The judges entered and everyone stood up.
Wenche Arntzen remained standing to read the decision.
‘Anders Behring Breivik, born 13 February 1979, is convicted of breaching §147a of the legal code, clause one letters a and b … to detention in custody…’
A smile spread across Breivik’s face. Accountable for his actions!
He received the maximum penalty the law allowed: twenty-one years. But detention in custody meant that, as long as he represented a threat to society, the sentence could be extended by five years, another five years, another five years – until death claimed him.
Part Three
The Mountain
He slid down the cliff.
And threw himself behind a rock.
He slithered down the cliff.
And ran under the ledge.
He skidded down on soil and gravel.
And crept behind a boulder.
He leapt down in long strides.
He readied himself. Three jumps and he’d be down.
You know, Tone, our Simon’s a fast runner and a good swimmer.
He had said on that Friday.
How many times had he slid down that cliff for Simon …
He slid in the night, he slid in the day, he slid in his dreams.
A hundred times. A thousand.
Over and over again he saw his son in front of him – jumping over the log, not stopping halfway, but sliding on.
Run, Simon! Run!
Gunnar slid.
He slithered.
And then he stumbled.
Losing Simon was like falling into a black hole.
* * *
Masterbakk Lake lay tranquil. Occasional little rings spread across the surface; an Arctic char came up for air. Some ravens flew over the treetops.
It was late summer, two years after. Tone had gone to bed. Gunnar was sitting up.
He felt he had failed as a dad. Something had gone wrong in the upbringing of his son. He who had taught the boy about the dangers of nature: wolves, bears, avalanches. Storms, angry elks and deep water.
It had let him down when it really mattered.
Why did he wait so long to run? Why did he stay there, lifting people down, and not get away himself? He must have realised he had to run now!
They had brought the boys up to be considerate. Help others. Let others go first. Gunnar remembered when he had been the trainer of the boys’ football team in Salangen. They had gone to compete in the Norway Cup, and Simon was angry because he did not get very long on the pitch, even though he was good. Gunnar impressed on him that they were all equal, the good players and the slightly less good. Everyone would play for exactly the same length of time, and if there was not enough match time for everybody, Simon would have to come off first. That was just the way it had to be.
* * *
Gunnar was back at his work in industrial and commercial development in Salangen. Sitting around idly did nothing to help. Tone was working three days a week with special needs children.
Håvard had got a place at a folk high school in Voss, on their sport and outdoor recreation programme.
But first he had gone to enrol for military service. When it came to filling in his personal details, he ground to a halt. Name, address, parents … siblings …
Siblings. Tick the box.
Should he tick the box?
Did he have a brother?
After Simon died, Håvard lost his foothold. The foundation was gone. The springboard on which the two boys had stood together gave way when one of them was gone. Initially Håvard was going to do it all. He took over the leadership of the Salangen AUF. He took over the homework-mentoring role for the refugees; he was going to be Håvard and Simon rolled into one. But it did not work. As the November darkness descended that first autumn, he broke down.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Simon’s face. Even so, he got cross when his mother shed tears and had no patience with his parents when they sat indoors, staring into space. He could not bear to live at home any more, and moved in with his girlfriend.
It was so painful. Too painful.
The big blue house in Heiaveien was too cramped now that there were only three of them. ‘The House of Sorrows’, Håvard called it.
* * *
Two thousand people attended Simon’s funeral. As many people as there were inhabitants in town. Offices, shops and businesses all closed for the service. The Prime Minister had flown up, and spoke at the church.
All that summer, Simon had gone off to the churchyard in the mornings to his work as odd-job man. The very last thing he did before he went to Utøya was to cut the grass on top of what was to be his own grave. It was unbearable. Now it was his parents taking the steep path. Up the hill, round the curve in the road, and they were there.
Flowers, wreaths, hearts of roses, friends’ letters, pictures, tears. Among all the tokens on his grave, there was a small handwritten note: To Simon. My only Norwegian friend. Mehdi.
* * *
Three days after Simon’s funeral, Gunnar had a phone call from a friend.
‘I’ve heard the Dahl cabin is being put up for sale.’
‘Oh,’ said Gunnar faintly.
A month later, his friend rang again.
‘The cabin’s on the market now. You can find it on the web. You and Tone have always wanted a cabin.’
It was rare to find plots of land for sale in the Masterbakk mountains. This was Sami territory, the realm of the reindeer. The mountain areas were the preserve of the reindeer herders, and every May the herds were there before they moved off east to other grazing. The few cabins on the fells above Salangen had been there for generations. New plots were never for sale.
But now there was the Dahl cabin, with its wonderful location, that nobody used. The family that owned it had moved south and no longer needed a cabin in the middle of Troms.
Nor did Tone and Gunnar. Their days were black. Their nights darker still.
The friend would not give up.
‘Think of Masterbakk Lake when it’s completely calm and the char are biting,’ he said to Gunnar. ‘Think of Lørken when the high slopes are yellow with cloudberries in August. Think of skiing down from Sagvasstind when the sun comes back in February. Think of the northern lights in the winter, when—’
‘I know, I know,’ said Gunnar. He lapsed into silence, and then added, ‘I’ll talk to Tone.’
A month later, the family friend rang again. ‘The bidding has started.’
Okay then. Gunnar put in a bid too. But it wasn’t worth thinking about; the bids were likely to go sky-high.
It wasn’t the mountain peaks that drew them to it, or the fishing lakes. It was the prospect of getting away. Breaking free. Not free from the grief, for that had become a part of them, but perhaps the mountains could absorb a little of it.
The price rose. One last bid, they did not dare go any higher. Then the seller suddenly called a halt to the bidding.
Somebody, maybe a friend, had dropped a hint that Sæbø was among the bidders.
‘Well, I think I’ve been offered more than enough for this cabin now,’ said the seller. ‘It goes to the most recent bidder.’
It was the Sæbø family.
The Dahl cabin had merged into its surroundings, and was in the process of being reclaimed by the natural world. The juniper bushes were encroaching on the walls. The mountain grass in the lee of the wind had become a resting place for the sheep. Bilberry scrub was growing up through the front steps. It had long been left uncared for, rot was spreading through the logs and the wood panelling had decayed.
Tone and Gunnar thought they would be able to patch it up, putty the windows, weatherproof the cracks. They could manage that.
‘Let’s raze this dump to the ground,’ said their friend when he and Gunnar went up there one day to take a look. ‘You two want a cabin for when the wind’s blowing too, don’t you? For when it’s below zero? Let’s build a n
ew one. I’ll take charge of the building work.’
* * *
That first 17 May without Simon, they were up there on the frozen crust of the snow.
The sky was clear, the wind had dropped; there was frost at nights and summer weather in the daytime. It was light around the clock.
They splashed petrol on the walls and the turf roof. Then they threw in matches. The old timber was alight in an instant. They stood watching the flames lick rapidly up the walls. Soon the roof was ablaze.
They were there with a few close friends. None of them could face being down in the town on National Day. The memories of the previous year were too raw. Tone did not feel up to seeing people. She had become withdrawn.
The snow was still piled high. Expanses of white all around them. Below the bonfire of the cabin, the water of Masterbakk Lake was still frozen, right between the twin peaks of Snørken and Lørken.
Oh, it was a beautiful place on this Earth!
But it was impossible not to think about the year before.
‘Last year, Simon was on the podium…’ said Gunnar.
‘Yes, and what a great speech he made!’ someone said.
Tone forced out a smile.
‘Imagine him telling that story about JFK,’ said Gunnar.
They nodded. ‘Yes, and to think of…’
One day Tone and Gunnar had come across the script Simon had prepared for his speech – the school president’s 17 May speech.
Reading it was like listening to Simon’s voice.
‘They decided to name me J. F. Kennedy. He was a president like me, you know. But unfortunately he got shot in Dallas. I’m too much of an optimist to sit waiting for the same fate…’
It hurt so much.
It was the first 17 May, in the blackest of years, and here they were burning a cabin. Before long, all that was left were glowing embers in the snow.
* * *
The snow melted. Summer arrived.
‘We just wondered if you needed any help,’ said a couple with strong arms.
‘Well, I was baking anyway,’ said a neighbour, producing an apple pie from her bag.
‘We’ve no particular plans for the summer, so if you need us, we’ve got time,’ said some friends.
‘I know someone who runs a sawmill, and these materials were going spare,’ said a man.
‘Perhaps you’ve got a use for this casserole?’
‘They had a special offer on sausages, so I thought I might as well bring some along…’
‘Do you need any help with the bricklaying? Seeing as I’m free.’
The Dahl cabin was a long way off the beaten track. At first you could only guess who those dots approaching from afar might be. As they got closer their heads would disappear behind the last hump in the hill, and all at once they were there. They were always carrying something. Some planks, a hammer, home-baked bread.
By the end of the summer the cabin was finished. All it lacked was a new sign over the door. A friend had had a sign made, with the name etched into it in swirly letters. He hung it below the ridge of the roof.
It was the most beautiful sign they had ever seen. The old Dahl cabin had gone; this hut was new and it needed a new name: Simonstua – Simon’s Cottage.
* * *
Gunnar sat alone on the veranda. The sign hung behind him. Inside, Tone was fast asleep. Håvard was singing at a wedding.
The black hole still took up far too much space. They had to hold on tight so it would not swallow them up.
He was still sliding.
He slithered. He stumbled.
The sense of loss could drive him insane.
But they had started to see the starlit sky.
And the northern lights. And all the beauty around them.
Weaver’s Heaven
‘Are you in your weaver’s heaven, Mum?’
It was as if she heard his voice. He always used to come dashing in, give her a hug and comment on the pattern in the warp before he charged off again. From the earliest of ages he had seen his mother weaving, her fingers knotting threads and one colour changing to another. He had admired how the threads made such lovely patterns.
Gerd Kristiansen was much in demand as a weaver in Bardu. Her tapestries hung on walls all around the village, served as bedspreads in Finnsnes and table runners in Salangen.
For her, weaving was like entering another world. She was able to collect her thoughts at the loom and find a breathing space after heavy shifts as an auxiliary nurse at Bardu care home.
One spring day her son had come into the room she had set aside as her weaving workshop. He stood there looking at her various pieces of work.
‘Mum, can you weave one for me?’
‘Oh, would you like one?’ his mother answered happily. ‘What colours do you want?’
‘Blue, blue like the sky,’ he replied.
She had spent a long time on it. She had mixed blue and white so his bedcover would turn out a real sky blue. When it was done, it was exactly as she had hoped. It was like lying in the grass on a fine summer’s day looking up as wisps of cloud went by.
She had just finished it. Her son had run a hand over the soft blanket and thanked her, said how wonderful it was. Before he left.
* * *
That was two years ago.
In the first months she could not bring herself to touch the loom.
Now she was gradually starting again. But it was hard going, her fingers were stiff and slow and it wore her out.
Two years had passed, and life had only got worse.
The sense of loss, the emptiness, the lonely days. It was not true that grief faded. It grew. Because now it was final; he was never coming back.
Gerd was scared of meeting people, because it was embarrassing if she cried. It could come over her at any time, anywhere. She felt as though everyone around her thought things ought to be better by now. She could see it in people’s eyes. Their looks said: You’ve got to move on.
Folk would ask her: ‘Are you back at work now?’
As if that were any kind of measure. No she wasn’t. Perhaps she could have coped, were it not for the fact that her job, too, meant dealing with life and death. At Bardu care home, old people were dying all the time. She could not take it. They were old and they died natural deaths, as was the way of things. But even so, they died. She could not take any more death.
The care home management had been flexible. She could come and go as she wanted, do shifts here and there if she felt up to it.
Her son was always crashing about in her head.
Viggo missed him constantly.
Their memories went in circles.
They buzzed round and round. They were there in their dreams. They were there in their sleepless nights.
Gerd called life ‘existing minute by minute’. Every single minute felt like a battle. Time went on but life had stopped. Meanwhile, everyone else said they would have to build it up again. But how could they build up their life without their boy? As their elder son Stian put it when he was fed up with all the talk about Norway having won out over evil and hatred, ‘I shall never win over anyone as long as I’m a little brother short.’
The roses, rainbows and democracy that were supposed to defeat the perpetrator only increased their sadness. It made them sick to hear party leaders say that Labour was the victim of the massacre. They were upset by AUF members’ talk of ‘reclaiming Utøya’ before the murder victims had even been buried.
They could not forget AUF leader Eskil Pedersen’s words on the first day of the trial: ‘The pain is less now.’
Hadn’t he talked to any of the bereaved, they wondered. Didn’t he know anything about how the parents of his dead members were feeling? His The pain is less now, a bare nine months after the killings, made it impossible for them to listen to any of the other things he had to say.
The Kristiansen family felt bitter about a lot. First, the AUF. Anders had set up Bardu Workers’ Youth League
as a fifteen-year-old in 2008. He had been leader of the local branch for two years. When he became the head of the Youth County Council for Troms, the year after Simon and Viljar’s attempted coup, he stepped down as leader of Bardu AUF and became the treasurer instead.
When Eskil Pedersen came to visit Bardu the year after Anders’s death, the parents found out about it from the local paper. In Troms Folkeblad they saw the pictures of the AUF leader with new young members. No one had notified them. They had not had so much as a phone call to say that he wished to express his condolences to the parents of the late AUF treasurer in Bardu. No, Anders was dead, so he did not matter any more; that was how it felt to them.
The AUF had planned to mark the first anniversary of the massacre, 22 July 2012, on Utøya itself. The plans excluded the parents. They could come another day.
What? Were the parents not to be allowed to commemorate their sons and daughters a year on, in the place where their children had been killed?
No, because Utøya was the AUF’s island.
Were there no grown-ups in the Labour Party? Were there no manners? No, the Labour Party just said it was the AUF’s island and the young must be the ones to decide. In the end, the AUF gave in to pressure from the support group for the bereaved and they reached a compromise: the parents would be permitted to come at eight in the morning. But they had to make sure they were off the island before the surviving AUF members, those who had defeated the perpetrator, arrived. The last boat would be leaving the island at 11.45. After that, no parents were allowed to be there, because the young people were going to recreate the Utøya feeling.
‘I would so much have liked to be there, to step into her world,’ one father from Nordland county commented to the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation. He had lost his sixteen-year-old daughter and wanted to ‘step into the atmosphere, be there together with the AUF youngsters’ to try to understand what it was about the summer camp that made his girl look forward to it all year. He simply wanted to be on the island along with the AUF crowd.
‘I want to look for what was so important to my daughter here,’ said a mother. ‘Was it that little?’
Gerd and Viggo could not bring themselves to go to Utøya once they had seen the terms on which they would be allowed to attend. They did not feel welcome. Tone and Gunnar decided to go down anyway. Tone later said that the anniversary was the worst thing she had been through since Simon died. Making a hasty visit to the cliff, laying flowers by the rock and then hurrying off the island because the survivors were due to arrive, getting off the ferry at the Thorbjørn’s jetty and having to run the gauntlet of that merry throng of AUF members tripping over themselves to get aboard. Tone had had to duck her way through the crowd of young people. She felt they avoided meeting her eye. Maybe it was all part of being young, not dwelling on the dismal side of things. Being thoughtless.
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