The Storied and the Physical

I gave voice to a prayer.

“Daddy? I’m here with Greg and the kids at Televåg. I wish you could have seen this place. You would have had so many stories to share.”

The North Sea Traffic Museum, Nordsjøfartmuseet (museumvest.no) already had special significance to our family.

Paal Kahrs—the son of one of my father’s closest friends—designed the museum. Walking through the entrance evokes images of a boat’s hull, while the flooring is laid to resemble the ocean waves. Nordsjøfartmuseet by Paal J Kahrs Arkitekter AS - Architizer.

The museum’s design succeeds brilliantly.

Our family was visiting Norway for three reasons: Our two sons recently graduated from their universities, my mother’s side of the family was having a family reunion in Fjell—a town just west of Bergen Norway—and lastly, and most importantly to me, I strongly believe that people should stand in the places where their ancestors lived.

Therefore, the trip, to Televåg and to Norway for that matter, was a way to connect my family’s storied to the physical.

I grew up hearing the story of my father and his friends—four teenaged boys—fighting in the Norwegian Resistance during World War Two. When my father’s smuggling activities were outed by a family member to the Nazis, and believing they would face certain execution, my father and his friends stole a 5 meter long rowboat and attempted to row and sail across the North Atlantic to the Shetland Islands.

The event deeply shaped my father’s friendships and had a lasting effect on his life.

In 1998, fifty-seven years after the outing, the story was written up in Bergen Norway’s local newspaper. A translated copy of the story hangs on a wall in my home. My children know the story by chapter and verse. It was both a physical and storied reminder of where they come from.

Standing in the museum, I saw a narrow corridor bathed in blue light. Curious, I wandered into the exhibit.

To my right, against a backdrop of the roiling sea, were pictures of exhausted young men, the radios and signaling equipment they used, and tattered Norwegian flags. The exhibit left little doubt of the arduous and dangerous journey that my father and his friends left on.

As I turned to look at the next exhibit, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw a video display of people I had spent my life hearing about.

I froze.

The pictures rolled through again. I cried out.

“Daddy! My dad’s in the museum!” Taking my phone, I quickly snapped a photo of the four young men.

My sons came running. “Grandpa! That’s Grandpa!” they shouted, pointing to one of four young men in the video display. My husband, my sons, and I gaped as we saw the pictures, so familiar to us three thousand miles away on a wall in our home, blinking back at us not far from where the journey started.

I have never learned to cry pretty.

I walked over to the museum director’s door and knocked. She turned, and there I stood, mascara streaking down my face, blubbering, and for all the world, looking like a complete nut job.

She spoke in Norwegian and when I answered that I was American and visiting here, she switched to flawless English.

“My father. My father, Kåre Hitland is in the museum. My family and I have come to visit your museum from America.” I held up the iPad and pulled up the picture I had snapped a moment before.

“This is my father. And these are his friends,” I said, pointing to the photos of Ivar Kristoffersen, Stein Ottersen, and Jan Amundson. I was trying to gain some composure, and failing miserably.

“You didn’t know of this story?” the museum director asked.

I shook my head. “I knew of the story, but I had no idea that my father was in a museum.” I attempted—badly—to keep the mascara from dribbling further.

“That’s a well-known story. Everyone here knows that story,” she said.

She pointed to a young man to the left in my picture. “That man, Ivar. He’s alive. He’s active and he is involved with the museums. Let me get that information for you.”

Alive? After seventy-four years, one of my father’s friends was alive?

I didn’t know it then, but I was about to embark on a journey of my own - combining the storied and the physical.

Ivar Kristoffersen, my father Kåre (Kaare) Hitland, Stein Ottersen, and Jan Amundson. Taken at Ivar’s home 75 years after they set off on their journey to the Shetland Islands.

The museum director gave me two addresses, both in Bergen, Norway.

Bergen is my ancestral city. I can point to nearly any location and tell a story of a relative that lived or worked there. It is the combination of the stories of my family and the physical places.

After coming back to my home in Oklahoma, I wrote a letter to Ivar, telling that of seeing the exhibit and hoping that he would write back.

Months went by without an answer. Just before Christmas, a tattered letter in my hand was returned to me with a notation in Norwegian that said, roughly translated, “Please return to sender.”

“He was old. He had a good life, I bet, but perhaps I should connect with his family. Let them know that we had seen the exhibit.”

An article in the local newspaper detailed how Ivar climbed Ulriken Mountain by himself three times per week. The article mentioned his son and his grandchildren and that they accompanied Ivar from time to time.

“Maybe? Maybe the son is on Facebook? Maybe he would answer? Maybe?” A quick look at one of the photographs that accompanied the article identified a likely candidate.

“Hello,” I began, “you don’t know me, but your father saved my father’s life in 1941. I live in America, and we went to the museum in Televag…”

“Hello!” came the reply. “My father is out on his hike but will be returning around three this afternoon. I will let him know of your visit to the museum.”

Ivar hadn’t died. I had sent the letter to the wrong man!

Waiting those two hours took what seemed to be days.

“Yes, my father remembers your father and the journey,” came the response. “If you are ever coming back to Norway, we would like to meet you…”

Six months later, on the 75th anniversary of their leaving Norway to fight with the Norwegian Resistance, I met Ivar and Stein, who had come from his home in Oslo to meet us. They shared stories of the hardships they faced and stories of my father.

The next day, I visited Paal Kahrs, who shared stories of their adventures and photos that I had never seen.

Past and present. Storied and physical. Sharing the old with the new.