During the evening, we saw a video of Herman’s seventieth birthday, an extravaganza that had taken place in one of the large hotels in the mountains. More than one hundred guests attended. All of them were treated to a sleigh ride, a lavish dinner that lasted half the night and brunch the following morning. In the video, I recognized several people I used to know.
Herman gave me a book based on his life that was written by a Norwegian writer. I put it aside, thinking that it would be just another story. Was I ever surprised when I began reading it back in Montreal. It is one of the most moving accounts of the war years I have ever read, written in a wonderful, simple style.
The next morning, I went to meet Torleif Halvorsen. The train to Askim left the railway station in downtown Oslo at 10:20 a.m. on Sunday morning. I had spoken to Kirsten Halvorsen the day before and told her which train I would be on. To identify myself, I said, “I am short and dark and will be wearing a raincoat regardless of the weather.” She told me that she, too, was short and that we would have no problem spotting each other on the platform because few people would be getting off the train there.
As soon as the train left the city limits, the scenery changed dramatically. Forests, lakes and waterfalls were in abundance. This was also farm country. The small railway stations we stopped at were mostly private dwellings. Askim has recently been proclaimed a town, and its station is now larger. Kirsten had been right. We recognized each other immediately. She was taller and younger than I, with a pleasant face and a wonderful smile. With tears in her eyes, she hugged me like a long-lost friend and then immediately went on to say that Torleif was ill with a lung disease, that he did not hear well, that his memory was impaired and that he was extremely nervous — all this in the span of two minutes it took us to reach their van.
Torleif stepped down from the car, and I was happy that Kirsten had forewarned me. A small, shrunken old man, his clothes hanging loosely from his thin frame, came toward me. He shook my hand with downcast eyes and then returned to the driver’s seat. The van was spacious and clean. The three of us had to sit in the front because there were no seats in the back of the van. Kirsten explained that they wanted to take me for a drive to the very barn where Torleif had picked up refugees during the war for the drive to the Swedish border. I was surprised that the barn was located in this area but was told that we were, in fact, getting closer to Oslo with each kilometre. As we drove farther away from Askim, the scenery changed. There were fewer and fewer farms, and we finally arrived at the barn. I had no memory of this place at all. My parents and I had been taken to a barn outside of Oslo during the night. It could very well have been this one, but I will never know.
We then continued toward the Swedish border. It was obvious that this area had been suited for Underground operations. No one lived there, but it was beautiful country. Dense forests of pine trees surrounded the many lakes of the region. The fog hung low over the mountains. As we drove along, Torleif appeared to be less nervous and spoke to me off and on. I told him what I remembered of the truck that had brought us to the border and of the trip itself. There were two things that came up in the conversation that jarred my memory. I recalled that, once everyone was on the truck, a tarpaulin had been stretched across the back to cover us. But still we had not left for quite a while. That, explained Torleif, was because hay was loaded on top of the tarpaulin, to give the truck the appearance of a hay wagon. Moreover, he mentioned a Swedish border town by the name of Charlottenberg. He would drive his truck to within half an hour’s walk from the border and then follow his charges at a distance, to make sure that they were safe. Neither Kirsten nor Torleif doubted for one moment that I had been on one of his transports.
We were almost at the Swedish border when we turned back. Torleif was coughing constantly and was very cold. Since his hearing was poor, Kirsten told me some of his story. In February 1943, after having saved countless people whose names he never knew and who never knew his name, Torleif himself had had to leave Norway for the safety of Sweden. He was a young man with little education and was sent to northern Sweden to work, cutting lumber. There he met and married a woman and had two children with her. The marriage did not last, however. All his working life, Torleif drove trucks, and driving was the love of his life. He transported materials for road building, which was thought to have destroyed his lungs. I believe he was suffering from lung cancer or emphysema.
By this time, I am sure the whole village had heard about my arrival. In short order, Kirsten’s son, Björn, and grandson arrived and then her daughter, whose name I cannot recall. Björn expressed his gratitude that finally someone who had been saved by Torleif had come to see him. I did not mention that I was not sure if I had been on one of his transports.
During our first telephone conversation, Kirsten inquired how I had heard about her husband, and had I told her about Ken Harris. What I did not know until later on was that it was Björn who had contacted the Swedish Jewish community, whose president he knew, about his stepfather’s role during the war. The matter had been referred to the Jewish community in Oslo, and efforts had been made in vain to find someone who could identify Torleif Halvorsen, so that he could be recognized by Yad Vashem as Righteous Among the Nations. I realized then that he would never be a candidate for this honour. Sadly, the man was dying. But even if he had been well, the strain of such a ceremony would have been too much for him. I considered my visit to Askim a mitzvah (a good deed). I never indicated that I had been on his truck, but my presence in their house was gratifying to them, and I am sure that neither they nor I will ever forget our meeting.
My visit to Norway was quickly coming to an end. Monday evening, Nina, Knut, Einar, Marit and I went out to dinner together. We talked about the events of the past week, and I was sad that the trip was all over. So much had happened, and each of us would have his or her special memories of the recent days.
The following evening, it was time to say goodbye to Renée and Erik. Beks, Erik and I had dinner together at the Holmenkollen Restaurant, Beks’s favourite. A brief visit to “Borgen,” where Renée and Lena were waiting for us, and all that remained was just one more night in Oslo. Beks had been feeling unwell all day, and by the time I had to leave the next morning, she did not even let me embrace her for fear that I would catch her cold. It was Knut who drove me to the airport this time. All I could say to him was a simple thank you.
On the way back to Montreal, I thought to myself, what will I do now? The last five months had been filled with incredible excitement, and it was inevitable that I should feel a certain sadness and sense of loss. But I was comforted by the fact that the medal was resting in its little olive-wood box in Einar’s house as testimony to the courage of a man who saved one life and thus a whole world.3
•
This particular trip to Norway catapulted me into an entirely new career. As I mentioned, Herman Kahan, a long-time acquaintance, had given me his biography on the evening I visited him and his wife, Ester. I was reluctant to read this book, since I had not read anything in Norwegian for many years, but once back in Montreal, I decided to take the plunge and was pleasantly surprised. Not only was it easy for me to read the language that I spoke fluently, but I loved the contents of the book so much that I decided to translate it into English so that my grandchildren would be able to read about Herman’s remarkable journey through life.
I have since translated three other memoirs and two books by the Norwegian gentile writer Kristian Ottosen, one about the Norwegian Jews and one about Ravensbrück concentration camp.
* * *
3As the Talmud states, “Whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world.”
Old Friends and New
On March 11, 1997, Shooshoo turned twelve, so it was her bat mitzvah year. Because we were returning from Florida just a few days prior to her big day, I baked and froze all the cakes for the brunch, which I had planne
d in advance to celebrate the occasion, and packed them in their frozen state in my carry-on luggage for the trip home. When passing security, the ice-cold contents of my bags caused suspicion and then smiles when I told them what the contents were.
Shooshoo’s bat mitzvah was observed in four stages: at Marvin’s shul (synagogue), at the above-mentioned brunch, at a class b’not mitzvah (plural of “bat mitzvah”) at the Beth David synagogue (more commonly known as the Baily shul) and then at a dinner at Beth David that night. Many of the b’not mitzvah girls looked very grown up in their long, fancy gowns and makeup. Shooshoo, who wore a suit I had bought for her in Florida, looked like the little girl she was. But for religious purposes, our little Shooshoo was now considered a woman.
On the night of the first seder that year, Allegra, her daughter, Corinne, and her nephew David came into our lives. Marvin and Allegra had met at the “Y.” Allegra had been born in Egypt and had gone to Israel with her parents and two sisters when she was two years old. Life had been hard. Subsequently, the family immigrated to Canada and settled in Montreal.
The year 1997 turned out to be a big year for Helen, too. Throughout her years at Johnson & Johnson, she had received countless promotions and awards. She frequently travelled overseas and often gave presentations in countries in Europe, as well as in the United States. She was eventually promoted to director at her company in Toronto, and that spring she was offered a one-year position at Janssen Pharmaceuticals, the organization’s company in Belgium, which she accepted.
In 1998, just before Rosh Hashanah, we visited Helen and her family in Belgium. It was a very memorable five-day vacation. The house Helen and Murray had rented was located on the outskirts of Antwerp in the little Flemish town of Kapellen, five kilometres from the Dutch border town of Putte. An iron gate led into the property, which looked like an estate with an expanse of beautifully tended green lawn surrounding it. The house, which had once been a Belgian duke’s hunting lodge, was quite old but in very good condition.
Even the weather cooperated in the next few days. We visited Antwerp, where I spotted a beautiful necklace in the window of a jeweller in the diamond district, and decided that this would be my present for my upcoming seventieth birthday. As usual, there was no objection from my ever-generous husband, and I have worn this necklace ever since. On Rosh Hashanah, we attended services in a small synagogue in the morning and then drove to Brussels.
In Brussels, we visited Manneken Pis, the well-known sculpture and fountain, which I remembered from my stay in Brussels so many years ago, and we had lunch at an outdoor restaurant. On a different day, we visited Bruges, a beautiful medieval city with its waterways, where we could not resist a boat ride.
One day, Helen asked if we wanted to go to Knokke on the seashore. Knokke was in Belgium? When I was a young child, my parents used to take me to Knokke. In fact, I still have pictures of the three of us on the beach, but all these years I had been under the impression that Knokke was in France. I was thrilled to have the chance to revisit this place. So Helen, Stefan and I, plus their dog, Murphy, went to Knokke. Nothing about the place was familiar to me; after all, I had been there in what seemed like a different life. Still it felt strange to know that I had been on this very beach with my parents.
Another day, Murray drove us to an old Jewish cemetery, which was actually located in Holland. No one there pays much attention to the borders between Holland and Belgium. On our last day, before we left Amsterdam, we visited the house where Anne Frank and her parents had lived in hiding during the war. Having read so much about their ordeal, I found this visit very moving.
Since it takes only one and a half hours to fly from Amsterdam to Oslo, I decided to go on a three-day visit to Norway, whereas Stefan would fly straight to Montreal. Before the trip, I suggested to my eighty-six-year-old friend Beks that I would stay with Marit Wellén this time in order to spare Beks the trouble of having an extra person staying with her. She readily agreed.
For the last year, Marit had been living in her big apartment all by herself. Her husband, Einar, my rescuer and dear friend, had suffered a major stroke in 1997 and was now living in a nursing home. However, during the summer of 1998, Marit, her daughter, Nina, and Nina’s husband, Knut, had brought Einar to their country house in Nevlunghavn by the sea. From their house, Einar was able to watch all the water activities, such as the regattas and speedboats. Even though he was unable to express his pleasure at being with his family, they knew that he loved being there, and for them this was their greatest joy. With the aid of two young helpers who came from the nearby town, Nina, Knut and Marit managed to care for Einar, who was helpless in his motorized wheelchair. Their effort was almost superhuman, but being who they were, they never thought about it that way. Marit and Einar’s fiftieth wedding anniversary was celebrated with a big family party, with their three children and their grandchildren present.
Knut and Nina came to pick me up at the airport and drove me straight to their home in the suburbs of Oslo. I inquired about Einar and was told that he was as well as could be expected and that there had been no real change in his condition for about a year. As always, Marit and I were happy to spend time in each other’s company, and we decided that we would visit Einar the following morning. I told Beks that I would see her that afternoon and that it was important that I visit Einar before anything else. I dreaded seeing my old friend in his deteriorated condition and prepared myself for a shock.
And, indeed, it was a shock. Nina wheeled him into the living room of the nursing home, as he could not handle his motorized wheelchair. There he was, a shadow of his former self, dressed in sweatpants and running shoes, his head bent. When Marit said, “Dear, here is Margrit,” he looked up in surprise and said, “You still look like a young girl. How is Stefan?” I began to cry; it was heartbreaking. Nina and Marit were surprised that he still recognized me and knew my connection to Stefan. After a while, we took Einar back to his room, where Marit fed him his lunch and then one of my Belgian chocolates for dessert. A nurse came in to put him to bed for his nap. He was obviously happy when he saw her and forgot all about us. Marit kissed him goodbye and told him she would see him later, and then we left.
Voices woke me up in the middle of the night. I got up. The house was lit up, and Marit was standing in her small foyer ready to go out. She had just been called by the nursing home to inform her that Einar had become ill and had had to be taken to the hospital. He had, in fact, suffered another devastating stroke. I stayed in Oslo another two days and then had to leave. At the time, nothing mattered other than Einar’s condition, which worsened daily. The outcome was inevitable. The day after I left, he died. Not knowing the customs observed by Norwegians when there is a death in the family, I asked Renée’s husband, Erik, what would be the appropriate thing to do. He advised me to submit an obituary to Aftenposten, the Oslo daily newspaper, and to send flowers to Marit. That done, I felt a bit better. Once again, fate had been on my side. I had gone to Oslo just in time to see Einar once more, and he had lived long enough to know that the young girl whose life he had saved had never forgotten him.
I spent time with Beks, too, and, among other things, we discussed her situation. She was still living by herself in her apartment, but it had occurred to her that this was no longer safe, since she had fallen a few times. A move to the Oslo Jewish home for the elderly was an option, which she considered with some reluctance. I urged her to at least fill out an application form, as we knew that it would take a while before an apartment became available. Her heart was not in it, and it would take some time until she finally gave in and sent in the appropriate form. She was eighty-eight years old when she left the home she had lived in since the late 1930s. The day before I returned to Montreal, I had lunch with Beks and her granddaughter Lena. When I said goodbye to her at Majorstua, which was the bus and tram stop closest to her home, albeit still a good fifteen minutes’ walk away, I watched her slight
figure walk briskly away and wondered whether I would ever see her again.
Retirement
In December 1998, I turned seventy. Stefan and I celebrated with Marvin, Allegra and our grandchildren, Motti, Shmoo, Shooshoo and Ashi. Looking at pictures from the party, I see a lot of smiling faces. My grandchildren were the source of great pride to me then, as they had always been and still are. Despite the tragedy of Lily’s loss and the many changes that followed, our family was tight-knit and seemingly indestructible.
Stefan and I next celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary, somewhat early, in October 1999. Helen, Marvin and Allegra looked after everything. I had always pictured a couple celebrating their golden anniversary as stout and sitting on a park bench, doing little else. But none of the people — all our contemporaries — who joined us at the Adath Israel synagogue in the suburb of Hampstead looked anything like my imaginary couple, including us, I believe. Many Montreal friends attended; others came from Toronto, Judith and Victor from Florida and my cousin Elfriede and her husband, Erik, from New York. This was the last time we saw Erik; he died a few years later of cancer.
Shooshoo and Erin performed a brief skit, which was a big success. The skit was followed by a few speeches, with Stefan being the last speaker. As always, he ad libbed and was very witty. I had jokingly told him that I thought I deserved a gold watch after so many years of service (in the office), so when he handed me a jewellery box at the end of his speech, I was sure that it contained this watch. To my astonishment, it was a gorgeous diamond bracelet, which almost took my breath away. Each time I wear it, it reminds me of a lovely party when our whole family was together, with the exception of Shmoo, who had already left to begin his studies at a yeshiva in Israel.
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