When I asked about documentation regarding his injuries, he pointed without hesitation to a drawer that should contain some newspaper clippings about the accident. Which it did. Several national papers carried notices about the accident involving Ivar Storskog, and he was later interviewed by one of them about his handicap. ‘If you disregard the almost illegible doctor’s signature, there should be a doctor’s certificate at the bottom of that pile of papers,’ he said. Which also proved to be true. I apologized that I had to ask, and he assured me that he understood perfectly well, ‘given the grisly nature of the case’.
Probing questions about his finances and handicap seemed to make no dent in Andreas Gullestad’s unrelenting good humour and friendliness. However, all this drained from his face as soon as I asked about the cause of his father’s death.
‘I hope you understand that it is still a very painful subject for me and I would rather not go into great detail,’ he said, with some reservation.
We sipped our tea in silence; then he leaned forward towards the table and carried on.
‘My father was, as you perhaps know, a very rich man and a respected pillar of the community, well known beyond the boundaries of his parish. I was his only son and the apple of his eye. No one has had a better father, and he was my greatest idol throughout my childhood. The 1930s were hard, even in Oppland, but I never saw anyone leave my father’s farm empty-handed, whether they needed charity or not. In retrospect, I remember those childhood years as the happiest period of my life.’
He suddenly lowered his eyes to the table, and his lips tightened for a moment before he continued.
‘Then one day when I was twelve years old, the war broke out. My father fought for the king and government in April 1940 and immediately took a leading position in the Resistance movement in the district, following the occupation. On 12 January 1941, my thirteenth birthday, of all days, five German soldiers came to arrest him. It was a terrible shock for us all, but perhaps worst for me, the youngest, having admired my father more than anything in the world. This may sound strange, but what I remember most about it all was a young German soldier. He was no more than five or six years older than me and did not seem to like the situation any more than I did. He whispered to me that hopefully everything would get sorted and I would have my father back home again soon. But that is not what happened. I saw my beloved father for the last time that day, being escorted away by soldiers. He was shot a week later. I lost my childhood innocence and much of my belief in humanity the day the Germans shot my father.’