Silent Refuge

by Margrit Rosenberg Stenge

  After a few days in the mountains, I did something that was probably the most selfish thing I have ever done in my whole life. My only excuse is that I was only thirteen years old. I told my parents that I wanted to go back to Rogne, to stay with Nils and Alma and to go to school. Their reaction was predictable. I was their only link to the village in the event that something happened to my father, and now I wanted to leave them completely on their own. In the end, they let me go, provided that I agree to return to the mountains every weekend with provisions.

  So I set out on my skis, retracing the tracks we had made a few days earlier. I felt free as a bird — for a little while. Then I began to realize that I was now all alone in the great snowy expanse I had to cover. What would happen if I fell and could not get up? It was a frightening thought, one that I had to quickly put out of my mind. Only when I arrived at the bend where the mountains and villages on the other side of the Volbu lake came into view did I feel safe. I still had to ski downhill before I got to the main road, but at least I passed some farms and knew that I was almost at the Granlis’ house.

  Alma in particular was happy to see me and have me stay with them. I went to school as if everything were normal, but nothing was. The enormity of what I had done weighed heavily on me, and every night I looked up at the sky and in the direction of Buahaugen, wondering and worrying about how my parents were doing. It was a most difficult time for the three of us. Every weekend when I skied back up to the mountains, the loneliness of the slow climb, first through dense snowy woods and then across the wilderness of the higher plateau, almost overwhelmed me. I was also always terrified of what I would find when I arrived in Buahaugen. From one week to the next, I worried that the trail would no longer be visible and that I would have to rely on clearings in the woods and the frozen lakes to guide me.

  When I returned years later to Buahaugen with my son, Marvin, and my husband, Stefan, they were incredulous when they saw the distance I had skied all by myself when I was only thirteen years old. But, although I was nervous and scared at the time, I knew that I was just doing my duty, and every weekend after I had seen my parents and had convinced myself that all was well with them, I was grateful and able to go on for another week. By May, when it had become too difficult to ski because of the spring thaw, I left school and the Granlis and stayed in the seter with my parents.

  Somehow the spring months of 1942 passed. Difficult as it was to manoeuvre outside wearing skis in March, it became even harder to manage without skis when the snow was melting in May. Instead of skiing, we waded through deep, loose and wet snow. It was almost impossible to carry the buckets of water from the brook up to the cabin. But the spring sun is strong in the mountains, so by the end of May, all the snow had disappeared and life became easier. The recent months had, however, taken their toll. The three of us had suffered a serious setback psychologically, and our nerves were completely on edge. Even when the farmers returned to their seters, Buahaugen somehow did not feel the same as in previous years. Perhaps we knew subconsciously that this would be the last summer we would spend in the mountains.

  Two people visited us that summer. An engineer from Nordiske arrived with the usual envelope of money and stayed with us for a few days. He urged us to leave Norway as soon as possible because the Germans had begun escalating the persecution of the Jewish population in Oslo, Bergen and Trondheim. My father told him that we had no connections to the Underground in the area, and without their help, we would not be able to escape. The engineer left with the promise that he would do everything in his power to help us.

  The second visitor was Einar Wellén, our neighbour’s young nephew. He had the same message as the engineer from Nordiske, and when he heard that we were literally trapped in Rogne, he mentioned that he had a friend in the Norwegian Underground. With this friend’s help, Einar hoped to help us escape to Sweden.

  During the summer, we rented a furnished house on the outskirts of Rogne. Although it should have been a relief to live in larger quarters and on our own, we were too nervous to appreciate it. I could no longer go to school; my parents believed it was too dangerous, and I made no effort to change their minds. We tried to stay as close to the house as possible, and I was the only one in our family who did the necessary shopping. In the winter, when new ration cards were issued, I travelled quite a distance with our spark to pick them up. With my heart pounding in my chest, I asked for and received the ration cards.

  The engineer from Nordiske appeared one day, delivering the terrible news about the deportation of the Norwegian Jews to concentration camps. He promised to be back in January to fetch us and bring us to safety. We had not heard from Einar in a while. My father’s depression and violent outbursts became more frequent. We felt caught in a trap with no way out.

  My fourteenth birthday on December 27 was like any other day, and when I complained that we did not even have a small celebration, my father lost his temper. I had never seen him that furious and was really frightened when he lifted up a chair and threw it against the wall. My poor father needed an outlet for his feelings of helplessness and frustration, and my complaints triggered this violent outburst.

  We had almost given up hope when in the early morning hours of January 14, 1943, there was a knock on the door. Fearing the worst, I opened the door. Relief surged through me when I recognized Einar Wellén. He was with another young man who turned out to be his friend Arne Myhrvold. Both were exhausted and frozen because they had spent the night travelling, the last part of the journey on an open truck bed. The two young men wasted no time in telling us that everything was arranged for our escape and that we would be leaving early the following morning. They advised us how to dress and what to bring in our knapsacks. What I remember best from that day was standing over a kitchen sink dying my hair blond. Much depended on us and how we would be able to handle the situation. We would travel by truck to a small place near Fagernes, where we would board a train headed for Oslo. We would leave the train in a suburb of Oslo. A minister, recognizable by his clerical collar, would meet us at the station and take us to his home, where we would stay until the next transport to Sweden.

  This plan sounded easy enough, but we all knew that danger would be lurking in every corner. The truck could easily be stopped for an inspection, and what was even more likely was that we would be asked for identification papers on the train. But these were risks we had to take to save our lives.

  While we were preparing to leave, there was another knock on the door. We stared in disbelief at our new visitors, the engineer from Nordiske with a companion. They, too, had come to rescue us. After some discussion, it was decided that we would follow Einar and Arne’s plan, since that seemed to be the better one. Arne had been working in the Norwegian Underground for quite some time and had helped many people cross the border into Sweden via the route we were planning to take. It was quite a coincidence that these two pairs of caring individuals arrived the same day.

  We left Rogne at dawn the following day. Our truck made it without incident in time for the train to Oslo. Einar and Arne travelled on the same train as us, but in a different compartment, and in fact we did not see them again. My father hid behind a newspaper, and my mother and I tried to look as relaxed as possible. Not one word was spoken among us. By some miracle, we were not asked for identification papers. When we reached the suburb of Oslo where we were to meet the minister, we got off the train and looked anxiously around. To our immense relief, he drove up immediately in a car, and we were off to the minister’s home.

  It was a lovely house, a home such as I had not seen in a long time, beautifully furnished with paintings on the wall and a piano in the corner of the living room. Coffee and sandwiches were ready for us, and we were shown to a room to rest. The minister told us that we might have to spend the night there, because there might not be a transport to the border that day. This possible delay made us very nervous, but at the end of the day
, a message was received that we should leave immediately.

  We were driven by car to a farm and shown into the barn, where some other people were sitting in the hay waiting, including an elderly Jewish woman who had been rescued from a hospital. It was there that we found out that the three of us were among the last Jews to leave Norway. When there were about thirty people in the barn, a truck drove up, and the Jewish woman, my parents and I were told to get in first, closest to the cab. Eventually a tarpaulin was stretched across the truck bed and covered with grass. My father immediately realized that he would not be able to stay in such a confined space because he was extremely claustrophobic. He moved slowly to the other end of the truck, where he could see some light through the slits of the tarpaulin, and disappeared from our view.

  This was the ultimate agony. Not having my father close to me during those dangerous hours was unthinkable. I called, “Vati, Vati” many times, but there was no reply. I began to imagine that he had gotten off the truck and had been left behind accidentally. The man next to me told me to be quiet, since the noise I was making would endanger everyone on the transport. I was so nervous and upset that my whole body shook, and I could not keep my teeth from chattering. During the next couple of hours, I hardly thought about the danger we were in. All I could think of was whether my father was on the truck and what we would do if he were not.

  Suddenly the truck stopped and so almost did my heart. Loud voices were heard outside, but soon we were on our way again. We all breathed an audible sigh of relief, but not a word was spoken. The next time the truck came to a stop, we were told that this was the end of our drive and that we would have to walk the rest of the way to the Swedish border. A guide would accompany us. Slowly the truck bed emptied out, and when at last I saw my father and put my hand into his, I was oblivious to the danger we were in. All that mattered was that my father was with us. We walked through the snowy woods, quickly and in absolute silence. Suddenly, a small cabin appeared as if from nowhere with lights blinking through its windows. And then we heard “Welcome to Sweden. Come inside.” We then saw the silhouettes of two Swedish soldiers coming toward us.

  Our long odyssey, beginning in Oslo on April 8, 1940, had ended.

  Life in Sweden

  The soldiers’ cottage was warm and equipped with several bunks. My parents and I were each assigned to a bunk, after which my father immediately fell into an exhausted sleep. When one of the soldiers wanted to give my father a cup of coffee, I motioned to the soldier not to wake him up. Although I was just as tired as everyone else, I could not fall asleep. Too much had happened in a short time, and it was impossible for me to relax.

  The following morning, we were transported to a small city in Sweden called Alingsås, where we were quarantined in an old school. Here we met a few other Jewish people from Oslo who had recently escaped to Sweden, among them Gerd and Charles Philipsohn and their mother. Gerd was a year younger than I and always clinging to her mother’s skirts. I also met four Czech girls who had lived in Norway the last few years, been adopted by Norwegians and converted to Christianity. Under Hitler’s laws, however, they were still considered Jewish. Not only had they lost their biological parents, they were now separated from their adoptive parents. All they had was one another.

  While we were in quarantine, we were allocated some clothing and examined by doctors. The doctor who examined my father was astonished when he saw the small but deep wound on his back and recommended that he be operated on as soon as possible to close the wound.

  About two weeks later, we moved to a rooming house in Alingsås. Once again, my parents and I lived in one room. Here we had to share the bathroom and the kitchen with many other people. The two people I remember from this place were Fröken (Miss) Potovsky and her mother, who had a different surname. The two were also refugees, but they seemed to have been living at the rooming house for some time. Fröken Potovsky had a piano in her room and played Chopin incessantly — almost from morning till night. Her mother was her greatest admirer and let it be known that her daughter had been a concert pianist in her native country (Poland, I believe). Even today, when I hear Chopin’s music, I always think of Fröken Potovsky.

  My father decided to heed the doctor’s advice and have the surgery he had suggested. The prospect of being operated on in a small town in Sweden, after all he had been through, was extremely stressful for my father. Since my mother would not leave his side during his hospital stay, she could not look after me during that time, so a solution had to be found.

  A Jewish orphanage had been established in Alingsås for refugee children who needed a place to stay. I fit into that category, albeit temporarily. Not all the children there had lost their parents, but for many different reasons their parents were unable to look after them. Living with so many children was a new experience for me but one I enjoyed. The atmosphere in the orphanage was cheerful thanks to the leadership of the wonderful person in charge, Nina. Nina had a heart of gold. She scolded when it was warranted, comforted when tears were flowing and intervened when disagreements erupted; in short, she was on the go from morning till night. Nina was a psychologist by profession and herself a refugee.

  Most of the children there had come from a Jewish orphanage in Oslo that had been established a few years before the outbreak of the war. When the persecution of the Jews escalated in Germany, some parents chose to part with their children rather than risk their children’s lives, and sent them to Norway, where they thought they would be safe. The Oslo Jewish community had supported the orphanage. After the German occupation of Norway, the Norwegian Underground smuggled the children across the border to Sweden.

  Two of the children I remember best are Ruth Elias and Josef Fenster. Ruth was a cute young girl my age who had been sent from Germany to Sweden with her younger brother. After spending several years in various foster homes, Ruth was sent to the orphanage in Alingsås, while her brother was in a boys’ home in a different Swedish town. When I met Ruth, she had gone through so much hardship that she had become a difficult teenager. At times, Nina had to be very strict with her. That same year, when she was only fourteen years old, Ruth began working in a photo shop in Alingsås.

  Ruth’s parents were deported from Germany to Theresienstadt concentration camp, where her mother remained until she was liberated in 1945. Her father had been sent to Auschwitz and died on the transport. When Ruth was reunited with her mother after six years’ separation, the two did not get along. Eventually, Ruth met Amek Adler, also a survivor, in Stockholm, and they got married.2 The two immigrated to Canada more than fifty years ago and live in Toronto. Amek became a successful salesperson; Ruth succeeded in overcoming most of her old fears and lives a productive life as a wife, mother and grandmother. We met again one summer after having been out of touch for decades.

  Josef Fenster was a quiet boy about my age. Also born in Germany, he was one of the children who had been in the orphanage in Oslo. His parents died in a concentration camp. When the war was over, he returned to Oslo, became a baker and tried to blend into Norwegian Jewish society, which took him many years. Although the Norwegian Jews who had survived the war had been refugees themselves in Sweden, they felt somewhat superior to those whose backgrounds were different from theirs. Josef is one of the most generous people I know. He never married, is now retired and devotes all his free time to the Jewish community. He has become one of its esteemed and prominent members. I have met Josef each time I have visited Norway and saw him last on my visit in 2002.

  After my father had his operation, during my visits to the hospital, I was shocked to see him so pale and weak and feared for his future. After a week, he was able to return to the rooming house, but it took five more weeks for him to recover, and the operation had been unsuccessful. When my father was strong enough not to require my mother’s constant care, I returned to my parents. I had spent six weeks at the orphanage.

  When we arrived in Sw
eden, the Salomons, who were friends of my parents, had been living in Stockholm for several years and were well established. They had no children. They were originally from Frankfurt am Main, a city close to Wächtersbach. The Jews in Frankfurt were generally Orthodox, and this was the environment Hermann Salomon came from. His marriage to a beautiful non-Jewish divorcee shocked his parents and the whole Frankfurt Jewish community, despite the fact that she converted to Judaism. My father contacted them, and they were so happy to hear from us that soon afterwards they came to Alingsås to see us. Their visit was a shot in the arm for my parents. I was included in the warmth of their reunion, and when the Salomons asked me to call them Onkel and Tante, I readily agreed. I had always been reluctant to make strangers an uncle or an aunt, but the Salomons seemed like family and became Tante Ruth and Onkel Hermann without any reluctance on my part. Before they left, they not only loaned us money but offered to help us with whatever else might become necessary for our relocation in Sweden. They also invited me to come to visit them in Stockholm whenever possible.

  My father had advised Nordiske Destillationsverker in Oslo of our safe arrival in Alingsås, and the company suggested that he get in touch with its branch in Malmö, a city located in South Sweden. At the request of the head office, a position was created for my father at Nordiske in that city. After packing up our meagre belongings, we went to Malmö by train, happy to leave Alingsås and the rooming house behind.