Torbjoern’s Story – home again and normal life is resumed.

After the war Torbjoern, who was still a young man, continued his education. He qualified as an engineer at Stockholm University. He has had a long and  interesting life. Until recently he used to meet other survivors once a month. They had lunch at one of Bergen’s best hotels, and reminisced about the war years. “We are getting too old and decrepid to meet now”, he said. He still has his dear wife by his side, whom he married a few years after coming back home. He seems happy and content with life, but “it is impossible to ever forget those dreadful times”, he admits.

The banner Torbjoern and his friends made in May 1945 was brought back to Norway. It was kept at Kronstad Hovedgård – a sort of museum – for many years. But it January 2009 the banner was presented to Telavåg Museum, some miles from Bergen.                                    

  This is Torbjoern (right) with another survivor presenting the banner to the curator of the museum in 2009.

Every ten years, since the war ended, the Norwegians and their Swiss ‘saviours’ have spent time together, either in Norway or Switzerland. A firm and lasting friendship was formed, but they have all become too old to travel these days.

Torbjoern and wife, Liv, on a Rhine cruise in 1985.

Torbjoern and some other ex-prisoners have given extensive interviews to historians from Oslo about the events during that awful period. These records are kept somewhere in the capital  Oslo.

I shall soon be able to have a long chat with Torbjoern and his wife because I am going to Norway for a short holiday. I may well have more to tell when I get back to England.         

Here is a photo of Torbjoern as he is today – still handsome and alert at 90.

Torbjoern’s story, continued – Dachau May 1945 and Switzerland

“The sewing room was a busy place”, Torbjoern said. He and his friend, Arne, were occupied designing and making a banner in readiness for the May 17 celebrations. This is Norway’s Constitution Day, and proud Norwegians everywhere want to participate. For these men, so long imprisoned and starved, it was of particular significance.

Their living quarters had improved greatly since they were relocated to the SS-guards barrack. They found uniforms which had belonged to Norwegian army personnel while looking for material, and set to and stitched and fixed these garments and made them fit the skinny mens bodies. Most of them weighed between 36-40 kg at that time.

This is the banner they made. It is now on display at a war museum in Telavåg – a small community near Bergen which was destroyed by the Germans during the war.

So it was that 78 happy but thin Norwegians marched onto the parade ground in uniforms and wearing rosettes in red, white and blue on their lapels. The Norwegian/American officer in charge gave a moving speech, and it was a day no-one would ever forget.

This is Dachau concentration camp.

Because of their weak physical condition they could not withstand the long journey back to Norway at that point. The Swiss town of Schaffhausen built a camp for the ex-prisoners and invited them all to come there to recuperate. Red Cross buses came to collect them on May 31st 1945, and they spent two-three weeks in quarantine. It was like arriving in Heaven!!

Quarantine  and mealtime in Switzerland.

Once the quarantine was over they were free to roam, and had a wonderful time. Torbjoern talks about going into a restaurant and order coffee and cream cakes. They wanted to pay, but the waiter said -“Oh, no, the ladies over at the next table paid already”. That’s the way it was all the time; they were treated like royalty. Trips to the most scenic places in Switzerland were arranged. There were dances and visits to private homes. The men began to regain their health and weight too! By August they were fit enough to return back to Norway and their families.

Torbjoern’s Story – Kaisheim and Dachau

Kaisheim was by far the best of the concentration camps the men were sent to. The food was better and the weather had improved. The prisoners were served pea soup and half-decent bread  on arrival. “We almost had enough to eat for once” Torbjoern said. This prison was their home for the next eleven months. A group of Belgians  shared a large room with the Norwegians. They were even allowed to exercise, and the Belgians joined them. A choir was formed – much to everyone’s joy. Torbjoern was once again in the sewing room, making uniforms. Two of their Belgian friends were shot whilst in Kaisheim. They had access to machinery and made duplicate keys, leading to the main gate. They were caught and shot immediately. Torbjoern said they were both well-educated university professors and very likeable.  Several people died in Kaisheim due to mistreatment in other camps.

The men became aware that the war was not going well for the Germans. There were constant bombing raids and rumours about advancing allied troops. That last Christmas in a prison was not quite as bad previous ones. The feeling was that there would soon be  change, and freedom may be on its way. But the worst was still to come.

Dachau concentration camp, near Munich was their final destination. On the 9th of April 1945 they were sent south by train. There were many stops along the way because of bombed rail lines and general chaos. The German guards left the train when the bombs began to fall and hid in the forest. But eventually they arrived in Dachau, and the sights they were greeted with were ‘almost to horrendous to talk about’. They saw wagons full of what looked like sticks of wood from a distance, but turned out to be human bodies. Wagon after wagon full of emaciated dead men and women. Exhausted prisoner were given the gruesome task of unloading the bodies from the train. Many died whilst doing this job. There were several mass-graves in Dachau.

American troops discovered train loads of dead men when they freed the camp.

An area about a kilometre outside their camp, called Hermansplatz, was the place of execution. Doomed prisoners were marched to this site daily. A few managed to escape, but not  many. Torbjoern talked about the daily massacre of hundreds of men. There were 400 prisoners in each barrack, measuring 10×9 metres. When the Norwegians arrived in Dachau there were 30.000 prisoners in the camp and more arrived every day. It looked like the Germans were determined to exterminate as many people as possible. They began with the outermost barracks and worked their way systematically – killing 400 a day. It sends chills down my spine when I heard Torbjoern say that their barrack was one day away from being the next target. But that’s when the Americans arrived. The day was 29th of April 1945.

Here are the American troops at the main gate.

 ” If you stood on the uppermost bunk and looked through the air-vents you could just about see Munich in the distance”, said Torbjoern. At 6 am on the 29th of April they saw the Americans enter the camp, and jubilant prisoners met them at the barbed wire fences.

The Germans raised the white flag in surrender, and the joy the emaciated men felt cannot be described. Some of the guards in the watchtower continued to fire their guns. “That‘s the last thing they should have done” said Torbjoern. They were soon captured, and when the officer in charge said: “What shall we do with them?” – the answer was unanimous “Shoot them all” – which they did then and there. 

Here we can see the firing squad in action.

Torbjoern’s story – Rendsburg, Vechta and onwards to Kaisheim

Torbjoern was the only one of the seven Nesttun-Boys to be sent to Rendsburg while they were imprisoned in Kiel. He spent six dreadful months there. It was midwinter and the temperature plummeted to minus 20 degrees. He says it is a wonder they survived because they had to strip naked and stand outside for at least an hour a day as punishment for ‘bad behaviour’. Most of the men were so emaciated and weak they could hardly walk. Many never recovered from this experience. But Torbjoern did survive and met up with his friends at Vechta, where they had come directly from Kiel, and they remained together for the rest of the war years.

Vechta is north of Hannover and the prison they arrived at was a terrible place. My father, having recovered from his illness, was still very depressed and refused to leave his cell. He couldn’t speak or understand German, and the guards were getting annoyed with him. All he wanted to do was stay in bed all day, which was not allowed. Torbjoern shared a cell with five others so I don’t know why my father was on his own. My impression is that he was mentally unstable at that point and found it impossible to come to terms with the present conditions. Who could blame him? This was pure hell! One of the more pleasant guards asked if anyone knew Lars Bratlid. Torbjoern said “I do”, and was told to come and talk to him. Seeing someone he knew made my father feel a lot better, and he gradually became more like the happy, outgoing, man he used to be, although Torbjoern said he would stare into the distance and not communicate with anyone for long periods.

Torbjoern told Gunnar and Aase he was rather reluctant to talk about this episode because he was afraid I would be upset. But that’s life, and we all differ in how we cope and reach breaking-point. We never know what our reaction will be until we get into an unbearable situation.

They all missed their homes and families, but having friends to talk to made the difficult times easier to bear. Torbjoern and a few others were assigned to the sewing room. One of the men was a qualified tailor. Under his guidance they learned a new trade! Torbjoern considered himself very lucky to be placed there because others had to work outside in freezing weather. One of the Nesttun-Boys, Kåre Bergesen, was an unlucky one and his health suffered. He didn’t die in Vechta but in Kaisheim in Bavaria which was their next destination. They arrived there on May 17th 1944 – Norway’s Constitution Day.

Torbjoern’s Story – Underground work, and Kiel Concentration Camp

This is Torbjoern as he is today – 90 years old and still going strong.In 1940 he was very young, but he wanted to do his bit and make Norway free again. Like many others he joined the Kristian Stein organisation. Torbjoern became one of the brave young men who transported people, by rowing boat from a hidden cove, to small vessels that were anchored ready to cross the North Sea to England and safety. These were men the Germans suspected of participating in sabotage against them, and they had to get away. He and a friend also hid in the undergrowth and photographed the German ships arriving. These pictures and necessary data were sent over to the UK. He was arrested the same night as the other Nesttun-Boys, October 23rd 1941. They all spent the next nine months at Ulven Leir (camp). Torbjoern was arrested because he was a member of the Kristian Stein organisation which was illegal, but did not carry a death sentence. They didn’t know about his other activities. If they had he would not be alive today.

I have already written about the journey to Oslo in ‘My Father’s Story’ so I will concentrate my writing to what was different for Torbjoern, and his memories.

He recalls that my father was taken ill with Typhoid fever while in Kiel and that he spent several weeks or months in a prison hospital. They were all placed in solitary confinement and this was a dreadful experience for everybody. The cells had to be scrubbed and polished every day, and some of the guards were particularly brutal and always found faults with the work they had done. Torbjoern never knew what he had done to upset one of these fanatical guards, but as punishment he was brought to the basement and thrown into a pitch-dark cell with no windows. Electric light was not permitted, and he had to strip naked every night, neatly fold his clothes and place them by the cell door. His bed was the bare floor – he was not even provided with a straw mattress or a blanket.  His days  and nights were spent daydreaming about home and family, fishing trips and the good times. He was beginning to lose touch with reality and had no idea how long he was there. One slice og mouldy bread and some bad tasting coffee was the day’s food ration. Suddenly one day the person in overall charge of the cells opened the door and asked: “Why are you here?”  Torbjoern didn’t know  and his answer was: “I have no idea”. He was  escorted back to his previous cell  and was given another job to do. He says this ‘rescuer’ is the only man he would have liked to shake hands with after the war ended.

A photo of Kiel jail in 1945, after it was destroyed by the Allies.

Golden Wedding and introduction to Torbjoern’s Story

Ron and I celebrated our golden wedding in September 2010. We had a big party with family and friends. My cousin Aase and her husband, Gunnar, came from Norway to be with us which made it special. Gunnar noticed the seven names on the back of  a wooden carving. This was made when ‘the Nesttun-Boys’ were imprisoned at Ulven Leir (camp) for nine months in 1941/42. He looked at the names and said one of the men is still alive and well, and he knew of him. His name is Torbjoern Oevsttun and he  is  90 years old. He was by far the youngest of the group, only 20 when war broke out. After they returned to Bergen Gunnar contacted Torbjoern and asked if he was willing to chat with them about the war years. He agreed willingly, and Aase and Gunnar went to see Torbjoern and his wife one afternoon. They brought an audio recorder along, and after the chat sent the whole two-hour recording to me on a CD.

 I have listened to it many times, and decided to write about his experiences. Most of the time the seven men were together – sent from one concentration camp to the next. However, there were things I never had heard before, and it was interesting to get a personal view from a man who lived through such terrible times and is still alive in 2011, and can remember in such detail. My father died in 1991, age 87. I never asked him enough questions when I was younger. It is amazing how we change as we age! Being young but having the wisdom and understanding of the old would be wonderful.–

Pampered in Switzerland – From Hell to Heaven – Summer 1945

Switzerland and Sweden were the only European nations to remain neutral during the second world war, and did not suffer the hardships the rest of Europe had to cope with.  Schaffhausen, a town in nearby Switzerland built a camp and invited the  Norwegian ex-prisoners to spend time there. They were too weak to cope with the journey to Norway at that point. On the 31st of May they left the living hell, called Dachau, behind and were transported to ‘heaven’ according to all the men. After a 2-3 week quarantine they were free to go where they wanted. Many trips were arranged and they saw a lot of this little country’s beauty-spots. Dinners and dances were arranged too. My father was always a stylish and good dancer and he enjoyed every moment. Many of the Swiss people they met remained in touch for many years.

Back home we waited longingly for news. I don’t know how soon after their arrival in Switzerland  we actually were able to hear a broadcast from the camp, where each man said a few words to his family, but probably no more than a couple of weeks. Sadly, one man named Hans Hauge was very ill. He was carried in on a stretcher and managed to say a few words, but  died soon afterwards. The wives whose husbands had died had been notified before the broadcast. I can remember we all met at a friend’s house (where the radio worked) – and the tears ran freely as our loved ones said they were all right and would soon be home.                                                   

Here they all are – Swiss and Norwegians together. My father is standing sixth from the left in the fourth row.

By now they were in good condition physically, but it took a long time to fully recover, and some never did.

Dachau – Hell on Earth – April 1945.

My father and his friends were transported from Kaisheim to Dachau, near Munich, on April 9th 1945. There were long delays and detours between Donauworth and Munich. They sat for hours on a crowded train which was meant to bring them straight into the camp, but the line was blocked. The weary men were told to get out and walk. It soon became obvious why they had to walk. A long line of goods wagons were stationary and in front of some they saw piles of dead bodies. More were being thrown from the train as they passed by. As soon as they entered the camp the allied planes flew over, in the direction of Munich. Before long they saw smoke from the burning buildings in the city. The exhausted men stood for hours, and more and more prisoners arrived. Many were barely able to stand upright. Some had come from Austria and had walked for several weeks almost without food and water. Many died during the afternoon.

Late evening they were finally escorted to their barrack. The room measured 10×9 metres and was three metres high. A total of 400 men were stuffed into this room. The bunks were in three tiers and measured 80 cm each,  four men had to share each bed. My poor father, who happened to be placed on the outside of the top bunk, fell to the floor many times. It did some permanent damage to his back later in life!

The food was terrible. Breakfast consisted of 1/2 litre of black coffee, lunch was a thin cabbage soup. The evening meal consisted of more black coffee and a tiny piece of mouldy bread. The men became zombie-like. The desire to survive was still strong, in spite of all the lice and terrible conditions. In their heart they knew the war had to be nearing the end. Every day more and more prisoners arrived and the camp was full to overflow. Piles of dead bodies were left outside most barracks every mornings . Emaciated, but still alive, prisoners had to dig mass graves and bury the dead of the night.

On April 29th the white flag was raised from the administration building. At 6 pm the American forces came through the gates. But some of the SS-men began retaliating. They were soon overpowered, and when asked by the cheering prisoners “What shall we do with them?”, the answer was unanimous – “Shoot the Bastards”, and that’s what they did – then and there.

Firing squad – SS-men being shot.

Some of the guards put on prison uniforms or tried to flee, but to no avail. They were caught and dealt with. The Americans were horrified at what they saw. It has been written about by many of the soldiers present at the time in later life. They found mass graves outside the camp because the aim was to exterminate all the prisoners at Dachau. 400 a day were shot and buried. More about this later, because I have some additional information.

On May 17th my father and his friends were still in Dachau, but the conditions were greatly improved. They had been moved to the former SS-officers quarters and received decent food. Some of the men went to work in the sewing room and made Norwegian flags and a banner. May 17th is Norway’s Constitution-day, and a very important time for all its citizens. The men were gradually getting stronger and feeling better, but not well enough to go straight from Dachau to Norway.

Springtime in Norway and the war ends – 1945

I celebrated my 9th birthday on April 15th 1945. My kind and generous mother let me have a party even though it was hard to find enough ingredients to make a cake. But celebrate we did, and had a great time.

 Everyone became aware that the war was drawing to a rapid close, but the families of the Nesttun-Boys could not feel the same elation. All through the war we had no idea if the men were alive or dead. Never a word about their whereabouts or condition. This was because they were political prisoners and not covered by the Geneva conventions. I can remember telling my mother “I just know dad is alive, I can feel it inside”

The week before peace was declared my mother and Marit’s mother sat for hours sewing and chatting while they tried to get our national costumes ready for the ‘freedom parade’ they knew would soon take place.

 Here is a photo of us taken by a ‘proper’ photographer on May 8th when we went to Bergen with our mothers to watch the parade. People were jubilant, dressed in their national costumes (always popular on special days in Norway) and the red, white and blue flags were blowing in the breeze. Never has a nation been so patriotic and proud.

My grandparents were getting older, but not in bad health. I recall many family parties and much joy during the next few weeks, but the fear and worry about dad and what had happened to him and his friends never left us.

Onwards to Vechta and Kaisheim.

My father and his friends left Kiel on January 17th 1944. The destination was Vechta. They figured it must be quite a long trek because they were given bread and coffee for the journey. They walked through the ruined city and saw dejected and sad people and bomb craters everywhere. It made them aware that they were lucky not to have been hit while in the Kiel Prison! People were dragging their few belongings on carts or in prams with nowhere to go.

The wind was howling as the men marched from Vechta station to their ‘new home’. It was mid-winter and freezing cold. They were divided into groups of 4-6 depending on the size of the cells. The cold was overwhelming and they put on all the clothing available and went to bed. The treatment was much like Kiel prison, but the soup was thinner and the mouldy bread slices smaller. They  thought they had lost all the weight it was possible to lose, but a further 4-5 kilo- disappeared during the four months they spent in this terrible place. The work handed out was different too. Some were told to make brushes, others became tailors, and a third group helped build a new barrack. My father’s friend, Kåre, was in this third group. He died later on, in Kaisheim, and they knew it was due to the harsh conditions he had suffered in Vechta.

The men became aware that the war was not going the way the Germans wanted. There were daily bombing raids, and the local people suffered dreadfully. There is no mercy in war-time!

The prisoners were loaded onto a train on May 17th 1944. This is Norway’s Independence Day, and one can only imagine how they all felt – not knowing what was in store. The windows were tightly shut, and they sat there like ‘sardines in a tin’ for 48 hours. It was pure torture and when they arrived at their destination several men collapsed. The city they had arrived at was Donauworth. The new prison was an old monastery in Kaisheim. The thick walls made the place feel very cold inside, whilst the nice warm weather had arrived and outside was pleasant. Kaisheim, in Bavaria, was the best prison they stayed in, by far. The food was better and they had the companionship of friends. During the eleven months there several men dies. They were all nice family men with wives and children at home.

After two weeks with no work, and too much time on their hands, they were finally let out. Belgian prisoners, who had also come from Vechta, joined them. Together they set up a choir and were even allowed to start exercise classes. The poet – Alf Seljenes, recited a poem about Bergen and all the things he was going to do when he was free again.

Towards Christmas 1944 they were moved to a large room and were pleased to see they were able to sleep on proper beds again. The atmosphere was easier than it had been because everyone realised the war had to be drawing to a close. The signs were all around them, and even the German guards were less hostile.

On the 7th of April 1945 private belongings were handed over – they were on the move again – but where to? By now the Allies had moved so close and bombed Donauworth so often that the whole town was one big ruin. If their journey had been delayed by just one day the awful place, Dachau,  – the next destination could have been avoided. The Americans took control of Donauworth shortly after they left.

Back home in Bergen – 1942 – 1943 – 1944.

For those left behind, wondering if husbands or fathers were still alive, the daily routine continued (as it has to).

Bergen is a main port, and because of this it was often under attack. The Allies were on constant alert because the Germans considered the city and its location to be  of  importance. They built a U-boat base and had ‘floating dock’  near Bergen.

On the 4th of October 1944, as the children of Holen School had arrived for their lessons, British planes flew over Bergen. The intended target was the U-boat base, but the bombs went astray and the school took a direct hit. Panic broke out, and many did not reach the safety of the bomb shelter. 61 children, 2 teachers and the caretaker were killed, and many injured. The Germans lost 12 men. My cousin, Odd, was one of the many volunteers who help dig out the dead and injured children.

Sometimes it was  accidental, and not deliberate bombing, which shook our old city. On April 20th 1944 at 8.30 in the morning, a Dutch ship, ‘Voorbode’, heavily laden with explosives, was being repaired in Bergen harbour when it suddenly exploded. Many people were killed immediately and some were badly hurt or blinded. The ship’s anchor was blown 400 metres up the mountain and landed in a private garden. Fires broke out many places, and the old Hanseatic Houses in the harbour caught fire. The blast created a tsunami-like effect. People said they could briefly see the bottom of the fjord before the waves spouted up in the air.

The worst act of reprisal was the assault on the small fishing village of Telavåg in the spring of 1942. Two Gestapo officers had been shot and killed by two men who had been brought over from the Shetland Islands. The whole grown-up male population were sent to concentration camps, where 31 died. The women and children was  interned and Telavåg was levelled to the ground. It was rebuilt after the war, and a museum in honour and remembrance of the people  has been created.

But as a family we survived. My mother and her friends complained about the lack of good coffee. Food was certainly in short supply and sugar unobtainable. The wives of the Nesttun-Boys met regularly, which helped them all. For us it was a constant struggle to make ends meet. My grandparents meagre pension didn’t go far, but from time to time a man, I was told was uncle Bjarne, came to our house and gave my mother a few kroner. I was never allowed to tell anyone about this. To this day I don’t know where the money came from, and who the man was. Could it have been someone from the Stein-organisation? Those who managed to avoid being captured continued to work illegally throughout the war-years.

A Prison Camp in Germany

Once the prisoners had disembarked they were driven through a big city. It was only a short journey, and soon the gates of their new ‘home’  opened. It was a huge camp with a large watch  tower in the middle. It turned out to be Kiel they had been brought to. Most of them were placed in single cells which lined a long corridor, on the fourth floor. My father inspected his cell as soon as it was light enough to see. It was tiny, the walls were white-washed and the room measured ca 2 x 3.5 metres. A toilet bucket stood in the corner and he saw a wash basin and a soap dish plus a narrow bed. They were left in solitary confinement 23 hours a day, but were let out for short periods. No communication was allowed and they had to walk around in circles, one metre apart, until they became dizzy. One of the mindless jobs the guards told them to perform was to rub two bricks together and collect the dust in a bowl. They were all very lonely and sad, but somehow managed to talk to each other after the lights had been turned off.

My father kept these photos of mother and me during the hard times, and he said it kept him going.

That first Christmas in the camp was dreadful for all the men. On Christmas Eve (which is the main day for Norwegians) Alf Seljenes, a poet amongst the men, recited a poem he had composed. They stood by the windows facing the corridor and listened until tears ran freely. This is what he said (translated, but impossible to rhyme) by me.

“What have you done for Norway, for Norway the sacred ground?

What have you done for Norway, where your mother and father were born?

Unfortunately I did very little, because prison camp was my fate, but maybe that is the hardest and most difficult of all to come to terms with?

To sit here with bars across the windows, totally alone, is real torture. Oh, how I wish to be back in Norway and to be free.

Celebrating Christmas behind the prison walls in a foreign land can make one question and wonder, and also makes a poor man feel miserable and sad.

Try to be steadfast and strong, and remember the bough that bends is better than the bough that breaks.

This should teach us all, even though it is hard to do, to love your fellow-man, and forgive the enemy too.

And so, we wish all our loved ones a happy and joyful Christmas, and hope your stomachs are not as empty and hollow as ours are.

Accept our very best greetings, and we know we have yours too – Every beating heart at home will wish us peace for Christmas.

So, forget all your sorrows, both physical and mental anguish. We shall all meet again in Norway when the world is free.”

Seljenes survived the war and some of his many poems have been written down and kept. It was forbidden to have pen and paper which made it more difficult of course, but a good memory helped.

Alf Seljenes wrote this prologue in memory of their friends and fellow countrymen who had been condemned to death or already been shot, on New Year’s Eve in 1942.

After all the lights had been turned off, and the windows were tightly shut and dark, Seljenes recited by memory, and everyone could hear him:

Prologue in honour of our condemned friends.　

Friends! On this, the last day of the year, I think you will all agree it is a day we will never forget.

Please my friends, stay with me and fulfil my wish – let us honour those who have been killed. So, I will say, as we stand all alone by our windows, in exactly two minutes, remember the fallen. Straighten your backs and keep still when you hear my voice:

Rasmussen, Gjertsen and Offerdal – we remember you in our hearts. All of those, who never faltered, but were taken away: Iversen, Johnsen and Svanevik. We remember Garbo and Skjold. Many more have fallen and suffered and gave their lives. We remember Duesund and Vang and many more.

 I don’t believe anyone, from pole to pole, has been honoured like this. We stand here by our prison window and ‘give them our soul’.

Friends! Stand at attention – let the torches of honour shine.

We wish to say Rest in Peace.

The days and months passed slowly. The long, light spring evenings came and the cherry tree in the prison yard was in full bloom. Kristian Stein, the leader of the organisation, plus five others were condemned to death and executed. My father contracted typhoid fever and spent many weeks in a prison hospital. Cod liver oil, given by a kind guard, saved his life, he reckons, and he was eventually returned to his lonely cell. For a while he was plumper than the others, but the weight soon dropped off once he was back on meagre rations!

The families they left behind.

After my father’s arrest, and that eventful day he was sent by train into the unknown, we settled down to some sort of normal life again. The future was uncertain and times were hard. Rationing was really biting by now -1942 – and money was, for us, in very short supply.

I loved my grandparents, and was particularly fond of granddad Ole, my father’s dad. He was jolly and kind. He also had a lovely voice and I often sat by his side when he sang to me. But it was my mother who had to take charge of the household and make all the decisions after my father ‘s arrest.  The Germans treated us reasonably well, as long as we ‘towed the line’. It was forbidden to keep a radio in the house, so my grandfather buried our set near a big tree in the garden. It never worked once it was dug up after the war. So, you see, we had no idea about world events and how the war was going, except for those brave souls who listened to shortwave radios in secret and related the latest news. 

My aunt Selma, who was in charge of a hotel in Stavanger, asked my mother to help out during the summer holiday in 1942. This hotel was occupied by German officers, but my aunt and all the staff were ordered to remain. She did her best and found that some of the officers were kind and understanding and were not Nazi-friendly. In fact many hated the war and lost their own families during the numerous bombing raids over Germany.

 Late one evening my mother and I boarded a ship in Bergen and sailed overnight to Stavanger in convoy. All went well but I was very ill. For days before we departed I was in bed with a high fever. It turned out that I had contracted diphtheria. As soon as we disembarked  it was straight to hospital for young Elin, and there I remained for three weeks. The isolation ward I was in was full of sick children, and some died. I was lucky and had no lasting problems afterwards. We stayed in Stavanger for several weeks after I had recovered. My mother worked hard but we loved being with aunt Selma.

Our lives during the early part of the war.

My father and some of his friends joined the Kristian Stein Organisation towards the latter part of 1940. I am not exactly sure what my father’s mission was, but I do know he often had secret documents hidden in a dark closet under the stairs, ready to be distributed the next day.

Here is a photo of me, age 6, in 1942.

When I was growing up we lived far enough out of Bergen for it to be considered ‘as living in the country’. My uncle and aunt had the house next door and my grandparents the flat upstairs, so I was never lonesome. My mother had six sisters and two brothers, and many of them came to see us regularly. I had friends in the neighbourhood – and one best friend, named Marit. She and I played together all the time. I used to envy her because she had a sister and a brother, and I was ‘all alone’. But she thought I was lucky. We’re never satisfied, are we? Anyway, life was quite good for us youngsters, but my parents, and everybody else, had many difficult times. Food was rationed and the Germans were all over the place. We had blackouts every night and money was in short supply because of the depression.

Unbeknown to the Kristian Stein members a spy had infiltrated the organisation. His name was Marino Nilsson and he worked for the Gestapo in 1940. I have read that he was a hopeless drunk, and was  persuaded to spy for the Germans in exchange for alcohol. Some members became suspicious about his commitment, but by then it was too late. He knew the names and addresses of all the members.

  It often rains in Bergen – surrounded as it is by seven mountains – and late in the evening of October 23rd 1941 was no different.  I was fast asleep and my parents about to retire for the night when big, burly soldiers hammered on the door. My father, and six of his friends, were arrested and our house thoroughly searched. The soldiers simply went to each house and took them away. They became known as the ‘ Nesttun-Boys’ because they all lived in and around the area. 204 arrests took place in the Bergen-area over a couple of days. If any illegal maps or papers had been found when my father was arrested, he would have been shot. However, he was lucky because the papers had been delivered the day before.

I was totally distraught and can’t remember much of what took place, but if ever there was a ‘daddy’s girl’ that was me – My father was always there for me, kind and gentle.

After the arrest most of these men were sent to Ulven Leir, near Os some 10-15 miles south of Bergen. Before the war it was a Norwegian military training camp, and reverted to it in 1945. The seven boys from Nesttun were all together in one barrack, and six of them survived the hard times ahead. They spent the next nine months here. During those months my mother and I met my father just once, and that was thanks to a family who lived nearby and had a farm.

Here is the Soefteland-family with friends after the war. They had five children and owned quite a big farm not far from where the prisoners were held. Both  Jon and Anna became involved with the Ulven Leir. Jon delivered farm produce to the prison camp and became aware of what was going on. He had to pretend to be on friendly terms with the officers in charge in order to be of help to the prisoners. As a farmer, and with help in short supply during the harvest, he persuaded the German officers that he needed men to help out. His cunning plan worked. He was given a list of the prisoners due to come and his wife, Anna, contacted the wives of these people. The pretence was that they were there to serve at the table during lunch. There were always at least two soldiers to guard the Norwegians, but somehow ‘stolen private moments’ were made possible. Anna would ask one of the men to go to the basement and collect some food, and made sure that the wife was down there waiting for him. That’s how my mother and I got to meet dad and give him a hug and a kiss. Jon and Anna were rewarded after the war, and Anna wrote a very interesting book about it all. A most remarkable family indeed. I can remember them and their cosy big livingroom full of ornaments, oak furniture and pictures. One of the sons played the guitar and had a lovely singing voice. Even the Germans enjoyed themselves. In fact, many of the quards were nice and fully aware of what was going on. They even warned Jon and Anna about some of the more Nazi-friendly soldiers.

The Underground Movement

 

                      Kristian Stein.

Kristian Stein was born in Bergen in 1901. He worked for the Post Office and also owned a tobacconist shop as a sideline. As a Post Office employee he frequently travelled along the coast sorting the post. This gave him the opportunity to be in contact with many people. As soon as the Germans invaded Norway he began planning a resistance movement. It was not an easy task but by the autumn of 1940 he, and several prominent men, had things in hand and the Kristian Stein Organisation came into being. They began to smuggle people, wanted by the Germans, over to England and Scotland in small fishing vessels. These journeys, under the cover of darkness, were extremely dangerous. There were mines everywhere, and the enemy was on a constant look-out for escapees. Not everyone made it to safety, and if caught it meant prison camp or a death sentence.

The Kristian Stein Organisation had about 1500 members country-wide. The tasks these people were asked to undertake varied greatly, from supplying ammunition, printing and delivering illegal newspapers, drawing maps and general spy-work. Some, with technical ability, helped the setting up of secret radio links with England, deep in the quiet fjords  or on isolated farms. They became experts at avoiding the eagle-eyed Germans and getting themselves out of tricky situations.

Local opposition after the invasion.

Most of the fighting took place in the north of Norway. Many people lost their lives in towns like Narvik, well-known for its iron ore production. This was a product the Germans were in great need of. The Swedish border is only a few miles away, and the iron ore was sent by train across to neutral Sweden. Honningsvåg, which is one of Norway’s most northern towns, was burnt down, and had to be completely rebuilt after the war. On a cruise to the far north in 2003 we stopped at Honningsvåg, now a thriving community full of colourful houses. Only the church – a miracle really – was still standing after the great fire destroyed the town. The British and Norwegian forces fought hard and sank a few warships. But the Germans were too strong and on June 10th 1940 they capitulated and all of Norway was under German command.

King Håkon VII, Crown Prince Olav and the Norwegian Parliament fled to England. They ruled, unofficially, from London until the war ended.

Vidkun Quisling was Norway’s most hated man. He was appointed by Hitler himself to be Prime Minister of Norway.

 Here is Quisling with his hero – Hitler

 King Håkon VII was a Danish Prince before being asked to become King of Norway in 1905.           

It was strange how life almost ‘became normal’ in spite of being occupied. My friends and I were very young, and accepted the situation, like children normally do. Our parents were there and we were well looked after. The Germans were not brutal in their approach towards the general population, and tried to make friends with us children. This would naturally benefit them in the long run. We were blond, blue-eyed and of the same Germanic race. But the story was quite different for those – who in German eyes – became traitors. As soon as the started the Norwegian resistance movement came into being and groups were formed, ready to fight the intruders.

War comes to Norway

The 9th of April 1940 is forever imprinted on many older people s’  minds in Norway, because that’s the day our country was invaded by German troops. Early in the morning, on a clear and bright day airplanes and warships approached the many inlets leading to Bergen harbour, and all at once we were involved in a very bloody war lasting until 1945.

I lived with my parents and grandparents in a house built by granddad in 1902, about 6-7 miles south of Bergen. It was not a large house, but we managed. In those days the toilet was placed  in a shed across the garden, so we were not too bothered having to go outside last thing at night. That’s the way life was in those days!! Indoor plumbing was for the better-off people. My grandfather had retired and he kept busy with the small holding. Our property was big enough for us to keep a couple of pigs, a few goats and raise enough vegetables to sustain us during the winter months. We also had quite a few berrybushes, ie raspberry, gooseberry, red currant and strawberries. My mother made jam and jellies and canned what was left over.

The Germans encountered very little resistance when they arrived in Bergen and surrounding area, with surprisingly few soldiers. At Håkonsvern Fortress (at the inlet of Bergen harbour) shots were fired and a few people killed. The invasion was expected since Hitler’s relentless occupation of several European countries began in 1939, but it still came as a shock. People were relatively calm, according to the books I have read lately about this event, but very frightened.Quite a few of our relatives lived in or around Bergen and many of them left the city within days of the German takeover. Aunts, uncles, cousins and friends arrived at our house and as many as 15-20 stayed for weeks on end. Where they all slept I can’t imagine. Times were hard everywhere in the 1930s and 40s. My own father had a dreadful time finding work, and money was in short supply. I was too young to remember any of this, but somehow it must have made a deep impression on me because I’ve been told I began to stammer so badly that my mother was worried. She was adviced to ignore it, and within a few months I was back to my usual chatty self – no more stammer. One thing my mother insisted upon was that I was to stay in my own bed, no matter where the rest of them slept.

One episode I vaguely remember is that, a few weeks into the war, we were told to evacuate our homes because the resistance planned to blow up a bridge nearby, and it might be dangerous to stay at home. We headed for Totland, a mountainous ski-area some miles from our house. To a four year old this was exciting, and I didn’t mind sleeping in the hayloft on a farm for a couple of nights. As it turned out nothing happened, and we all went back home.

 My grandmother is dressed in the local national costume.