One of Us

by Åsne Seierstad

  Breivik gave a nervous laugh. He had misjudged it. He could tell. The joke had fallen flat. The opportunity had presented itself out of the blue, and now that he was for once happy with his body, it had kind of been ready for a show. The Commander had temporarily forgotten himself.

  He was issued with a disposable white jumpsuit and quickly put it on. The policemen found an old pair of shoes for him in the corridor. They could be the captain’s, or perhaps they belonged to one of the guards. Whoever they belonged to, he did not like them. But they were all he got.

  The interrogation could continue.

  ‘You say we, so who are you, as a group?’

  ‘In Norway I’m the overall leader of our organisation. I’m the commander here. I’m the judge as well. I’m the supreme authority here. The international Knights Templar can’t micromanage its Norwegian commander. Today I sent out a document to thousands of militant nationalists. Some countries have got further than Norway. France, for example, will be taken over by my brothers within fifteen years, and once they have established a decent base it will be easy to get me released from prison.’

  ‘You said you were set up as an organisation in London in 2002. Have you been working towards this goal ever since then?’

  ‘To start with, I was a sleeping cell. I’ve never expressed extreme ideas until now. That’s why the PST hasn’t found me out. It’s people like me we want to recruit, people who are suitable, but who haven’t done anything to bring them to the attention of the police.’

  He wanted to go out and pee again, and when he was brought back in he asked if anyone had any snus. Someone did. He was given a wad of snus and put it under his top lip.

  It was past midnight.

  ‘My operation will go on,’ he said. ‘But by means of the pen. History will judge me. But it’s also a question of how the media judge me. I draw a distinction between success in the techniques of warfare and media success. The media certainly wants to portray me as a monster—’

  ‘Is it your aim to be portrayed as a monster?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied briskly. ‘The aim was not to be as brutal as I have been. When I evaluated people, I tried not to take the youngest. I took those who were older. There are moral boundaries, aren’t there? Even if I perhaps didn’t show that very clearly today.’

  * * *

  The night had reached its darkest point. Outside, the July night was chilly. A tent had been erected for the men who were now conducting a full search of the island.

  ‘How long will it actually take for me to get a response to my first list of demands?’ Breivik pestered them. ‘If I don’t get access to a PC with Word in prison, I shall terminate myself. If I have no chance of contributing to the struggle for the rest of my life, it will all be meaningless.’

  ‘How many do you think you killed today?’

  ‘Um, forty, or fifty. But they were executed, not murdered. The aim was to kill the party leaders of tomorrow. If the Labour Party alters its policy, I can guarantee there won’t be any more attacks on Norwegian soil. That is, I can practically guarantee it. Maybe I can guarantee it.’

  The inspired thing about the choice of Utøya was that it was a knife blow to the heart of the Labour Party. ‘Of course it’s tragic if anyone has to die, but in the end it’s the big picture that matters. Of course it would have been much easier, say, to just kill Jens Stoltenberg. That would call for about a month’s surveillance. But for someone of my intellect and intelligence, it would be a waste of resources planning to kill only one person.’

  An officer came in to inform them that the Oslo police chief had accepted his demands.

  ‘Now you tell us what you promised to,’ said the lead interviewer.

  But the commander would not.

  ‘I want written approval, signed by the public prosecutor.’

  ‘You should keep your word and stop playing for time!’ replied the interviewer.

  * * *

  Julie was in the hotel lobby at Sundvolden when she got the call.

  Geir Kåre had told her what happened on the cliff. About Viljar getting shot in the eye, Eirin in the back, Ylva in the neck. He had been running down with Simon; he had been next to him when the shooting started. Geir Kåre had been lucky. All he had was a bullet hole in his windcheater.

  ‘Simon can’t be dead,’ cried Julie when she heard about Simon landing on the rock. It all went black. She slumped to the floor. Simon, who that same morning had invited her over to his table in the canteen when he saw she was on her own. Simon, who gave her the best hugs. Simon, who was always singing her father’s song.

  As she picked herself up from the floor, her mobile rang. She took the call without looking to see who it was.

  ‘Julie, have you heard anything about Simon?’

  It was Gunnar Sæbø.

  Julie froze.

  ‘I … I don’t know anything. He must be hiding somewhere.’

  Gunnar thanked her and hung up.

  It was night, the sun was up, and nobody slept. In a few hours’ time Tone, Gunnar and Håvard would set out on the same journey Simon had made on Tuesday. The flight from Bardufoss to Oslo. And then on to the Tyrifjord.

  Gunnar wanted to make one more call. He had been given Geir Kåre’s number. Many people said he might know something. Gunnar went into a room on his own and tapped in the numbers one by one. Gunnar knew Geir Kåre well; he had been a frequent visitor to Heiaveien since that time he came with Brage and Viljar to help Simon set up the AUF branch in Salangen.

  Geir Kåre was still standing in the lobby when he got the call. He pressed the answer key and heard a low voice.

  ‘Hello, it’s Gunnar, Simon’s father.’

  That was all Gunnar got to say.

  Because Geir Kåre just cried.

  He wept and could not stop.

  He sobbed into the phone.

  Gunnar sat very quietly at the other end.

  Geir Kåre could not get the words out.

  Gunnar was silent. He sat completely still.

  ‘Geir Kåre,’ Simon’s father said at last, ‘can you tell me what happened?’

  Geir Kåre described what he had seen.

  There was not a sound from the Salangen end. Then Gunnar cleared his throat.

  ‘Is there any chance Simon could be alive?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Well I’m not a doctor—’ replied Geir Kåre.

  ‘Is there any possibility you could be wrong?’

  ‘But I’ve been in the army, so I’ve seen … I mean, we were taught—’

  ‘Could you be wrong?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a chance he’s alive, all the same?’

  ‘No, Gunnar, he was shot through the heart.’

  Silence down the line.

  ‘I saw him die, Gunnar.’

  ‘Well, thank you for telling me,’ said Simon’s father.

  He put the phone down. He got up and went into the living room. Tone was sitting there. All the others were sitting there.

  Gunnar didn’t say a word. His legs carried him out onto the veranda.

  * * *

  ‘Your son is charged with acts of terrorism.’

  They were sitting in a room at Oslo central police station. Wenche wanted to keep her jacket on because she was ‘all to pieces with nerves’.

  ‘Is there any proof?’ she asked.

  The interviewer confirmed that there was. ‘Did you know anything about his plans?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything!’

  ‘Tell us what you do know.’

  ‘He said he’d finally got everything he had dreamt of. He dug the soil, he sowed grass and reaped it, and he’d learned to drive a tractor. When he got back yesterday evening he was shattered and just fell into bed. He said he was going to be at home here with me for three days, for a rest. I don’t know how he could have anything to do with this. That’s all I can tell you.’

  A
nders was sensible and clever, but had definite opinions, his mother said. He had lots of good friends, and solved other people’s problems for them; everything he did, he did 100 per cent. ‘He’s a nice boy, warm and fond of his mum. Yes, as his mother I can only give him top marks.’

  ‘What was it that Anders had definite opinions on?’

  ‘He thinks so much has gone wrong with society. It should be stricter in Norway, people here have too much freedom. He thinks there should be more rules. The state church should be a proper state church, more forthright. The priests should be more like in the old days. I think the same. The Norwegian gospel won’t count for anything soon. Anders thinks it’s a bad thing that there’s no teaching about Christianity in our schools any more. But then it’s a bit difficult because we’ve got so many different people here. I grew up in the 1950s. It was stricter then. You got the cane if you didn’t behave yourself. And you were expected to show consideration for other people. Anders wanted it to be like that. I miss it myself, having grown up with it.’

  ‘Is there anybody Anders feels hatred towards?’

  ‘Not hatred. Maybe dissatisfaction’s a better word. But then so many people are dissatisfied, aren’t they?’

  ‘What is he dissatisfied with?’

  ‘He’s dissatisfied with the government. That’s allowed, isn’t it? He said the system was a shambles and they needed to change their policies a bit.’

  For her part, she said, she thought society ought to take better care of the old, and the poor children, instead of stashing away all those billions abroad. ‘But whenever he complained I would say, leave it, it’s fine living in Norway, things are pretty good for us and the government’s clever with money.’

  She was asked about his weapons. The shotgun was in two pieces, she said, and therefore not dangerous. The Glock was big, dark and so heavy she needed both hands to hold it.

  ‘He really enjoyed the pistol club. The supervisor told him he was good,’ she said, and continued: ‘If Anders does turn out to be involved in this terrible drama, I don’t want my friends ever to know. Because then my life will be ruined, too. I hope you understand. There’s no call for my friends to go judging Anders, even if I do. I can’t bear the idea of losing contact with my friends … It can’t be possible. My Anders who’s such a good, kind boy.’

  She started crying.

  ‘Would you like some tissues?’ they asked her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘And after we had such a nice time yesterday evening. Why would he want to attack a government building? It’s just unthinkable. Why would he kill people on Utøya? I mean to say, he’s a farmer in Elverum! He was so worn out and happy. This is awful. I think this might finish me off. It’s almost like my own trial. I hope you don’t see me as a bad mother. Here I am, more or less informing on my own son.’

  ‘We very much appreciate the fact that you are helping us shed light on the case.’

  ‘My son is as good as gold. If it does turn out to be Anders, he must have been unconscious when he did it. Could I go out for a cigarette?’

  They let her go out. The interview continued on her return.

  ‘How does he react if things go against him?’

  ‘He makes sure nothing goes against him. He’s always ahead of his problems.’

  ‘How does he show his feelings?’

  ‘He sometimes raises his voice, but generally he says things aren’t worth crying over.’

  ‘What’s he like when he’s happy?’

  ‘Well, then he says he’s happy. That’s what I’ve always told him: you’ve got to say it. You’ve got to show it in your body language, put your feelings into words and be more extrovert. If ever we’ve got problems, we always sit down and talk about it. He’s good at that.’

  ‘What’s he like when he’s unhappy?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him really unhappy. Because he’s never been particularly unhappy. He’s nice, and he’s decent. He changes light bulbs, carries heavy things, does bits of painting and that, so I’ve always said I couldn’t have a better son. He’s not the sort to keep his feelings inside. He was a bit unhappy when he was about twelve or thirteen because he was so small, but I told him not to think about it, because he had so many great qualities. Then he became a bit more of an extrovert.’

  She stopped, and was asked to go on.

  ‘He’s kind, he’s never done anything to hurt his mother … this is a nightmare … if what you say is true … I feel as if I’m dying … But nobody could possibly do all that on their own … it must be a gang … it can’t be Anders anyway … he only got back yesterday…’

  She fell silent for a moment. Maybe she should not say this, she went on, but what they said on the TV about that bomb had made her think. They had interviewed some expert who said how easy it was to make a bomb out of fertiliser. It had occurred to her that Anders had lots of cow dung. And when they said on TV that the man was white and had a pistol, she had thought, well, Anders has a pistol. But then she had told herself: No, I’m adding two and two to make five here, just because Anders hasn’t come home. It couldn’t be possible.

  ‘But I don’t want to say anything that might put my son in prison for fifty years. How do they treat a person who’s suspected of something like that?’

  ‘He’s safe, and the police are taking care of him.’

  ‘He said he was looking forward to his dinner…’

  Wenche started crying. ‘I shouldn’t cry so much.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said the interviewer.

  ‘No, I’d rather cry when I get home,’ she replied.

  ‘Ought I to get angry, get furious, and ask why he did this to me? It’s awful, terrible. I can’t tell a single one of my friends, and it’s sure to be in the paper and everything. It’s almost worse than being … than being lesbian or homosexual! It’s the very worst thing that could happen to a person. What will people say about me? They’ll point at me and say: she’s the mother of that man who killed those ten people on Utøya…’

  She sobbed. ‘How long will the sentence be if he’s guilty? Will he be able to have visitors?’

  The interviewer let her talk freely. ‘He can’t have planned this overnight, he must have been sitting up there, thinking.’

  Wenche paused and looked at the woman interviewing her. ‘Is it right what they say, that a mother can have an intuition, a sickening feeling? I think it is. I sat there, wanting him to see those terrible things on TV, and he didn’t come home, and I thought … and I thought … oh no…’

  She looked at the interviewer.

  ‘I’m the unhappiest mother in Norway.’

  * * *

  It was almost two in the morning. Lara had dozed in the bed, but she could not really sleep. She was afraid there was somebody standing outside her window. The sound of the shots was still ringing in her ears. She thought about Bano. Maybe she was downstairs.

  The reception area was still full of people. There were parents with desperate expressions and red-rimmed eyes. There were also cries of joy, people embracing. There were parents who had come to pick up their children, cold, yes, wet, yes, traumatised and afraid, yes, but alive!

  Lara was looking towards the entrance at the very moment her family arrived. Ali ran towards her in tears and hugged her. ‘I’m so, so glad you’re alive,’ he whispered.

  Her father came hurrying over too and folded her in his arms. He was shaking. He hugged her, kissed her, hugged her again.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said, over and over again.

  But her mother did not see her.

  All she could see was the one who was not there.

  * * *

  The interrogation at Utøya ended in the fourth hour after midnight. The accused was to be taken to the main police station in Oslo, from where his mother had just left.

  They called up one of the volunteer boat drivers who had been ferrying the police to and fro between Utøya and the mainland all night. Breivik
was taken out of the building in the white overalls and old shoes.

  On his way down the wet grass with cuffed hands, he slipped.

  A policeman grabbed hold of him so he could regain his balance.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the officer.

  ‘Yes thanks,’ Breivik replied.

  He sat in the boat in silence on the way over. It was a dull, grey dawn.

  The interrogation continued in the car on the way to Oslo. The officers asked Breivik to tell them honestly whether any more attacks were planned. He answered that: ‘If I give you that, I’ll have nothing.’

  ‘It’s important to curb people’s fears now,’ objected the police. Breivik retorted that it was up to the powers of law and order to make people feel safe.

  ‘It’s beyond our power to reassure the Norwegian people now, so you have achieved that effect.’

  Breivik grinned.

  ‘That’s what they call terror, isn’t it?’

  * * *

  All over the island, sounds were ringing out. The opening notes of a symphony, a Justin Bieber song, the signature tune of The Sopranos, or just standard ringtones. Many of the phones were set to silent, because their owners had been trying to hide and did not want to be given away by their phones. Now their mobiles were lighting up soundlessly in the darkness. Some through a blanket, in a pocket, in a stiffened hand.

  They were calls that would never be answered.

  Only the police officers set to watch over the dead could hear the tunes or see the displays, lighting up over and over again.

  Mum

  Mum

  Mum

  Mum

  Until the batteries gave up, one after another.

  * * *

  On Facebook, people were sharing their hopes and fears. Håvard followed the messages flooding onto Simon’s page.

  COME ON Simon Sæbø!

  Fighter!

  Get in touch!

  Come back hoooooome!!!!

  I have hope.

  Simon was not lying out in the rain any longer. As the result of a misunderstanding, the rescue team had started to take some of the dead off the island, transporting them over to the mainland, where the civil defence force had put up a tent.

  The young police officer from Nordre Buskerud who had stayed over at the Thorbjørn’s jetty throughout the massacre, counting the shots but never trying to interfere, was now taking part in the rescue operation. He had been part of the team that patched up Viljar’s head and helped carry him off the island and into a boat.