Since the Jewish community felt it could not function without proper leadership, a rabbi and a cantor were hired from abroad. A Jewish youth group was established, which we called Jødisk Ungdomsforening — Jewish Youth Society — and met at regular intervals. Excursions were organized to a community-owned cottage that was located in the mountainous area overlooking the city of Oslo. My old friend Celia and I were usually the youngest in this group, but we always participated in whatever the Jewish Youth Society had to offer.
In the summer of 1946, the first post-war Jewish inter-Scandinavian conference was held, with participants from Norway, Denmark, Sweden and Finland. These conferences, which were held every summer, were run like a camp, but with emphasis on workshops and discussion groups. It was important for us to exchange ideas with contemporaries from the other Scandinavian countries, and the conferences were always very successful. Many a romance blossomed during the two-week conferences, a number of which led to weddings. Although I attended that first conference after the war when I was seventeen years old, I did not seem to fit in. Perhaps I was too young or too shy, or maybe just too serious.
For the young Jewish women in Oslo, these summer conferences were especially important. So many young men had been deported and killed during the war that there was now a real shortage of eligible men. At the conferences, at least there was a chance that the young women might meet someone. When all else failed, the young Jewish women dated non-Jewish men, often resulting in marriage. As for the young Jewish men, they often married Norwegian gentile women, claiming that they knew the Jewish women too well to fall in love with them. Today the Jewish community in Norway consists mainly of intermarried couples. However, more often than not, the Norwegian gentile women convert to Judaism and become Jews in the truest sense of the word. Their children are raised as Jews, and the families attend synagogue on a regular basis.
That same summer, I heard about a private school that offered a one-year course covering the curriculum for the last two years of high school. The fact that I was one year behind in school troubled me a great deal. I was in a hurry to finish school, because I felt that I had to complete at least my high school education while my father was still able to work. His health had deteriorated somewhat during that year, which he attributed to our cramped living conditions, and I was worried. I applied and was accepted. The school was located in an old building on Drammensveien — in fact, everything about it was old, from the creaky stairs leading to the classrooms to the desks and other equipment. There was no schoolyard.
As soon as the school year began, I realized that it would be impossible to study as intensely as I needed to in our one-room apartment. But where could I go? Beks and John quickly found a solution. They approached their friends Klara and Alf Ellingsen and asked them if they would rent us the empty room in their apartment. When the Ellingsens heard of my dilemma, they agreed, and I promised myself that they would not regret their decision. I had dinner with my parents every night, but breakfast and a sandwich for lunch from the Ellingsens was included in the price of the rent.
Klara was a tiny, blue-eyed blond woman. She was very friendly and loved to talk and tell stories. Because I was always so busy, our little get-togethers took place late at night over a snack and a cup of coffee. Her husband, Alf, was her exact opposite — tall and gangly and very quiet. Alf and Klara were the parents of a ten-year-old son, Bjørn-Sverre, a typical Norwegian light-haired, blue-eyed boy, who was tall for his age and quiet like his father. Since his scholastic achievements left much to be desired, I often helped him with his homework.
My room at the Ellingsens’ was small and narrow, sparsely furnished with a bed and a desk, and had a window looking out on Bogstadveien. For the next nine months, I divided my time between school, dinner at my parents, an occasional visit with Beks and John and studying in my room at the Ellingsens’. I arose at 5:00 a.m. and studied until late at night. There was no time for any social activities, but I was determined that this would be my last year of high school.
My classmates were a mixed group of people, all older than I, whose schooling had for one reason or another been interrupted by the war. A few young men had been fighting overseas; others had been working in the Norwegian Underground. One young woman who hailed from a small village was absolutely brilliant and astounded all of us with her knowledge. A young man and a young woman discovered each other at the beginning of the school year, fell in love and got married the following year. But as diverse as the students were, we all worked extremely hard. The requirements for obtaining a high school diploma in those days were stringent, the school fees were high and no one could afford to fail.
In the fall of 1946, the owner of a small plumbing company, Mr. Myhrvold (no relation to our rescuer Arne Myhrvold) began building a duplex in a suburb of Oslo. Someone at Nordiske knew of this project and approached Mr. Myhrvold, offering him a large sum of money in exchange for his promise to rent the upper floor of his house to my parents. Offering key money was the only way to get an apartment in those days, and we were very fortunate that the opportunity presented itself. The deal was made, and although my parents had to wait another six months until the completion of their apartment, they knew that their stay in the studio apartment would come to an end in the foreseeable future. I remained with the Ellingsens until the end of the school year because their place was much closer to the school than our new home.
Without Nordiske’s help, we would never have been able to rent our beautiful new apartment. In retrospect, however, I realize that the paint formulas my father handed over to Nordiske must have brought the company huge profits.
The apartment was located in one of Oslo’s many attractive suburbs, which was reached by commuter train. The station was about a ten-minute walk from our home. Our apartment consisted of a large living-dining room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bath. Since the kitchen was too small to accommodate the large refrigerator my parents bought, the refrigerator was placed outside our entrance door on the landing. The view from our balcony off the living-dining room was breathtaking: the whole city of Oslo and the Oslo Fjord beyond lay at our feet.
The furniture my parents had bought in Sweden, as well as the dishes, Persian carpets and paintings they had brought from Germany, came out of storage. Now they were finally put to use. I believe this new home truly rejuvenated my parents. A picture taken in the summer of 1947 shows my smiling father having a “tea party” with his little friend Renée on our balcony.
Onkel Gustav, Tante Selma and Elfriede had settled in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where my aunt’s relatives lived. My uncle, a small wiry man, worked as a labourer in a lumberyard. It was a hard life. Gustav had decided early on that if his brother survived the war, he would visit him regardless of the cost. So, in the early spring of 1947, Onkel Gustav arrived in Oslo for an emotional reunion with my parents. Nothing could have touched my father more or given him greater pleasure than this visit with his only surviving brother. He and my mother both knew how much my aunt and uncle had sacrificed to make this trip possible. This was the last time the two brothers met.
That same year, a contingent of about four hundred Jews arrived from Europe at the invitation of the Norwegian government. The goal was to repopulate the Jewish communities that had been nearly destroyed by the Nazis. Little did I know that their arrival would change the entire course of my life — my future husband, Stefan Szilagyi, a survivor from Hungary, was one of the new immigrants. One young couple got married as soon as they set foot on Norwegian soil. Their picture was splashed on the front pages of several newspapers. This couple, Judith and Victor Farkas, would later become dear friends of ours.
The majority of the new immigrants were from Hungary and Poland. Norway was still suffering from the effects of the occupation, and the ongoing housing shortage became a big problem for the newcomers. Some of the families were housed in barracks located on the same commuter line as our new apartmen
t, only a few stations away. The single young men generally found accommodations in rooming houses in Oslo or the smaller cities. Most of the newcomers managed to find jobs in their trades, where they also learned to speak Norwegian. The majority of these newcomers eventually immigrated to Canada and the United States, where the opportunities for a higher standard of living were undeniably better than in Norway.
In the spring of 1947, I took part in Norway’s Day of Independence. May 17 is marked with festivities that last from morning till night. In the morning, children of all ages from the schools in Oslo march in a parade on the main street of the city, Karl Johans gate, to the royal castle at the top of the street, where members of the royal family stand on their balcony and wave to their young subjects. The children are dressed in their finest for the occasion, some in the different national costumes of the country, and all wave tiny Norwegian flags. Some of the schools have their own marching bands that proudly precede them.
Of all the different groups represented in this parade, the russ, the graduating students, in their red or blue tasselled caps are the most noticeable. The red caps represent the year’s graduates of the standard secondary schools and the blue caps the graduates from the business secondary school. They are an exuberant group, singing songs, shouting slogans, waving flags and often riding in old cars that are painted red or blue for the occasion. It is a somewhat strange custom, since none of these students have as yet passed their exams. But this is their day to celebrate, and celebrate they do.
In the spring of 1947, I was part of the noisy gang of russ. I proudly marched in the parade in my red dress and my red tasselled cap. Sadly, I found myself feeling like an outsider even on this happy day. In the evening, a class dinner had been arranged in a restaurant, but because we were such a diverse group, we did not have a party afterwards like all the other russ. I remember walking down the hill to the commuter train all by myself, feeling both dejected and elated. Yes, I was alone that night, but I had accomplished so much in one year. I was convinced that I would pass all the exams ahead of me. And I did — with flying colours! I applied to the one-year business course offered to high school graduates at the business secondary school and was accepted. Whatever happened, I would have a sound education, and if possible go on to university. My ultimate goal was to be a translator.
During the last few school years, I had learned quite a bit of English, and I had often wished I would have the opportunity to visit England to practise my newly acquired language. In the summer of 1947, my dream came true in the form of a graduation present from my father. On a beautiful day in July, I boarded a Norwegian ship for Liverpool and six weeks of glorious freedom.
The crossing to England was uneventful. I enjoyed the sun and the fresh ocean breeze as the ship made its way across the waves. When we approached Liverpool, I was almost sorry that the voyage had come to an end. From Liverpool, I took a train to Birmingham, where my cousin Erna was waiting for me on the platform with her young son, David, in her arms. We were so happy to be together again after a separation of more than ten years.
Erna and her husband, Erwin, lived in a blue-collar neighbourhood of Birmingham. Row upon row of identical houses had been built in this area, and the Brauners lived in one such small house. Erwin worked in a jewellery factory at a modest salary, but somehow they managed to make ends meet. Erna was busy with David, who was about eight months old at the time, and she was pregnant with her second child.
Erna and I made up for lost time and enjoyed each other’s company. We talked, I helped her around the house and we went on walks with the baby. On Fridays, we baked her famous spice cake for the weekend. The days and weeks just flew by. The one thing I did not like about Birmingham was the weather. The sun did not shine more than two days during the several weeks I spent there.
A few weeks after I arrived in England, I went to London. I went sightseeing and visited all the famous buildings and museums I had heard about. The history I had studied in school came alive before my eyes. One afternoon I went to see the film Gentlemen’s Agreement. I fell in love with Gregory Peck, who played the main character, and stayed in the theatre to see the film a second time.
While still in Oslo, I had contacted a Jewish youth organization in London. Now I phoned one of its leaders and was told that they were going on an excursion to Stratford-on-Avon the following Sunday. Would I like to join? I was glad to have the opportunity to meet with British young people around my age, and on the bus trip to Stratford, I was finally able to try my conversational English (I spoke German with the Brauners). We travelled through the English countryside, which is particularly beautiful in midsummer with its pristine green grass on gentle slopes, and even the weather cooperated. In Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace, we attended a play, none of which I understood, but it was a thrill just to be there.
When I returned to Birmingham, Erna and I resumed where we had left off, and all too soon it was time to say goodbye. It would be many years until we would meet again.
An End and a Beginning
In the fall of 1947, I once again entered a new school. But this was different — it felt normal. Having applied and been accepted, I was ready to start at the Handelsgymnasium (business school). My classmates were all the same age as I, and all of them had graduated from the standard secondary school in the spring that year. The pace was not nearly as frantic there as at the previous year’s private school.
That Handelsgymnasium was a business school par excellence. Our subjects were varied, and all the classes were geared toward a career in business — Norwegian, English, German and French composition of business letters, Norwegian and English stenography, extensive typing courses and bookkeeping. Since I had always had trouble with numbers, bookkeeping was one subject I came to detest. I had already decided that I would never become a bookkeeper, but since it was an important subject, I still had to devote much time and effort to it.
We had not seen our friend Jack Ganz since we left Malmö and often wondered where he was. So my parents and I were delighted when he turned up one day at our apartment with a young woman. Helena was a concentration camp survivor from Hungary and among those who had been rescued by Count Bernadotte and brought to Sweden. That was where she and Jack had met. From the way the two looked at each other, we knew that Jack had come to introduce us to his future wife.
My parents and I instantly liked Helena. Her open smile, her valiant attempts at speaking a mixture of Swedish and Norwegian, and her warmth made her irresistible. Like so many others, she was all alone in the world, the only survivor of a large family. Somewhat embarrassed, she divulged that she was pregnant. To my surprise my father, who would usually have frowned upon such news, was all smiles. Soon after their visit, Jack and Helena got married, and my mother began knitting baby clothes. Despite the housing shortage, Jack had managed to rent a one-bedroom apartment, and when their first daughter, Irene, was born, their small family was all settled. They would become the parents of two more children, a son, Howard, and another daughter, whose name I cannot recall. Jack and Helena would remain in our lives for years to come.
My family’s life was quite stable, with a comfortable routine. My father went to work at Nordiske every day, and my mother took care of our apartment. She was often annoyed with me, rightfully so, because my room was messy. I know now that her frustration with me, as well as my own arguments with her, were quite normal for a parent and an eighteen-year-old girl, but at the time the situation made me quite unhappy. Since my mother was often unreasonable in her demands, my father sided with me on many occasions, and peace was restored until the next incident.
One day, my father returned from the office in a particularly good mood. On the train coming home, he had run into Einar Wellén, whom none of us had seen since January 1943, although my father had spoken to him on the phone to thank him for all he had done for us. Einar had told him of his recent marriage and promised to vi
sit us shortly with his wife, Marit.
And then on November 11, 1947, that which I had dreaded almost all my life suddenly happened. It happened on a night when a Women’s International Zionist Organization (wizo) meeting was scheduled to take place in the evening with a prominent speaker from Palestine. This was a big event for our small Jewish community, and women of all ages, including my mother and me, flocked to the hall where the meeting was held. I cannot recall another occasion when the two of us went out together at night and left my father alone. We came home around 10:30 p.m. I was already in my room when I heard my mother cry out in panic. I ran into my parents’ bedroom. There lay my father on the floor in a pool of blood. With great difficulty, we managed to lift his limp body and put him into his bed, but I think we both realized that we were too late. Traces of blood from the bathroom into the bedroom confirmed that he had felt ill and had been on his way to lie down. He had died all alone, and my mother and I were inconsolable. A doctor came and confirmed what we already knew. Although the doctor assured us repeatedly that even if we had been home, we could not have done anything to save my father, the knowledge that we were not there for him haunted us for months to come. My father’s healthy lung had collapsed; it had simply been overworked.
Onkel Hermann arrived from Stockholm the following morning, and the funeral took place the day after on a cold, dark winter day. I was chilled in body and soul and never shed a tear. I did not see anybody and did not hear anything; I wrapped myself in a cloak of silence, from which I emerged only later that night. I suddenly began shaking uncontrollably. I could not breathe and thought I was going to die. A doctor had to be called to give me a sedative. I had had a panic attack.
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