A few days later, Stefan and I closed our condo in Florida and went home to Montreal. We celebrated Pesach together with our family, and two days after the conclusion of the holiday, Stefan, Marvin and I were on our way to Norway. I was excited and nervous. Motti had left with an event called the March of the Living the previous day.
We arrived in Amsterdam early in the morning on a bright and sunny day. The plane to Norway was delayed, and by the time we arrived in Oslo, I was totally exhausted, not having slept at all on the plane. There to meet us were Einar and Knut. Einar looked much thinner than when I had last seen him, but much healthier. Knut was, as always, smiling and helpful. The two drove us to our hotel. Next time we would meet would be at the synagogue the following evening.
I immediately contacted Ambassador Shiloh. He apologized that he could not meet with me prior to the ceremony the following day because he was busy with an Israeli delegation. My next phone call was to Ken Harris, who confirmed that everything was ready for the event, which would begin at 7:30 in the evening. Could we be there for about 7:15? A phone call to Beks followed. We would see her the same evening at her daughter Renée’s home for dinner.
Renée’s house, “Borgen” (the castle), is located in the suburban hills of Oslo. Two baby carriages were parked outside, so we knew that her young grandsons were there to welcome us. Beks looked wonderful despite her advancing years and the fact that she had been ill several times during the past few months. Renée’s daughters, Lena and Linn, each had a little boy, who were introduced with great pride. Lena’s son, Leo, was one and a half years old, with blond hair, brown eyes and apple-red cheeks. Liam, Linn’s five-month-old, was olive-skinned with black hair and the most beautiful black eyes.
Renée had prepared a sumptuous meal. When Leo became a bit restless, Erik entertained him. He obviously enjoyed his role as beste, Leo’s abbreviation for bestefar (grandfather). Although Stefan, Marvin and I were tired, we enjoyed the evening a lot. Old friends had come together and the conversation, mostly in English, flowed easily.
The following afternoon, Stefan, Marvin and I took the T-banen (the Oslo subway) to Sognsvann. This is a lake in the suburbs of Oslo. On the weekends, thousands of Norwegians take to the trails leading into the woods, hiking during the summer months and skiing during the winter.
Sognsvann is but one of several places where such trails begin. I love the stillness of the Norwegian woods, and it reminded me of years gone by. Now the lake was still frozen, and there was melting snow on the ground. Not far from there is the house where Stefan and I lived together for the first one and a half years of our married life. We walked down to Sognsveien 135 and showed Marvin where it all began.
By 6:30 p.m., we were ready to go to the synagogue. A police car was parked on the street, which reminded me, to my regret, that in Norway, too, there is still antisemitism. As added security, members of the Jewish community patrol the area around the synagogue within its gate. Ken Harris came out to greet us. He led us into the small synagogue, and apart from some children, we were the first to arrive. One of the children, a twelve-year-old girl, spoke to us in perfect English. She was Norwegian, she said, but went to English school. Three non-Jewish women were standing in the hall outside the sanctuary. When I asked them whether they were guests of the Wellén family, they answered, “No, we just came to watch.” Soon a young man came forward and introduced himself as Chanan Goder. I had imagined him to be much older, but he was as kind and as pleasant as he had been on the telephone. Ambassador Shiloh, a distinguished-looking, tall, grey-haired diplomat, arrived soon after, accompanied by his wife.
Slowly, the narrow wooden benches of the old synagogue began to fill. Einar and Marit Wellén arrived with their immediate and extended family, as well as some close friends. Beks, Renée and Erik were there, too, and so was Lena. Josef Schattan, the cousin of a friend of ours in Montreal, whom we had met at his house a few years ago, came to say hello. And so did Herman and Ester Kahan, who somehow knew who we were, although we had not seen them since we left Norway. At exactly 7:30 p.m., the ceremony began and the hum of many voices died down.
Six candles were lit by survivors, Ambassador Shiloh and a young boy, whose candle represented the children who had perished in the Holocaust. The cantor chanted the prayer for the dead — “El Male Rachamim.” The first speaker of the evening was Ambassador Shiloh. He spoke emotionally about the Holocaust — of the children who had died and deprived us of a generation of Jewish lives, of the antisemitism that remains rampant today even in Norway, and of the few who acted to save innocent lives during the war. At the conclusion of his speech, the ambassador presented the medal and the certificate of Righteous Among the Nations to Einar Wellén. No doubt the memory of that moment will be treasured by all those who were present. I, for one, felt only gratitude that this long overdue recognition had come to pass.
Then it was my turn to speak. I did not dare look up from my paper. Since I had read the Norwegian text out loud many times, I managed to get through it almost without stumbling. I knew that I had the attention of the audience. It was quiet except for my own voice. When I returned to my seat, I saw that Marit was visibly moved. And so was Einar. He was the last speaker. He searched for his glasses, found them, put them on, only to take them off again. He began by thanking Yad Vashem for the honour. Then he spoke of his relationship with my father. I had not realized that Einar had had many conversations with my father, and his speech revealed how fond he had been of him and how much he had looked up to him. He also mentioned his friend Arne Myhrvold. About halfway through his speech, he put away the written text and wandered a bit from his prepared script. Everyone listened with great interest as he spoke of his clandestine work during the war.
The synagogue’s choir, consisting of children and a few adults, sang several Hebrew songs suitable for the occasion. The president of the Oslo Jewish community then gave a brief speech. At the conclusion of the ceremony, Ken Harris read a poem written by a Norwegian Jew, now deceased, who had been a survivor of the Auschwitz concentration camp.
Several people came forward to greet me. Since I had introduced myself as Margrit Stenge, also known as Margrit Rosenberg, I was recognized by a few. But I had to ask their names. All but one person had changed too much for me to recognize them. Once I heard their names, though, I could see their young faces in my mind’s eye. A paintbrush appeared to have added years to their features, and it took me a moment to get used to the transformation. Several people promised to attend the kiddush on Shabbat, which would give us more time to reminisce. Herman and Ester Kahan wanted Stefan, Marvin and me to spend an evening with them. Only I could accept because Stefan and Marvin were leaving in two days.
Marit had prepared a reception in her and Einar’s home for the guests. The champagne was flowing by the time we arrived (somewhat later than the others, having waited until the conclusion of the brief evening services), and the guests were helping themselves to wonderful open-faced sandwiches. We met many people we did not know, among them the former mayor of Oslo, Albert Nordengen, who was a close friend of Einar’s. He had been a most beloved mayor for sixteen years. Also, we had the opportunity to view the medal in its small olive-wood box, as well as the accompanying certificate. I translated for Einar the greetings from Motti and Shmuli on a card that I had given to him during the ceremony, as well as the text of the inscription in the book that I had presented to him.
The following morning, Einar and Knut picked us up at our hotel, and soon we were on our way toward Valdres. It was a lovely, bright and even warm day, but almost as soon as we had left the city limits, remnants of snow were visible on the roadside. The lakes were still frozen, and as we drove through the beautiful Norwegian countryside, it was obvious that winter had not yet lost its grip. In fact, Easter is the most popular time to ski in Norway. The sun, when it shines, warms the air, and there is still a lot of snow in the mountains. And this was only two week
s after Easter, which had been early this year.
As we approached Rogne in the Valdres region, Knut wanted to know whether I would like him to drive to Volbu, where my school had been located, to give Stefan and Marvin an idea of how far the school had been from where my family had lived. I decided against it to spare Knut this detour. However, I pointed in the general direction across the lake, and I think they got a good idea of the distance I had had to walk or ski in order to reach my school. And then we climbed the road up to Buahaugen. This was the “new” road, not the one I had skied on each weekend in the spring of 1942. That road was closed until the summer months. Knut’s van made the ascent to the top easily. The narrow road was surprisingly dry for this time of the year, and even when we reached the snowy landscape of Buahaugen, Knut expertly managed to reach the Wellén cabins.
Since I had been here the previous summer, Knut and Nina had added their own cottage, so now there were three cottages on the land that once was owned by Einar’s uncle, Harald. Sitting on the bench outside the main cottage, warmed by the spring sun and with the melting snow beneath my feet, I looked at the snowy landscape all around me. This is what it had been like in the spring of 1942 when my parents had lived here in total isolation from the latter part of March until the end of June, when the farmers finally arrived for the summer. How could they have stood the loneliness, the lack of human contact, in addition to the daily struggle just to exist? There was still no electricity or running water in the area. My parents could not even fetch water from the small river nearby without skis. And when finally the spring sun thawed the snow and turned everything to mud, it became, if possible, even more difficult for them to carry out their daily chores. Just as during the war, all the cottages in the area were closed up, and only the sound of our voices disturbed the solitude of this mountain village.
Marvin asked me the following day whether my parents had appreciated that I made the difficult trip to Buahaugen by myself every weekend. My answer was a definite no. Had I met their expectations, I would have stayed with them at Buahaugen the whole time. And I knew this all too well even then.
During our descent from Buahaugen, Einar, Knut and I spoke of the last time we had been here, in June the previous year, when we had been looking for the Granlis’ house. Since Einar had been in considerable pain at the time, we had given up our search, although we knew the general location of the house. Einar, too, had met Nils Granli at one time. It had now been twenty-two years since my summer trip to Norway when I had visited Alma Granli, living in the green house on the hill together with her daughter and her family.
Back in Rogne, Knut made inquiries because we simply could not find the house. Someone pointed us in the right direction, but we still could not identify the place we were looking for. Then Einar had a good idea. He would ask Mr. Skattebo, a carpenter from whom the family had bought some furniture. He would know everyone in the area. We stopped at his workshop. I remained in the van. Mr. Skattebo was outside, and Einar and Knut spoke to him. Suddenly Stefan came up to the van and excitedly said, “This man knew your parents.” When Einar had asked him where the Granlis’ house stood, he had pointed to a white house a short distance away and then said, “This is where the Granlis used to live, and during the war, a family by the name of Rosenberg lived there, too.” I had goosebumps as I went to greet Mr. Skattebo. What had moved this man to mention my parents without being prompted? We spoke about old times for a while and then went inside to see his workshop. Mr. Skattebo was a fine carpenter, and Knut picked up a few smaller pieces of furniture, for resale in Oslo.
The Granlis’ house was nearby, but I didn’t recognize it. The white house before us looked like it had swallowed the little green house I knew. A young woman was outside watching four young kids playing in the mud and the melting snow. I explained to her that I had lived in this house for two years with the Granlis during the war. Yes, she said, she was familiar with the name, as she and her husband had bought the house from their daughter. They had modernized the house, so I would not have recognized it even if we had been able to go inside. However, since the woman had to watch the children, she could not invite us in. My story fascinated her, for she had never heard it before. We took some photos and then began our return trip to Oslo. The drive took about four and a half hours.
Stefan made an interesting observation. He believed my relationships with my Norwegian friends were different than the friendships I had formed in Canada. And perhaps he was right. All I know is that I am completely at ease when I am expressing myself in Norwegian. Perhaps it is my feeling of contentment and my pleasure at still being able to converse fluently in Norwegian that influence my dialogue with my old and trusted friends.
The following day, Stefan and Marvin left for Budapest, and I moved to Beks’s apartment. That afternoon, I phoned Ken Harris to ask for the name and telephone number of the member of the Norwegian Underground — the driver — of whom he had spoken during our last overseas telephone conversation. Mr. Harris told me that his name was Torleif Halvorsen. I dialled the number he gave me, and a cheerful woman’s voice answered the phone. When I asked for Mr. Halvorsen, she said that he was unavailable at the moment; she was his wife, Kirsten. Would I tell her what it was about? When I did, she simply could not believe that someone would call after all these years. How had I heard about Torleif? Would I come to see them? I could get to Askim either by train or by bus, and the trip would take about one hour each way. I promised to look into schedules and to call her back the following day.
Marit and her twin sister, Lita, were celebrating their seventieth birthdays that evening. The party was called for 7:00. Marit, champagne glass in hand, greeted everyone at the downstairs entrance, looking a bit apprehensive at the gathering crowd. But then Einar welcomed us all and directed us toward a table plan, where we would find our names. Two large tables had been set up in an L-shape in Nina and Knut’s first-floor apartment. All the furniture had been removed from their living-dining room to accommodate the large table. I was seated between Einar and his son Jan. Marit and her sister were sitting underneath a picture that had been painted when the twins were about four years old. It had been moved from Einar and Marit’s upstairs apartment for the occasion, and I thought the idea was precious. Very soon I noticed the clever table plan. All the young people, Marit’s and Lita’s children and grandchildren, were placed between the older guests, enabling young and old to take pleasure in one another’s company.
And then the party began. The many speeches were funny and were interspersed with songs written by friends and family. Dinner was served by the young members of the family, with none other than Knut in charge. I had the most wonderful time. Not for one minute did I feel like the outsider I was.
Early on in the evening, Einar said to me, “Margrit, you are the best veninne (female friend) I ever had.” I was deeply moved. The wine was flowing, and by the time we got up from the table at 11:30, I may have been the only sober person at the party. Regrettably, I had to leave then, since I had to get up fairly early the following morning to attend Shabbat services and our kiddush. But the party lasted until 4:30 in the morning. From what I heard, all the guests that evening agreed that they had never attended a more wonderful affair.
The kiddush took place in the community centre adjoining the synagogue. A large table was laden with home-baked cakes and fruit, and small tables had been placed around the crowded room. One of the members of the congregation gave a brief explanation of the Torah reading that day, and I read the short speech I had prepared for the occasion. Then there was time for socializing with people I had known years ago and others who I just met. Among others, a young boy came to say hello and complimented me on my two speeches. It was nice to know that I had reached someone that young.
An old acquaintance, Leif Grusd, told me of an interesting project that he was participating in. Based on conversations with people who had fled by various means from Norway to
Sweden during the war, project organizers had established the route most frequently used to reach the border. Children from the community were taken on excursions to see the distance their grandparents had had to walk to reach the safety of Sweden. Leif also mentioned that an official at that particular spot along the border had marked down all the names of the refugees passing through that point. He promised to look for the name Rosenberg the next time he was in the area, since I was not at all sure of where my family and I had crossed the border.
I was going to spend that evening with Ester and Herman Kahan. I had not known the couple well when I lived in Oslo after the war. Ester is a year or two younger than I, and Herman arrived in Norway in 1949. But I did remember them.
Herman picked me up in his large, well-appointed American car, and we drove to the suburbs of Oslo. One of his daughters and her Israeli husband greeted me in the entrance hall. They were on their way out, so it was just Herman, Ester and I who spent the evening together. We had many mutual acquaintances. Old photos were displayed, two of which showed the couple as I remembered them.
Herman’s success story is remarkable. In 1949, on his way to America, he came to Norway to visit a sister who had settled there after the war. He liked what he saw and decided to remain there instead of going to the United States. He immediately started manufacturing stockings with a knitting machine he had brought from Hungary. Raw materials were still in extremely short supply, but he ripped up old stockings, from which new ones were produced. He worked day and night. He also realized that it was imperative to speak Norwegian well, and today he has only a very slight foreign accent. He understood early on that it was crucial for his growing business that he attend business school. And that, too, he did, in addition to keeping long hours at his factory. Ester helped out as much as she could in between giving birth to their children.
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