CHAPTER TWO: RADIODAYS
Oslo, April 9th 1940

For the last 7 years, the news had been broadcast over the air waves bringing the voices straight into our living room. In a firm Oslo dialect, the same transmission was heard by a loudmouthed fisherman in the Northern wilds and a soft spoken man living in the white cities in the South. We were a unified people, now joined by the advent of national radio.

I would get up at dawn making my bread and coffee. Mother would be up before me, but father would, now that he had left the responsibilities of the store to me, rest a little bit longer in the morning.

I would turn the radio on, a 1938 Radionette Jubileumssuper, placed next to the easy chair by the large window in the living room, in hope of hearing the magical voice of La Mome Piaf. I had fallen utterly in love with her raw and heartbreaking voice, and couldn't leave before I had heard at least one song in the morning. I sat it on low so not to wake up father and my young sister Liv, but I would hum Mon legionnaire for the rest of the day.

Mother would leave me alone in the living room, letting me enjoy my coffee and fifteen minutes of radio time alone before I made myself ready for work.

Liv was light in spirit hard to wake up in the mornings.

She liked to sleep in late, and often mother had to threaten her with both water in the face and a cut in her play time before she would crawl out from under her warm duvet and join my parents in the kitchen.

Her room was small, only holding her bed and a small desk where she could read and do math. Beside her bed sat a doll brought to her by our grand uncle who earned his living on the sea. The doll was from the Far East, and was by far her dearest belonging. She loved doing the math and she could play with numbers all day long. Every day when I got home from work, I would bring with me damaged buttons from the suits brought in for repairs. She would eagerly count them time and time again.

I left many marks on that desk back when it was mine. When Liv turned ten, and I eighteen, I moved out to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room. The sofa was positioned next to the old pine wood slant front desk, containing all of fathers papers, and his reading glasses placed on top, next to the picture of my beloved grandparents. Liv had happily moved in to the small apartment's only other bedroom than our parent's

I would normally have moved out by now, but my father was no longer in good health. He had slipped on the ice two years ago, during a shifting period of the winter, where the snow on the ground melted and froze on and off making the walking conditions particularly difficult. My father did not see the icy patch under the snow. He fell hard and broke his hip.

His body didn't heal well, and hours behind the counter were too much for him to handle. I already knew I would one day take over his business, Hojem Manufaktur eftf, I just didn't anticipate it to be this soon.

I hoped I could work only a few hours a day helping my parents out, and reading a subject at the University on the side. No one in my family had ever read at the University, and now I wouldn't be the one to break that line. Instead, I would listen in on every conversation the young students at the store had. I would eavesdrop pretending I needed to measure their legs yet another time before pinning the needle in, just to absorb a little more information on whatever subject they talked about.

Hojem Manufaktur eftf was located in Oslo's best neighborhood, just one street off of Bogstadveien, and across the street from Hegdehaugen Isenkram

The hardware store was a good neighbor, seeing that many of its customers had some wealth and was willing to spend it on clothes bought from us. We could offer clothes to both women and men and most of the textures were imported from the continent.

We offered a few ready made suits in the lower price range, which we tailored for the customer but mostly, we sold material to customers who made their own clothes.

They could also pay for us to sew the outfit of their liking. We could offer a few selected patterns to make, and a wide variety of materials to make them from.

The materials included velvet, flannel, satin, silk, wool, chambray, poplin, crepe d' chine, artificial silk and even denim and mouselin.

Times were harder than ever the last few months. The war raging in Europe made it impossible to get new materials or new merchandise so we were dependent on the stock we already had in house. Luckily we had a healthy stock of black material because women were asking for 'a little black dress' suitable for any occasion. All the glossy fashion magazines were showing the work of Coco Channel.

My father had taught me the art of tailoring, but my real talent was sweet talking the customer. If a man didn't want to buy a suit, he would walk out with one. If he already wanted a suit, he would buy a dress for the missus as well.

You see, the real trick was to talk with the lady. Many people think you have to talk to the man, because he holds the money. But I knew that I had to talk to the woman, give her the idea of what they should buy, and then she would use all her tricks to make the man open his wallet.

Of course, the real wealthy people didn't buy their clothes from us. No, they had their clothes tailored at Ferner Jacobsen, or better yet, their clothes were bought in London or New York, brought home by sailors doing their shopping while docked at the fashion centers of the world.

I even remember my gymnasium sweetheart getting married in an old wedding dress bought at Bloomingdales. Her father had brought it home in nineteen ten for her mother to wear at their wedding. After 30 years of hanging in a closet and only being taken out every blue moon for admiration, and even after customizing it for the slightly skinnier daughter, the dress was prettier than any wedding dress I have ever seen since.

Most people though didn't have the luxury of owning a New York dress, we had to do with what we could get in Oslo. We didn't have the reputation that Ferner Jacobsen had, nor were we as skilled as their tailors. We did however have a loyal group of customers, and a solid roof over our head.

April 9th 1940 had started quite unlike most other mornings. I was ripped out of sleep by the siren signaling with three short beeps instructing me to turn on the radio. The voice that greeted me every morning informed me that the enemy had arrived.

I hurried out the door and down the streets to the Town Center. For the first time in more than 30 years, the store would not open on time.

The sound of hundreds of feet keeping a steady rhythm echoed between the brick walls of the University and The National Theatre. There were green uniforms moving as one as far as my eyes could see. Down the proud parade street of Karl Johan they poured into the city like the blood rushing through my veins.

The teeming mass of people hurrying to work stopped and stared. They were astonished as they couldn't believe their own eyes.

The soldiers flooded the streets arriving from Fornebu, the Oslo airport. They kept arriving all day, plane after plane flying them in, coloring our country in frightening green. The solders were on our soil, and we stood there, watching, stunned, unable to react.

I hadn't foreseen this coming. I hadn't anticipated the war knocking on my door. The radio broadcast had reported daily about the war in Europe. I had followed the news closely. Our soldiers had joined the forces abroad. Many had died fighting, but our country was neutral. Or so I thought. We weren't in any direct danger; we weren't in the conflict, except now the conflict had moved into our own back yard.

Feeling the pit in my stomach I turned towards Stortinget, the parliament building. The massive stone lions lay guarding the gates, but still not one of them could prevent the scene played out in the streets.

I turned to return to University Square and almost ran over a man as I suddenly shifted direction. "Omforladels," I chocked out, and lent him a hand as he was about to fall. "No problem," he returned in a language I think I could recognize as English. He must have understood my apology even though he obviously weren't Norwegian.

A notebook fell out of his pocket and I picked it up for him. The book was filled with notes in thick letters of graphite. I barely looked at it, and I couldn't decipher any of the notes scribbled down, only his name on the front of the book I understood; it spelled Leland Stowe.

Had I known the impact his notes would cause, I would have taken his notebook with me, but Leland Stowe was for me then an unknown man with an unknown mission, and I simply handed it back to him. "Thank you," he said. I could only smile, as English wasn't a language I had learned.

Nick shifted in his seat, looking at Greg with a question in his eyes.

"What?" Greg mouthed.

"What was it with the note book?" Nick whispered. He was eager to listen, but too curious for his own good. It was an occupational habit, always picking up on all the small details.

"Let me tell you," Grandpa Hojem laughed at him, well aware that Nick never intended him to hear that he was interrupting the story.

"Oh, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that mans hearing," Greg rolled his eyes at his grandfather, remembering all the times he had misjudged the old mans hearing and unintentionally letting him in on secrets he never meant to share.

"I'll remember that for later," Nick said starring straight at the man telling the story.

"You wondered about the notebook. Well you see, Leland Stowe worked as a war correspondent for the Chicago Daily News and the New York Post, and he wrote an article about that very day. I hadn't heard of him of course, and I only remembered his name because he had the same surname as the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin; a book I had read a couple of times and actually had in my rather full book case stored in our crowded storage space at the loft.

Anyway, as I would later learn, Stowe had interpreted the shock as indifference, as acceptance on the part of the Norwegian population, something I can assure you was not correct. I was one of them, standing there in shock doing nothing as the soldiers marched through our city, but I can tell you it didn't mean I accepted it. We knew what was going on in Europe, it was just that Germany was so far away. Except for the people at sea, most of us hadn't been further away than Denmark or Sweden, and many not even that far. We felt safe here in the North, in a neutral country, and we were simply taken by surprise.

Of course we knew there was a slight possibility of war. The government had flight alarm drills and we had instructions on what to do if we heard the sirens; we just never thought we would.

His article was printed in many newspapers and spread to the American people. This had a huge damaging effect on America's public opinion of the Norwegian resistance and therefore their motivation to help us when we needed it the most. All because of one article and I had probably held the notes to that article in my hand."

"I didn't know that" Nick whispered.

"Of course not. I can reassure you that the damage wasn't irreparable, our dear Princess and your president Franklin Roosevelt made sure of that. But right there and then, the situation was rather tense. Benedikte once told me how they were affected by reading that article."

"Benedikte, that's Nana Olaf?" Nick asked before grandpa Hojem continued. They all nodded.

"There wasn't that much news coming from home, and she was living here in America, reading all she could about what happened in Europe. Seeing that Norway didn't fight back was a huge disappointment. She was ashamed of her country then, and she has explained to me that it was a feeling she would never want anyone to feel. We may live in America, but we can never get Norway out of our blood and we would like to be proud of the country we came from. It's our culture, our values and our pride. Feeling that the old country abandoned their people is nothing she wants anyone to have to experience. That's why what Roosevelt did is so important, but I tell you about that later. Now, where was I?"

"You had just given him back his notebook."

"Yes, yes I had. Well, I was looking for my friend that I was certain would be there…"

I crossed the street just behind a group of green clad men and before a new section arrived. Seeing the students assembled at the university steps I could make out a familiar face. He stood at the second step observing the commotion in the street. The sun was in his eyes, and he shielded them to get a better view of what was going on. His face was grave, and I recognized the expression was one of concern. He was a man of strong conviction and never afraid to stand up for his points of view. I admired that in him, and would always seek his advice.

Hindered by only a few obstacles I managed to cross the square to reach his side.

"Mr. Bøe," I addressed him, formal now out in the street.

He turned and looked at me a second before he addressed me in the same way.

"Hojem"

I nodded.

"Good day," I promptly said to lessen my rather rude approach, seeing as he was standing amongst his co-students.

"Is it?" he said turning his eyes towards the street again.

"Doesn't look like it," I said under my breath more to myself than to him.

I was eager to hear his opinion. I always was, but this day more than usual.

The first time I met Anders Bøe there was nothing particular about him. He came into the store in search of black pants.

I had a few new ones in stock and one in particular that would look good on him. His long legs were made for narrow pants that would emphasize the muscles underneath. His torso, shaped in a solid V, showed a man with great strength and there was no doubt in my mind that the strength in him was not limited to the physical.

His eyes would notice everything in his surrounding and I did not do the mistake of assuming he didn't notice everything that was going on. He could read me from the very start of our friendship, and as years would go by, that was an ability I would greatly appreciate.

He was tall, fair to his skin and with dark clean cut hair. I had no trouble seeing why women would swarm around him. He was handsome, smart and fun to be with. It would surely be a joy to dress him.

I excused myself to go behind the counter to find my measure tape and pins to mark the correct length on his pants. I would bring them back for mother to customize for him. He could pick them up a few days later.

I couldn't help but notice the heavy books he carried. He had put them down on the counter while searching for the perfect pants. The titles suggested studies of the law, and he did indeed look like a law student. His head was held high, his back straight and his attitude demanded respect. He had authority, or at least he wanted it to look that way.

A law student; there were many of them in our store. Their preference for a suit according to the expected standard, but without the salary to meet the means, lead them to us. Here they could buy a lower price pre-made suit and only make minor adjustments, rather than to have one tailored from scratch.

We were more than willing to help them. A law student was always more than just a law student; he was also a boyfriend, with the eagerness to please his lady, and a future lawyer, which would have a first and second job that didn't give them all the great pay off in money. Stay loyal when they had no money and they would be loyal when they could pay some more as well.

Another thing about the students were their age; my age. There was no secret that I loved to talk; I have always loved to talk. But more so, I have always loved to learn. I would ask them all kinds of questions, and most of the time they would answer me. People are like people most, they like talking about themselves and what interests them. And most people, luckily, were interested in the profession which they studied. Mr.Bøe was no exception.

Actually, he was even more eager than most. While most others struck a polite conversation while being measured, he seemed to recognize the sincerity in my interest, and shared more than usual. He didn't stop with the shallow explanations, but dove into detailed clarifications, and many times I forgot all about measuring, and would sit myself down, pin stuck between my lips and just absorb the new knowledge. So far did he take it that he started coming in to show me new articles, and tell me new stories, and didn't even pretend to be a customer while doing it anymore.

He had a study break at midday every Wednesday, and it soon became a habit of him to drop by and talk during his break. I started expecting it, and made a habit of having the coffee ready for him when he came.

Mother had taken a liking to him and made sure she had some freshly baked bread and nice spread for us to eat. My favorite would be when mother had made us whole wheat bread with light syrup on butter. On special days, if it was something to celebrate, she would even prepare lefse she had baked on her takke to go with our coffee. I swear, if I was a girl, she would have made me marry the man.

His break fell conveniently together with my lunch, and we had a nice small kitchen to eat in at the back of the store. Usually we didn't let customers back there, but Mr.Bøe wasn't a customer anymore, he simply was Anders; my dear good friend.

Standing on the steps of the School of Law, we watched the throng of soldiers streaming into our country and a nation of people being struck by sheer surprise. As weird as it may sound, I was glad I was experiencing this event side by side with my friend. He always helped ground me, and this day I needed some proof that what I saw wasn't just a bad dream. If he saw it as well, it must be true, and if he reacted to it, than I couldn't be all crazy feeling the way I did.

Nick brushed his teeth in the bathroom joining Greg's old bedroom. It was a small bathroom containing a toilet, a sink and a small shower cabinet. No hope of 'doing it' in the shower while they were here, and he wouldn't have done it anyway. The thought of having sex under either parent's roof was not appealing them. Lucky for them they would only stay a week.

Greg had already climbed into bed and was reading while waiting for Nick to finish up. The bed was small, but would fit them both if they weren't too keen on having any space between them. Nick was set for a week with nights of spooning. He didn't mind. Sleeping with Greg in his arms was his favorite way of sleeping, and while on vacation he was actually able to sleep soundly without his usual tossing and turning.

It hadn't always been like that. He had periods of nights (or days actually) when he couldn't sleep at all. After staring down the barrel of a gun for the first time he had refused to go to bed afraid of what he would see in his dreams. After almost 48 hours without sleep he had finally fallen into a restless sleep filled with nightmares. It had lasted for nearly 3 weeks before he realized that listening to white noise on TV would help him rest.

After Nigel Crane had stalked him, he had trouble sleeping in his own house. After crashing on Warrick's lumpy couch for a week, which only made his sore ribs feel even more bruised; he had his friend go through the house with him and make sure there were no more stalkers.

Warrick had even slept in his guestroom for two nights before returning home, leaving Nick to sleep alone in his home again. Warrick was a good friend and would never hold it against him.

After the Walter Gordon case, Nick had trouble with darkness. At that point Greg had come up with the solution. When it was time for Nick to come home after two weeks of rehabilitation in Texas, Greg had showed up at his door with a small fish tank in his arms, and a container filled with colorful fish. It was for his bedroom, and it would illuminate the room with just enough light to not be dark, but not enough light for it to be hard to sleep. He told Nick the names of all the fish, explained a bit about their personalities (only Greg would know about individual fish personalities), and promised to come by every day to make sure they were fed.

They had never really been close friends. They laughed and had fun at work, and would go out together in a group, but never the two of them alone. But after the Gordon case, it had all changed. The fish tank was only the beginning. Greg had admitted later that the whole ordeal had scared the shit out of him, and he had decided that life was too short to be afraid of acting on his feelings. He had been attracted to Nick for a long time, and the thought of losing him even before he had the chance to tell him was devastating. He gave it some time, in Greg's book that is about 3 weeks, before he started wooing him.

Greg wasn't the traditional wooer. He didn't show up on his door with roses and chocolate, and Nick didn't want any of that. Rather, he started bringing food, videogames and films when he came over to feed the fish. Nick had told him he was perfectly capable of caring for the fish himself. Greg didn't doubt that, but he had taken a special liking to the fish he told him, so he would like to see them and make sure they got the good stuff. The good stuff was special food prepared by Greg for his own fish that lived in a much larger tank in his own living room.

The daily visits from Greg were so regular that Nick started to keep his special blend of coffee in his own cabinets. He wouldn't drink from it if Greg wasn't there, it wouldn't be the same without Greg's company. He started thinking about the recliner next to his desk in the living room as "Greg's recliner" and he even cleared out a drawer for him to keep a change or two for when he wanted a shower after work and needed some clean clothes.

In the beginning, the visits lasted only half an hour. It soon stretched into an hour and then a couple. After a while Greg could easily stay all day, and they would be comfortable in each others company. There was no need to entertain each other. Nick would do his everyday mundane chores and that often included doing Greg's laundry as well. Greg would use his computer, or bring his own laptop, to do whatever he wanted to do. After a couple of months Nick suggested he crash in the guest room instead of going home. After all, they would have to get up at the same time anyway, to get to work at the same shift.

When it happened, it was an accident, a good accident; their first kiss.

Greg was making them dinner, and he wasn't a half bad cook. He was filling the plates and handed one to Nick. When Nick took the plate he thanked him and leaned in to give him a quick kiss as a thank you. He never meant to do that. He had felt the urge to, the man spending so much time with him had started to mean the world to him, but he never meant to act on his desire. He just didn't think. It happened automatically and felt so naturally, and when he realized what he had done, he started apologizing.

Greg had calmly taken the plate back, put both the plates down, and grabbed Nicks face to stop all the apologies flooding out of his mouth.

"Do you really think I spend this much time here, serving you, pampering you, just to feed your fish? This is what I want," he had said, and settled the discussion. He had slept in Nick's bed from that day forward.

It may sound selfish, a bit cruel even, to use Nick's fear of the dark as an access to his heart, but it wasn't meant like that. To Greg, a fish tank was a genuine gift. He happened to love fish, and he simply couldn't see any better way to give a little light in the bedroom. And Nick has to agree with him, whenever he wakes up from a nightmare, he will look over to the fish tank and see the colorful fish swim calmly in the water, and he feels peace. And now he can even turn over in bed and watch Greg breathe and know that he will never wake up alone anymore. Life is better with Greg in it, so he definitely won't mind sharing a rather small bed with him, under his parent's roof, abstaining from sex for a week, because he would do anything to have this man in his life forever.

TBC

Takke a flat iron plate that one put on the fire to bake lefse.
Lefse a traditional Norwegian cake.