concerned about eliminating Stefan’s pain than preserving the function of his left eye when performing the radio-frequency procedure, and the outcome was a complete success. From the moment I saw Stefan in his room at the hospital following the procedure, I knew he was no longer in pain. Even today we are still grateful for Dr. Prokrupa’s intervention.

  In the spring of 1991, many members of the Meieran family came to Montreal on their way to Ottawa, where they were to attend Renée’s daughter Linn’s graduation. I had spent a day with Linn in Montreal during the preceding winter and found her to be a lovely young woman. She was majoring in journalism and had big plans, as most young people do. Now that she had accomplished the first step on her journey, her family had come to wish her well. Beks stayed with us, Renée and Erik at Ruby Foo’s Hotel. Linn’s father, her younger half-brother and her other grandmother had gone straight to Ottawa.

  Helen, Murray and their children came to Montreal to meet Beks, Renée and Erik, and on that Sunday morning, all the grandchildren and their parents came to our place for brunch. What fun we had! I had bought the kids presents in honour of this get-together. Our visitors, including Beks, who was seventy-nine years old at the time, spoke English. I was so happy that day, having my old friends meet my family at long last. Stefan and I promised to attend Beks’s eightieth birthday in Oslo the following year.

  Motti’s bar mitzvah took place in March 1992, and we celebrated Stefan’s seventieth birthday in June 1992. Stefan’s birthday signalled the beginning of his retirement.

  In November that year, Marvin and Gail separated. I felt terribly sorry for Marvin and the children, who suffered tremendously under the strain. Ashi was only four years old and very attached to his abba (father) and his siblings, especially to Shooshoo. The boys had gotten used to their new mother and loved her. Gail was the only mother Shooshoo knew. Ashi was to live with Gail and spend every other weekend at Marvin’s house. Visiting rights had been drawn up for the other children. Many difficult and painful situations arose in the aftermath of the separation, which naturally affected all our lives.

  The Medal

  Marvin had often urged me to get in touch with Yad Vashem in Jerusalem to apply for a medal for Einar Wellén, who had risked his life to rescue my parents and me during the war. For one reason or another, I had never acted on it, but I realized one day that the years were going by and we were not getting any younger. I wrote my first letter to Yad Vashem on June 1, 1994, and then waited. Months went by, and finally, in September of 1994, a letter arrived from Yad Vashem. The Yad Vashem staff asked me to supply information about Einar’s life, as well as my own, during the many years since the war. Had he saved other Jewish lives? How old was he in 1943? My story would have to be notarized either by a rabbi or a notary. I did not waste a day; that same evening I sat down at my computer and rewrote the story in accordance with the requested format. I made an appointment with the rabbi at the Beth Ora synagogue, who signed my application. The rabbi informed me that it would take at least a year for Yad Vashem to process my request. Why was I so apprehensive?

  In February 1995, I received a letter from Yad Vashem acknowledging receipt of my testimony. My file had now been placed on the agenda of the Commission for the Designation of the Righteous. The letter urged patience, since many files were waiting to be examined. By May, nearly one year since I had first contacted Yad Vashem, there was still no news. Yet another inquiry was sent back to me with a brief notation from Dr. M. Paldiel, who was then the Director of the Department of the Righteous, indicating that my file was currently on the agenda of the commission and that I would be advised shortly of its decision.

  I went to Norway that summer, June 1995. It was a wonderful trip, which included revisiting Buahaugen for the first time since I had been there with my parents during the war. However, I found Einar Wellén in poor health, and Yad Vashem had not yet granted my request for a medal for him. He was suffering from unexplained pains, and it was evident that he had become somewhat forgetful. It was also apparent that he was taking a great deal of medication to relieve his pain, which could explain his memory lapses. Yet his family blamed his condition on nerves; I had very serious doubts. It was while visiting Buahaugen that I told Marit, Einar’s wife and my dear friend, that I had applied to Yad Vashem for a medal for Einar, but that I did not yet know what the outcome would be.

  After this trip to Norway, in August 1995, I once again wrote to Yad Vashem expressing my concern about Einar Wellén’s deteriorating health and my fear that he might be suffering from Alzheimer’s and would soon be unable to attend a ceremony in his honour. Fortunately, my diagnosis was wrong, but he became seriously ill that fall and was near death. Einar was seventy-one years old when I wrote my first letter to Yad Vashem. Despite the fact that I had been under the impression that he was in good health, I was concerned and impatient from the very first day I mailed my letter to Jerusalem.

  I received no reply, and by October I was becoming frantic. During my frequent phone calls to Einar and Marit, Einar always sounded well and happy to hear from me. His pain was said to be due to a healing rib fracture from a fall while skiing. I was doubtful but said nothing of course. My old friend Celia, who lives in Jerusalem, contacted Yad Vashem and was told that my file would come before the commission in November. Yet another letter to Dr. Paldiel produced no clarification.

  An opportunity presented itself in the person of Josi Kersen. Josi is my grandchildren’s aunt and was Lily’s youngest sister. She made aliyah with the rest of her family when she was twelve years old, went to school in Israel and subsequently served in the Israeli army. After being discharged, she came back to North America, living and working in New York for a number of years. Now she was on her way back to Israel, this time to remain. She came to Montreal for the High Holidays in the fall of 1995, and before she left, I asked her to look into the situation at Yad Vashem. As a Hebrew-speaking person, she should be able to get accurate information.

  And that she did. Only a few days after Josi arrived in Israel, a fax came with the news that the commission had approved my request on October 29. I felt so exhilarated, as though I had received a most wonderful gift. My whole family shared my excitement as we waited for the written confirmation from Yad Vashem.

  Stefan and I were to leave for Florida on November 12 to spend the winter months there. I had spoken to Einar and Marit about three weeks earlier and had planned to call them from Florida as soon as we were settled.

  The Saturday before we were scheduled to leave, I found a mess
age on my answering machine from Marit. My heart sank. She had never called me before, and I feared the worst. Marit’s calm voice answered the phone. She thanked me for my last letter — I was holding my breath — and then she quietly told me that Einar had had two serious operations on his stomach, one day after another, on Monday and Tuesday. On Tuesday, they had, in fact, almost lost him. He was now in critical condition, drifting in and out of consciousness. They would not know for ten days whether cancer was the reason for the large bleeding ulcer that had been found. I was devastated.

  For the next three or four weeks, the news was bad. Einar did not seem to improve. He was still sleeping most of the day and when he was awake he did not make much sense. I kept in touch as best I could, by phone and then by fax. I will always be grateful to Nina, Einar and Marit’s daughter, for keeping me informed almost every second day.

  And then, finally, Einar’s condition improved. One of Marit’s concerns, now that he was recovering, was to provide him with as much stimulation as possible. With this in mind, she suggested that a letter from me might serve this purpose. To my great surprise and joy, shortly after I wrote to Einar, I received a handwritten letter from him by fax. I could hardly believe my eyes. There was no question that, by some miracle, Einar was recovering. The biopsy that had been taken during the surgery was negative, and his prognosis was now excellent.

  His family, particularly Marit, Nina and her husband, Knut, gathered around him to entice him to eat, and Knut, always selfless, spent much time walking the halls and staircases of the hospital with Einar to strengthen his wasted muscles. On Friday, December 8, Einar returned home, albeit weak and thin. Even his doctors marvelled at the speed of his recovery, which they attributed to the excellent physical condition Einar had been in prior to his illness.

  On December 11, 1995, I received the long-awaited letter from Yad Vashem. Einar would receive a medal, a certificate and the title of “Righteous Among the Nations” for having been instrumental in saving my life during the war. The same day, Marvin, my son, faxed me a letter he had written to Einar to congratulate him and to explain to him the meaning of the honour he was to receive. The thought behind the letter and the letter itself moved me to tears. And if that were not enough for one day, later that afternoon Einar called to say hello. He, too, had received the letter from Yad Vashem. I realized immediately that he did not fully understand the meaning of this honour. He sounded weak and tired at the end of our conversation. Instead of trying to explain the matter to him on the phone, I wrote him another letter that day. As well, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington sent him a letter of congratulations, upon my request. The letter was beautifully worded and could not leave any doubt as to the significance of the distinction he would be awarded.

  At that point, I had no intentions of returning to Norway for the recognition ceremony, which I presumed would be a small affair arranged by the Israeli Embassy in Oslo. But on the morning following my conversation with Einar, Stefan made a startling announcement: “This is a major event,” he said. “Not only are you going to the ceremony, but so will I.” And once I thought about it, I knew that he was right. Marvin suggested that Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) on April 16, 1996, would be a most appropriate day for such a ceremony; I should get in touch with the Israeli ambassador in Norway and ask his opinion in this matter. That same evening, I faxed a letter to Ambassador Michael Shiloh. The following morning, lo and behold, a reply arrived from Oslo. The ambassador concurred: Yom Hashoah would be a suitable day on which to hold this ceremony, hopefully in conjunction with the Jewish community in Oslo. The friendly tone of this letter added to my growing excitement.

  A few days later, Marvin had big news: he would travel with us to Norway. He had always shown a great deal of interest in my background. His decision to visit Norway with us seemed only right.

  Marvin was so intrigued with the events that, unbeknownst to me, he contacted the Canadian Jewish News. Would they be interested in this story? To my great surprise, I had a call one day from David Lazarus, a journalist at the paper. He had many questions. I explained to him that all the information he would require was contained in a speech I had already written for the ceremony. Details about my background in Germany could be found in the first part of my autobiography, which I also promised to fax him. I did not hear from him again and had no idea whether the newspaper would consider my story newsworthy. Stefan and I went home from Florida to Montreal in January 1996 for a few days. At that time, I contacted David Lazarus, who told me that the article about me would be in the paper either that week or the following one.

  I was in the office when Stefan called to tell me that the article was in the paper. Motti had already heard about it from a schoolmate, and he had immediately called Stefan. I came home late that day and had barely finished reading the article when the phone rang. Someone I did not know, by the name of Cohen, was on the line. He had seen the article and was very interested. Could I explain more about where this had taken place and the circumstances of the rescue? I realized soon the reason for his special interest. His daughter, Libby, was living in Bergen, Norway, and was in Montreal visiting her parents. A long conversation between Libby and me followed. She promised to keep in touch with the Jewish community in Oslo to find out when the ceremony would take place, and if possible she would attend.

  At the end of January, Stefan and I returned to Florida, where I found two phone messages from Ambassador Shiloh. When I returned his call, I spoke to his secretary, Chanan Goder, who was my contact at the Israeli Embassy in Norway. He immediately impressed me as being a kind and gentle person. He suggested I call Ken Harris, a member of the Mosaiske Trossamfund (Jewish community), who would be in charge of the Yom Hashoah arrangements and would be able to give me further details regarding the ceremony.

  Ken Harris, an English Jew married to a Norwegian woman, began to outline for me his format for the recognition ceremony, which would include only two speakers — the Israeli Ambassador and the honouree. The ceremony was going to take place in the community centre, and there would be no reception after the ceremony. I suggested that I would like to have the opportunity to also say a few words, which resulted in a long back-and-forth discussion before he agreed to let me speak. The ceremony was also moved to the synagogue and grew to include a video presentation.

  There was another matter to deal with. In my conversations with Einar, I understood that the thought of the ceremony and the limelight in which he would find himself made him quite nervous. I realized that he was not himself yet. It would take weeks and perhaps months for him to recover fully from his ordeal. One day I asked him whether he had told his friend Arne Myhrvold about the honour. It was Arne who had accompanied Einar on the rescue mission in 1943, and, until now, I had totally forgotten about him. Only about four years earlier, Einar had told me about Arne’s participation, having assumed until then that I remembered him. Now Einar was embarrassed to tell Arne about the distinction he would be awarded. Since they are close friends, Einar did not want to keep this matter a secret, but how to tell Arne became a problem that weighed heavily on him.

  Realizing and fully understanding Einar’s dilemma, I became upset. I, too, felt that Arne was, and still is, deserving of a medal. The thought that I had inadvertently caused Einar such anguish upset me more than I can say. When Einar’s letter arrived with the news that he had finally told Arne about the honour, I was as relieved as he was. He was now finally looking forward to the event, which, in a way, he had dreaded before. He mentioned again in this letter that he did not feel deserving of such an honour, but since the commission at Yad Vashem had found him worthy of this distinction, he was grateful and filled with pride for their consideration. His letter then went on to describe his life during the war, how he, too, had had to escape to Sweden and subsequently returned to Norway to carry out clandestine work for the Underground. He mentioned that this was the first time he ha
d ever written about these events and that it was our friendship that had prompted him to finally do so. His letter restored my equilibrium.

  My friend Renée Meieran had in the meantime translated my speech into Norwegian. It conveyed everything I wanted to say and lost nothing in its sensitive translation. I now began reading the Norwegian text out loud. I knew that the more I read it, the less chance there would be that my emotions would get the better of me during the ceremony.

  It was during that time that I invited my daughter, Helen, to join us in Norway. Since she travelled extensively on business, I think I knew her answer in advance: an additional trip to Europe would be too much for her. Her decision was my loss and I believe hers as well.

  A fax arrived from Ken Harris with the program for Yom Hashoah. I had promised him that we would sponsor a kiddush (small festive meal) on the following Shabbat, although I would be the only one of my family present (Stefan and Marvin would be in Budapest). Mr. Harris mentioned that he wanted me to speak again at the kiddush, since there would be younger and different people there than at the ceremony, and he wanted me to tell them who I was and why I was there.

  During this, our last overseas telephone conversation, Mr. Harris mentioned that the Jewish community had heard of a man who was said to have been a driver in the Underground during the war. He had ostensibly transported Jews and Norwegians who had to escape to Sweden, from a barn on the outskirts of Oslo to a place within walking distance of the Swedish border. No one had known this man’s name, and the driver had not known the names of any of those he had rescued on his truck. As he was a shy and modest man, he was certainly not looking for a medal, but the Jewish community was anxious to identify him. My speech, of which he had read a copy, had led Ken Harris to believe that I might have been on his truck. I told him that I would try to get in touch with this man during my stay in Norway.