CHAPTER FIVE: SELLING OUR PRIDE

Nick carefully picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth. Cautiously not to draw attention he spat out the large lump he had found in the porridge. It had a hard and woody consistency and he had almost bit into it when he realized it was not part of the meal. He didn't want to offend his hostess by complaining about her cocking, so he gently pushed the napkin containing the lump into his pocket.

"What ya got there?" Greg asked spoiling his stealthy maneuver.

"Nothing…"

"Yeah, right…don't tell me; mom ended up with lumps in the porridge, didn't she?"

"No," he didn't feel bad about lying.

"Oh, well, like I believe you," Greg smiled and winked at his mother.

"Nick?" Lisbet asked, "Didn't the food taste good?"

"Yes ma'am, it did," he thickened his accent to underline his submission to her. He wasn't lying, it really did taste good, that was, until he had found an unknown substance in there. He would take it up to his room later to analyze it.

"It wouldn't by any chance be an almond you tried to hide in your pocket?"

"Huh?" He was thrown by the question.

"An almond, blanched to be white?"

He suspiciously pulled out the napkin again and unfolded it to uncover a white almond.

"Yes ma'am, it is."

"And you tried to hide it not to offend me?"

"Yes ma'am" His earlobes reddened with embarrassment. He knew he was caught.

"Bless you child, I am tempted to give you two prizes."

"Prize?" Again he was puzzled by her statement.

"Yes, whoever gets the almond wins the prize. Hope you like marzipan." She handed him a chocolate covered marzipan pig which had Greg's eyes and drool attached to it.

"It's mine!" he said possessively to his boyfriend before biting its head off.

"Let us do the dishes," Nick offered when Lisbet was about to clean the table.
"No, that's no problem. I actually like working in the kitchen on Christmas Eve, besides, I think pappa is ready to tell you more of his story. He's peeked in here twice already. You don't want to make a grumpy old man wait."

Before the war ended, I would take many trips to Sweden but my first was when I crossed the border at Ørje the second weeked in February, 1942.

Our mission was to pass information on people that volunteered for the military organization MILORG. This was a new group that just recently formed.

Militær Organisasjon was a secret organization arranging all the various groups that wanted to participate in an internal military resistance. The groups could be doing work like armed resistance, sabotage, intelligence work, supply-missions, raids, espionage, transport of goods imported to the country, release of Norwegian prisoners and escort for citizens fleeing the border to neutral Sweden. Of course, as courier I too needed help from the latter group.

My job was to carry information on to Special Operations Executive. SOE was a British organization, planning and leading resistance in occupied countries, and Norway of course was one of them. Sadly MILORG wasn't all that well coordinated with SOE and unfortunate incidents happened as result of this. It was important for us to get SOE to acknowledge and start communicating and working with us. We both were working for the same goal.

I was doing this trip with Håkon Steen, a medical student from Trøgstad. We left Oslo by train to Sørumsand, where we had to use cross country skis to get to Hemnes in Høland.
Håkon was a skilled athlete, with national medals in both running and cross country skiing. He was in better physical condition than me, but I was able to follow him without much trouble. It took us about 6 hours at an easy pace to get to Høland. The closer we got to the border the more important it was that it looked like we were out on a Sunday hiking, so the speed was reduced considerably.
We were equipped with false border residence cards identifying us as residents at the border, as well as false passports to use on the other side of the border. The passports were well hidden not to be discovered if we met a border patrol in Norway.
During the war I operated under as many as 12 different names and had passports made for all of them.
It was a challenge to remember all the back stories and keep them straight, but I didn't make any big blunders.

When we arrived in Hemnes, we met up with two brothers that Håkon had known from his early days in sports, Iver and Hans Klausland. They lived at a small farm at the very edge of the wood. Stretching from the back of their house was 50 km of pine, spruce and birch.
The men did lumbering for a living and stayed in a log cabin 14 days at a time. Working the woods they got to know the area in detail and no one blinked if they were gone for two weeks or so.

It was perfect for guiding people across the border. They would guide many groups of people over and they used different routes based on who they guided and the season of the year.

From their land, the paths through the woods wound their way through moorland and rugged terrain. In the summer, their path was a long walk through the woods and around a lake that crossed the border about 40 km east of their estate. During the winter they would transport the people closer to the border on the road and take a shorter trip through the woods. This was a riskier route as it was more likely to run into the Norwegian border patrol. These were Norwegian men who reported to the Germans.

They could take groups of ten to twenty people at one trip and it was people in Oslo putting the groups together. Sometimes the refugees would walk all the way from Skullerud in Oslo, a trip that would take 5 days to the border, but often they were able to hide the refugees in delivery cars transporting them closer to the border.

During the winter the brothers would use their working horses to pull the children and pregnant women towards the border. A doctor in Oslo provided the children with medicines, making them sleep most of the way. The route was worse for the man in the back having to use a branch to cover the tracks in the snow.

This particular trip though we walked alone without an extended group. We decided to use a third route, one that went across the lake. Winter turned the lake into a usable ice bridge and since only the two of us would be on the ice at one time, we figured we had a fair chance of crossing without being detected.

Our task was to cross this border without being stopped and arrested. The idea of being shot crossed our mind now and then, but was blocked immediately, we didn't have time to let the fear overwhelmed us. We needed to stay focused on the task, and frankly, being shot wasn't the worst case scenario. Being arrested and forced to give up information was far worse.

The brothers still lived on the family land and their parents ran their small farm keeping a few animals and growing rye. Thanks to the 7 pigs they had, they would be self sufficient with meat during the winter. They even had some extra to give to the many Norwegian refugees that would come to cross their land on their way to Sweden.

We sought shelter in their house, being fed real bread and even a full cup of rich, fat milk. They only had 4 cows, but they gave enough milk for the family to put away, so even with visitors, they would have more milk to serve than the 0.35 liters per person a week we could get on our ration card in Oslo. I think I drank my milk in one big gulp and the mother, Maja probably saw the pure pleasure in my eyes, because she filled up my glass yet again without a word.

We had to wait another day before we could start on the trip across the border. The day we came, the weather was not on our side. The heavy snow blocked the light from the moon; the light we needed to see to cross the ice.

The next night though was a twilight night.

If Håkon had the upper hand when skiing, navigating through the woods was my area of expertise. Hans would follow us and guide us to the border, but from there it was entirely up to us. I had memorized the map and left it home in Oslo. I could not take the chance of being captured carrying the map with the route marked on it. Neither did I have a compass with me. If we hit the right position on the other side of the lake though, there shouldn't be any problem getting down to Töcksfors, and from there continue the journey to Stockholm.

A refugee camp had already been organized outside Töcksfors, a bit closer to Årjäng for Norwegian refugees.
The Swedes would have no problem letting us in and sending us to the camp, so we saw no problem if we could only make it to the Swedish side of the lake.

Although the full moon cast a yellow light on the ground, it was still close to pitch dark on the narrow path we were following. The tall pines surrounding the path on all sides threw shadows that seemed to reach all the way to the bottom of our souls. If we hadn't realized the gravity of the situation before, we were all burdened by it now. For the first time since the war broke out, I felt a total lack of joy.

The night was ice cold as well; it must have been closer to minus 20 degrees and the air hitting my lungs was still cold enough to inflict pain. Crossing a small river turned out to be a struggle. The stream was too strong for the water to freeze, so we were knee deep in ice cold water, holding only about 4 centigrade .

If you were unlucky enough to slip on the water washed rocks, you could easily get your foot stuck between two stones and the water, even though it was only 40 centimeters deep, would have enough force to pull you under. With one foot trapped and the force of the water; you would not be able to get up. It was important that we all stayed closely together to give each other the necessary support.

Hans had to rely on holding onto a branch and the support of a higher power when he crossed the river alone on his way back.
When all came to all, it wasn't the river that killed him, but a bullet in the back about two years after we took this first trip.

We couldn't light a fire to warm ourselves after the journey across the river, but we came prepared. The clothes we wore were exchanged for new ones packed in the rug sack. Afraid of being caught with two sets of clothes, something that would look very suspicious (as if walking in the woods in the middle of the night wasn't suspicious enough), we hid the clothes so Hans could take them back with him when he returned to the farm. There they would store them for us to use on later trips, or maybe to give to other refugees or couriers that needed them. In wartime, you couldn't be too picky with who used your clothes and whose gear you were handed.

After 11 hours of walking we finally reached the lake. We could see the clearing ahead of us, bathed in moonlight, with no obstacles to block the light. But that meant there wasn't any cover to hide behind when crossing and one kilometer is a long way to crawl. We had no choice but to take our chance on running, that is moving as fast as we could on 40 cm of hard packed snow covered with 25 cm of new snow, hoping we would avoid falling through the snow crust.

We waited for two hours at the edge of the lake, observing. After 120 minutes in sheer silence we had seen no movements and took our chance on crossing the border. With our rug sacks firmly attached to our backs we started on the longest kilometer of my life. Driven by pure adrenalin, we managed to cross, and we even came close to entering Sweden at the exact spot we had planned. We only missed by 150 meters to the north, but the hours I spent memorizing the map caused me to have no trouble estimating where we were and steer us in the right direction.

By dawn we could stroll into the small town of Töcsfors dressed and acting as if we were on an ordinary hike. That's where we met our first obstacle. Instead of walking unseen into town, we walked straight into a Swedish border control unit. I tried to use my best Swedish accent, imitating a thick Värmland dialect saying "Tjena, hur e leget?" and hoping I would pass as a local. Unfortunately my poor Swedish accent couldn't hold up during a long conversation and my identity as Norwegian, was soon to be discovered.

On this trip I was Henrik Wikstrøm. The name was easy to remember, Henrik was my fathers name and Wikstrøm was the name of our landlord. According to my papers I was a law student born and raised in Skien. I was hoping they would not ask me any details of Skien, as I had never even been there.

They did however ask me details of the law study. My eagerness to always listen to Anders came in handy and I could loosely refer to subjects he had told me about. I could also name titles of books in the curriculum, as I could remember the books Anders had put on the counter the first time I met him. Lucky for me, neither the border patrol, nor the police assisting them, had any deeper knowledge of the Norwegian law study and they believed my identity. We were free to go and register at the refugee camp.

The questioning and registration at the camp went easily and the trip to Stockholm was no problem from there.

I wasn't prepared for what met me in Stockholm. The sight was overwhelming. At night, when darkness enwrapped the old buildings in gamla stan, the light streamed out of the windows. It was a magnificent sight.

I was getting used to the black-out curtains back home and the way all lights were shielded not to give the bombers any clue to where the houses were. I thought I was used to seeing lights as it was less than a year we had lived without it, but when I no longer took it for granted I couldn't stop letting the sight overwhelm me.

I didn't sleep much that night; I wandered the streets just looking. I sat down on a bench by the water watching the buildings mirror on the surface of the water sweeping through the city.

They moved to the living room to relax and wait for the official Christmas Celebration to start at 17.00. If they'd been in Norway all the church bells would ring Christmas in, but here in California they settled for the clock on the wall to chime five times.

Lisbet would prepare the food; finish up the rib, heat the pork sausage patties and Christmas sausages, boiled almond potatoes, carrots and peas. She would serve both red cabbage and sauerkraut and of course the indispensable at any Norwegian meat dish; the partridgeberries.

Since all of this food was pretty much cooking by itself, she had time to prepare food for the day to come as well. When she was younger, she had been in charge of the Christmas Day food, while her mother had made the Christmas Eve dinner.

After her mother passed away, she had down sized the preparation for Christmas Day, by buying store prepared Christmas dinners and all she had left to do was to make the Waldorf salad and the dressing.

The cakes were already at the house; here she followed the Norwegian tradition with seven different types. She bought them through the local lodge of Son's of Norway. Although the types might vary, she always had fattigmann, smultringer, goro and krumkaker. Gingerbread was also needed, but was not originally counted as one of the seven Christmas cakes in Norway. Lisbet wouldn't have a Christmas without a pumpkin pie either and she would make it herself.

The Norwegian food would have been enough even for Christmas Day, but when she was younger, it was utterly important for her to be as American as possibly.

Preparing all this food would be a lot of work, but Lisbet liked it. She was comfortable in the kitchen and she was a good cook. She had spent many hours in the kitchen as a young girl, learning to make lefse and lapper from her mother and she had bought numbers of cook books to try out new recipes. She felt blessed when she could chase the men out of the kitchen after eating the Christmas porridge and close the door to the noise from the talk and TV in the living room. She would be alone in the kitchen. This was relaxing for her, smelling the aroma from the food, feeling the heat from the oven and seeing all the decorations hung in a house well cleaned for Christmas.

She would whip up the cream to make both Waldorf salad and rice cream. She let the remains of the porridge stand in a cold water bath to completely cool before mixing it with the cream and placing it the fridge for tonight's dessert.
Making the Waldorf salad was just routine and it was finished and placed in the fridge.

Doing all the preparation today, made it possible for her family to help out in the soup kitchen a few hours on Christmas Day. They had, after all, already by then celebrated a whole Christmas.

Her father had insisted on them helping out in the soup kitchen. "After all, it was the Swedish Soup given to the children in Norway that helped the nation during the war", he said, "and if it hadn't been for the Danish Help, he and his friends in MILORG would have starved." It was time to pay back.

In the living room the men were gathered in front of the TV. They all held a can of beer and they were watching whatever was on, not that they were paying attention. Nick and Greg were more eager to hear more of the story and asked Grandpa to go on.

Back in Oslo another battle had begun. So far the most obvious proof that we were under German occupation had been the ration cards and the restrictions against owning a radio. Mother had handed in our radio with a heavy heart. It was bought with hard earned money and was an important link to the outside world.

Our voice wasn't completely silenced. In London sat three brave men by the names Toralv Øksnevad, Hartvig Kiran and Olav Rytterand. They broadcast news in Norwegian every day at 17.00. Those who dared had hidden a radio receiver and newspapers were written by hand. As the hunger for information grew, the distributors became braver and found ways to get the papers typed. It wasn't done without risk. Many people were arrested, sent to concentration camps and quite a few were killed for distributing the illegal newspapers.
The voice from London became our inspiration and one of our strongest assets in the fight for our sovereignty.

One piece of news we were happy to hear was in September 1942. President Franklin Roosevelt gave a speech where he said:

"If there is anyone who still wonders why this war is being fought, let him look to Norway. If there is anyone who has any delusions that this war could have been averted, let him look to Norway. And if there is anyone who doubts the democratic will to win, again I say, let him look to Norway."

"The story of Norway since the conquest shows that while a free democracy may be slow to realize its danger, it can be heroic when aroused. At home, the Norwegian people have silently resisted the invaders' will with grim determination. Abroad, Norwegian ships and Norwegian men have rallied to the cause of the United Nations."

Our crown princess stood beside him and our reputation as a people not willing to fight against the regime was finally going to be changed.
It lifted our spirits more than anyone can believe.

I was tempted to join a group that distributed the news. I looked upon it as honorable work and felt I owed it to the men who had left Norway to go to England for training. The UK men we called them; the men who joined Nor.I.C. 1 to become specialized agents to do sabotage on targets behind the enemy lines.

I had drawn my line there.

It was one thing to carry messages across the border between Norway and Sweden, but leaving the country and maybe never being sent back home was a risk I was not willing to take. I needed to be able to have my home base in Oslo. Instead I felt I had a duty to do all I could to spread information and help the most I could here at home.

Helping distribute the news seemed like a good idea, but one thing would hinder me and it hit like a fist in the stomach.

You remember the shortness of materials and ready made clothing; even the German soldiers stationed in our country suffered by the lack of imports since the latter part of 1939. After more than two years of service, their uniforms were showing the fatigue the men themselves must have felt.

With numerous holes in their uniform, they started coming to the store to have their uniforms patched; a few at first and then more and more. Both Mother and Father used their sewing skills now to help people patch their clothes, remake old ones and even make new ones out of old fabrics they would have lying around. There wasn't much earning in this, but sometimes they would get extra sugar or flour that people could spare from their small rations.

It was hard deciding whether or not to take work from the soldiers. They were our enemies. What helped us make up our minds was looking at the barracks barons who worked for German entrepreneurs and were still accepted. People simply needed work and with thousands of soldiers in the country and a Germany that built up its own infrastructure, it wasn't possible to avoid them if you wanted to work. It wasn't a popular view but people tended to turn a blind eye to the situation. So we did it, even though it left a bitter taste in the mouth.

Having German soldiers as customers put a stop to my idea of distributing illegal newspapers in the store. We couldn't risk being caught.

The German soldiers provided me with an opportunity to increase my contribution to the war effort.. Nor.I.C 1 needed someone to plant black propaganda. They needed someone to infiltrate Nasjonal Samling, the Nazi Party and the soldiers and give them false information. They saw our store, with soldiers as customers, as the perfect camouflage. All I had to do was pretend to be a Nazi-sympathizer and join the NS. I would be given pamphlets supposedly given out by German authorities and hand them out in the store. It was easy, yet very hard at the same time.

I was the perfect person for it, but it would dishonour our family. No one could know it was a cover. I would drag my families name in the gutter and there was no way of sparing the people I loved.

Father was my rock and my conscious. He had had no doubt; our duty was to help our country.

If our pride was hard to swallow, it was even harder for Liv to understand why she had to stay out of view in the store. Her space was limited to the back room and mostly she stayed in the small kitchen doing her math. At the end of the day she would always have the exact numbers of customers having been in the store during the opening hours. The best times of her day were whenever Anders would stop by. No matter what the purpose of his visit, he never failed to spend some time with Liv, always making her feel like the princess she was.

TBC

Translations:

lefse Norwegian soft wrap made from potatoes and flour. It is made on takke, and was often 1 meter in diameter, but only a few millimetres thick. They were dried to be preserved, and soaked to be soft again when being used. When dried, they could last as long as close to a year. They are served with a filling of butter mixed with sugar and cinnamon.
Lapper very close to the American pancakes. We do not eat it as breakfast, but as a cake. Often served with jam. Sometimes we can add rice to it, and make "rice-lapper"
4 Centigrade 24.8 F
Tjena, hur e leget? Swedish: Hi, how are you?
Gamla stan "the old town", the original area of Stockholm.
fattigmann, smultringer, goro and krumkaker traditional Christmas cookies.