One of Us

by Åsne Seierstad

  Late that evening, Anders returned from Oslo in his hired van. He removed all the Avis logos from the bodywork with a drill bit designed for taking off dealership stickers, and rubbed over the sticky patches with acetone. There was still a faint outline of the hire firm’s logo, but it would have to do. He started calculating the weight of the bomb, and whether the van would be able to carry it. The capacity of a Volkswagen Crafter was 1340 kilos, and now he had 900 kilos of fertiliser plus 50 kilos of internal charge. He assumed his own weight to be 130 kilos including weapons, ammunition and body armour. He was also planning to take a small motorbike weighing 80 kilos. That meant he still had about a hundred kilos’ leeway.

  Monday evening, 18 July: he took the last batches of picric acid and DDNP out of the oven. The bomb was ready. He packed the explosives in the sturdy sacks he had got from China and the internal charge was in two plastic bags. When it got dark he loaded it into the van. He had cut up a mattress and used three sections to pad a cardboard box. In this box he would transport the booster and the detonator, separate from the bomb. He put in the heavy case containing the rifle, pistol, shotgun and ammunition – more than three thousand bullets in all. Once he had satisfied himself that it all fitted and was in its proper place, he filled up both vehicles with diesel. In the morning he would strap everything down tightly.

  He was ready to go.

  That evening he took an extra dose of steroids.

  But now he had to sleep. He was shattered. ‘At this point I should be fearful, but I am too exhausted to think much about it,’ he wrote in the log.

  All We Could Dream Of

  ‘Have you packed?’

  The evening sun sent streaks of light across the living-room floor at Heiaveien. Simon stretched his long body and shook his head. Here on the floor was where Simon generally put out what he was taking with him when he went away. His first solo trips had been to football tournaments and track and field meetings. His parents had often accompanied him to the Norway Cup events. His father as trainer, his mother as a contact point and extra mum for all the little boys. Tone had carried on doing her son’s packing for a long time, but then she decided they should do it together. Simon would come up with heaps of clothes which he laid out on the living-room floor: boxers in one pile, jerseys in another, shirts, trousers and socks, all in their separate piles. Then Tone would go round the various heaps like a judge, approving or rejecting. Simon usually put out too much; he always liked to have a choice, clothes-conscious as he was. He often stopped his younger brother on his way to the door with a ‘You’re not going out in that, are you?’ and ordered him to change.

  This late summer evening, the living-room floor was empty.

  Simon’s almost nineteen, Tone thought, and after the summer he’ll be called up for his military service, I can’t carry on sorting his things out for him. Soon he would be leaving the nest, going out into the big world. He had to learn to cope on his own.

  She and Gunnar were just back from a fortnight in Turkey. It was their first holiday without the boys.

  On one of their last evenings away, they had dinner at a restaurant by the beach.

  ‘I’m just sitting here thinking,’ Gunnar said, ‘that if someone asked me whether there was one thing I wanted to change about my life, anything at all, I wouldn’t be able to think of a single thing.’

  Tone stroked his arm and smiled. ‘Well, life has given us all we could dream of.’ They had been together for over thirty years and were now in their late forties. Ever since they met on the dance floor that dark St Lucia night in Lavangen, they had known that this was the love of their life.

  They sat there with their arms round each other. ‘If there was one little thing, right this minute,’ smiled Tone, ‘it would be that we’d brought the boys with us and they were here now.’

  They laughed. Gunnar nodded.

  The boys had been offered the chance of a sunshine holiday, but they preferred to work. They both had summer jobs in the technical services department at Salangen District Council. Håvard’s was cutting the grass and undergrowth on verges and in car parks, while Simon’s was keeping the churchyard neat and tidy. He was expected to turn his hand to all sorts of odd jobs and maintenance. ‘It’s just that it’s a bit awkward sometimes, Mum,’ he said just before his parents left for Turkey, ‘having to go round with that noisy mower when people are visiting graves and want to be left in peace.’

  He usually got round it by finding something else to do for a while, like painting one of the toolsheds over by the new graves. The paint was red and he had already done three sides. He would do the fourth when he got back from Utøya.

  All year he had had a part-time job as a reporter on Troms Folkeblad and the summer had brought with it more assignments than ever. ‘Think I must have one of the coolest summer jobs in the whole of Troms!’ he wrote on Facebook the time they sent him to cover the Millionfisken festival, with free access to all the concerts. That day he had also been honoured with a visit from Bardu, and his friend Anders Kristiansen had gone round with him to interview people. It was one of the best days of the whole summer. Anders was more fun than ever, inspiring people to give entertaining answers. Perhaps he wanted to be a journalist.

  By the time his parents were flying home from Turkey, Simon had updated his Facebook status again: ‘Time to rush round and make sure there’s domestic harmony when Mum and Dad get home. 14 days on our own has left its mark.’

  So now the freshly mopped living-room floor was empty. It was nearly midnight and the sun hung like a ball just above the surface of the sea. Tone could hear Simon rummaging about downstairs and went down to check what he was doing. It was time the boy was in bed; he had to be up early tomorrow to catch the flight to Oslo.

  She came into Simon’s room just as he was zipping up the family’s largest suitcase.

  ‘Oh, have you packed your stuff in the suitcase, Simon?’

  ‘Yes, it’s practical. There’s room for the tent, the ground pad and my clothes, all in the same case.’

  ‘But it’s huge; you’ll never even get it into the tent, will you?’

  Simon had borrowed a little two-person tent. He shrugged expansively and said, ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  Gunnar came in as well, to wish him a good trip. He expected he would still be asleep when they left the next morning. He looked at the big suitcase and shook his head.

  He gave his son a goodnight hug and a few words of advice.

  ‘Be yourself and stand up for what you believe in!’

  * * *

  It was a short night.

  Early on Tuesday morning, Tone crept quietly out of the bed where Gunnar was still sleeping. She wondered how she was going to wake Simon; they had, as always, stayed up chatting too long last night.

  She put on the coffee machine, got some food out ready and went downstairs, through the basement sitting room and into Simon’s room. The pale morning light filtered through the blue curtains and their pattern of the boy with the football and skateboard. The luminous heart above the bed, which at night shone with a greenish tinge, merged almost entirely into the ceiling in the early-morning light.

  Simon was lying on his back with his arms flung straight out. His breathing was deep and even.

  ‘Simon, time to wake up!’ called Tone. ‘You’ve got a plane to catch!’

  Not a murmur.

  ‘Simon!’

  Not a grunt.

  ‘Simon! You’re off to Utøya!’

  Tone stood there admiring the peaceful face of her tall elder son and decided she might just as well lie down beside him and wake him in a more gentle fashion. ‘Simon,’ she said, this time in a coaxing whisper. She stroked his shoulder and chest. It was tempting just to fall asleep there.

  Simon had always been a cuddly boy; from an early age he had liked curling up beside his mother in bed and sleeping where she was. He could lie there for ages, close and cosy. Imagine him still being happy to sn
uggle up to his mum!

  Tone had made herself comfortable on his arm. She pinched his chest, where just a few wisps of hair had started to grow. He wriggled slightly and went on sleeping. She lay there dozing for a moment before she looked at her watch and leapt up.

  ‘Simon!’

  She pulled him with all the strength she could muster.

  He was in his usual morning daze; it would take at least an hour for him to wake up and that was an hour they did not have. He hauled himself into a sitting position in bed and put on his clothes as she passed them to him. He could not face eating anything, but Tone had made sure there were some slices of pizza left over from the one she had made the previous evening and put them in a bag in the outside pocket of his suitcase.

  She wondered if he had packed everything he would need. It was the first time he would be going on a trip without her knowing exactly what he had with him. But there was no time to worry about that now.

  The eighteen-year-old got into the driver’s seat. He enjoyed driving, but this morning he pulled in at the first bus stop.

  ‘You’ll have to drive, Mum. I’m too tired.’

  Tone smiled. Simon was dozing off, but then he came to with a start. ‘Did I say I’d promised Mari Siljebråten a lift?’

  Tone put her foot down a little. The birch forest was glimmering, pale and beautiful. For the first part of the journey they had a view over the fjord and later, as they approached Bardu, they could see up to the mountains of Troms. Simon had woken, and mother and son now talked about love. Simon and his girlfriend had just decided to split up, and Tone was the first person he had told. They had been drifting apart, and at the end of the summer he would go off for his military service in Stavanger and she would start her teacher training course in Tromsø. But what was love, really?

  ‘Oh, you’ll both find out in due course,’ Tone said gently.

  ‘I don’t know if I want to carry on studying after I finish my military service, Mum,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Tone. ‘But there’s no rush. Take one thing at a time: you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’

  Simon smiled. He was hungry for everything: experience, adventure, love.

  As they came into Bardu they drove past Anders Kristiansen’s green house, where his father was in the process of laying new flagstones in the drive. In the Kristiansens’ garden there was a little hut with just one room, Anders’s Cabin. In there he had a TV and a stereo and some bottles of tequila, his very own little party venue. Anders and his father had built it together, with decent foundations and properly insulated floor, walls and roof. His mother had made curtains for it. The cabin in the garden was to be somewhere the teenagers could be left in peace.

  A bit further up the ridge, in what was called Bardu Beverly Hills, Tone turned in at Mari Siljebråten’s house. Pretty, fair-haired and brimming with vitality, she was ready and waiting for them. She called goodbye to her mother and jumped into the back seat. Mari, a couple of years older than Simon, was the leader of the Troms delegation to Utøya that year.

  ‘Gunnar Linaker and I have been arranging things like crazy for three days and I think we’ve covered it all, so now I can look forward to this properly!’

  Gunnar, the son of the local priest, was the county secretary for AUF Troms and had grown up in the house next door to Mari. He was the one who always had an overview of all the youth organisation’s activities. He booked the tickets and sorted out the departures of the Troms youngsters from three different airports, Bardufoss, Harstad and Tromsø. He had rung the parents of all the under-eighteens who had signed up in good time, to make sure they knew what would happen on Utøya. While Mari fretted, he stayed calm.

  ‘Gunnar’s gone on ahead, he’s already on the island,’ said Mari. ‘But Hanne’s waiting for us at the airport.’

  Hanne was Gunnar’s younger sister, and had also been active in the AUF since her early teens.

  On their way to the airport at the Bardufoss military base the delegation leader received instructions from Tone.

  ‘Can you make sure Simon gets some breakfast down him.’

  ‘He’ll get his bread and Nugatti, and maybe even a slice of gherkin on top,’ laughed Mari. She was used to Simon forgetting to eat. And being picky about his food. Food was just fuel to him, but like a car he didn’t run on just anything. At last year’s summer camp in Russian Karelia, where he had represented Troms along with Anders and Iril from Bardu, they had been served nothing but cabbage soup. He had refused to eat vegetables for a long time afterwards.

  ‘Remember to answer all your phone calls, Simon. Remember to answer all your texts. Otherwise I shall stop paying your phone bill.’

  ‘Yes Mum, but my phone loses its charge so quickly it’s generally not even on.’

  Tone knew that. That was why she had bought him a new mobile phone. But it was a secret. It was to be for his nineteenth birthday on 25 July, barely a week from now. She had the cake all ready in the freezer. ‘Simon’s 19th’, said the label on the plastic bag, and she would ice and decorate it on the day.

  They were there.

  Simon’s mother hugged him. She gave one cheek a kiss, then the other. So it wouldn’t be jealous, they always said.

  Mari laughed at the pair of them.

  ‘And would you like a mumhug, too?’ Tone asked. Mari’s two cheeks also got their kisses.

  Tone stood watching them as they walked away. God, what a handsome son I’ve got!

  His best mate had taken him to the solarium because he always looked so pale, and now he was tanned and fit.

  He’s so happy with all those girls, his mother thought as she watched the delegation gather at the entrance. It seemed to be all girls on that flight, which would suit him just fine, Tone chuckled to herself.

  As they were going up the steps to the plane a crack opened in the clouds and there was a sudden brightness on the mountains beyond.

  ‘I can see the sun and the sky, Simon,’ Tone texted to her son.

  ‘No need to rub it in, Mum.’

  Rain and rough weather were forecast for further south.

  Summer Fever

  It was the sort of weather for lying at home under a warm blanket drinking tea. Lara made some thyme-leaf tea and brought it to Bano.

  ‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe a little bit,’ answered Bano.

  Lara had plied her elder sister with grapes, apples, honey, hot milky cocoa and cod liver oil. Now she was following her mother’s tip that thyme was good for your throat. But she was also trying to cool down Bano’s face, hand and feet with a damp cloth.

  At eleven o’clock the previous evening Lara had rung her mother, who had gone with Ali and Mustafa to the Football Cup in Gothenburg. While father and son were at the championship, she was visiting relatives in nearby Borås.

  ‘Have you got Lana’s number?’ asked Lara.

  Lana was Bayan’s sister. She lived in Erbil and was a doctor, a paediatric specialist.

  ‘What do you want to talk to her for?’ asked Bayan.

  ‘You know Bano and I are supposed to be going to Utøya tomorrow, but Bano’s almost lost her voice and her temperature isn’t coming down. What can I do to make her better by tomorrow?’

  ‘Lara, it’s past midnight in Kurdistan, you can’t ring Lana now! I’m coming home tomorrow. And anyway, you mustn’t ring my sister and tell her you two are alone at home! What sort of mother will she think I am? I’m coming home.’

  ‘No, Mum, you don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Yes I do!’

  Bayan told Mustafa she would be going back the next day, whether Ali’s team went through to the next round or not. The two of them had never got used to the relaxed attitude in Norway. They were anxious when they were not supervising in person and always feared the worst if the children were out and did not answer their mobiles. Bano was at home with a fever in the middle of summer; it must be something serious.


  Bano grumbled to her sister.

  ‘I don’t think God wants me to go.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish. Of course you’re going to be well enough!’ Lara retorted. Bano had been so looking forward to Utøya. They had wanted to go the previous year, in fact, but then they had to go with the family to Kurdistan, a place where they could only bear to stay for a fortnight at a time. All the restrictions, all the looks, all the rules; no, they preferred life in Norway.

  Lara massaged her elder sister’s feet and neck. She had bought crisps and sweets, and tried to tempt her with all the exciting things that would be happening on Utøya. Bano could hardly stand up, so Lara packed for her: warm clothes, a sleeping bag, a ground pad.

  They dozed off on the sofa, both of them.

  ‘You’re bound to be well enough to go tomorrow,’ said Lara before she fell asleep.

  * * *

  First thing on Wednesday morning, Bayan caught the train from Gothenburg. Four hours later she took the tram from the railway station to Aker Brygge, then the ferry over to Nesoddtangen and the bus home to Oksvalkrysset, and by noon she was ready to take over the role of nurse. She came home to find the place a total mess. Not a glass had been washed since she left, not a plate, nothing. Bano had had enough of being ill, and Lara of looking after her.

  Lara was ready to leave when her mother arrived.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be better tomorrow!’ she called to her elder sister before she slammed the door and went down to the bus stop. In Oslo she was going to meet up with the other AUF members arriving by plane and boat and train from all over Norway to continue the journey to Utøya.