Åsne Seierstad - One of Us

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 new 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.