On the 16th of August 1945, after ten weeks pampering, and the best and most welcoming treatment anyone could offer – it was time to say goodbye and return home. Their Swiss friends came to the train station to bring flowers and wish them well and the long journey to Norway began. Physically most of them were in good shape. The nutritious food and warm sunshine had given them renewed health and a suntan as well. But the mental scars after all the suffering remained. Many had severe nightmares afterwards and imagined they were back in prison. The journey north took them through Germany, and they had an overnight stop at a school in Hamburg. The city was in ruins. Next day they passed through Denmark and Sweden. Both in Gothenburg and Copenhagen parties were held in their honour. St. Sunniva’s school in Oslo became the last overnight stop before the triumphant journey over the mountains to Bergen began.
Ca 1500 men belonged to the Kristian Stein organisation. 204 were arrested and sent to camps in Germany. 57 died, either from hunger, mistreatment or they were executed.
We didn’t know exactly when the homecoming would take place, but we were told by telephone shortly before. I was staying at Voss (50 miles along the train-route from Bergen) with my cousin Aud-Gerd for a week when a call from my mother told us to hurry to station – the train was on its way. I packed my bag, and hoped to be allowed to ride home with my father! I’ll never forget my father’s face when he saw his family standing there. He didn’t expect to see his own daughter at Voss and mistook me for my cousin. But once this misunderstanding was resolved he never let go my hand. Yes, I was on the train and it is a journey never to be forgotten. People lined the route and waved and sang. My mother, grandparents, dad’s sisters and all the family were waiting as we left the train at Nesttun (our little town 6 miles south of Bergen). My father had been worried about his parents, thinking they may not have survived the war, but he was pleasantly surprised. Granddad died when I was 11 years old in 1947 and granny when I was 14.
The celebrations continued for quite a while and my father was remarkably well. He found a job with the Electricity Board after a few months, and worked there until he retired at age 67.
It wasn’t until I became older myself that I really began to take an interest in what went on during those years. If I had done so I am sure I could have written more extensively about this. Why do we always leave it too late? There are so many things I would have liked to ask my father about now. He died in 1991, but there is one man – whose name is Torbjorn who was with my father throughout those prison-years, and he is still alive. My next POST will be his story.