Madam Prime Minister: A Life in Power and Politics

Chapter 1

Love, War, Childhood

The Sailing Trip

Inga Brynolf is twenty years old, blue-eyed and dark-haired. The young Swede is hiking her way from Stockholm to Oslo. It’s July 1938. She and her boyfriend, who is leader of the Swedish chapter of Clarte, an international association of socialist intellectuals, are going to spend the summer sailing off the coast of Norway.

She is a radical, a socialist who dreams of a coming era of justice and equality. Her mother, the Stockholm lawyer Margareta Sandberg, is also a politically active radical and was for a time part of the group that formed around Alexandra Kollontai, the Soviet ambassador to Sweden. Like a real-life Nora in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, Margareta left her husband, the barrister Ivar Brynolf, after five years of marriage. Her two small children, Inga and Lennart, were four and two. Margareta was twenty-four. She wanted to be a lawyer herself. In the early 1930s she became the first female solicitor ever to hold public office in Stockholm.

In Oslo Inga and her boyfriend are met by Gudmund Harlem, known to his friends as Gubbe, a young medical student and leader of the Norwegian chapter of Clarté. Gubbe’s girlfriend has suddenly taken ill and can’t come sailing. But Gubbe feels an obligation to go. Ola Evensen, a friend from Clarte, joins them.

During the day, there is hectic activity on board the sailboat. The twenty-four-foot boat has one cabin and four berths for the three men and one woman. The quiet evenings are spent discussing socialism and visions of the new era dawning. Two pairs of eyes soon establish a powerful contact, just looking, intensely interested in each other.

I was conceived later that thrilling summer. And Inga would stay in Norway. She decided to study law at the University of Oslo. She and Gubbe got married in Stockholm in the autumn. Hurray! We’re getting married today! read Gubbe’s telegraph to a friend in Oslo.

I was born on the night of April 20, 1939. At the maternity ward Mamma was referred to as the dark Swede who screamed so terribly. Her labor was long and difficult. When my proud father came home that evening to tell his friends of the great event, the radio was on. Air Marshal Hermann Goering was speaking in Berlin on the occasion of Adolf Hitler’s fiftieth birthday. My life surely started at a most intense moment of history, just four months before war broke out in Europe.

In the summer of 1938 Pappa turned twenty-one and assumed control of a small inheritance from his father, who died when Pappa was an infant. One hundred thousand Kroner (about $11,000) was a lot of money in the late 1930s. Twenty-five thousand Kroner went to the moving spirits behind a workers’ encyclopedia, so they could realize their dream. Gubbe provided the capital and even joined the writing team. But he also bought an apartment at Camilla Collett’s Way No. 2, CC2, just behind the Royal Palace. The architect had designed the seventh floor especially for Aase Bye, the most prominent actress at the time, but when the Harlems moved in, it was put to an entirely different use. The large living room was divided to provide an extra bedroom and the dining room was divided in two. Thus the elegant apartment became a seven-bedroom collective.

The Coming War

By Easter 1940, Mamma was pregnant again. But Pappa, determined to show his sporty Swedish wife the beauty of the Norwegian mountains, took her on a holiday to the Jotunheimen. I remained at home in the care of Grandma Margareta, who had traveled from Stockholm to look after me. But the idyll was short-lived.

The German strategic surprise attack on Norway started in the early hours of April 9. One of the women who lived with us in CC2, another new mother, had been a volunteer against Franco in the Spanish Civil War. She decided that her child should be spared future air raids spent in the cellar. As she recalls it, I try to get the young couple we are living with to dry the baby’s diapers, but a future Defense Minister [Pappa] refuses to take the matter seriously. The next morning we dispatch my baby and the young mother [Mamma] with her baby to a cabin outside of Lillehammer in a delivery truck. That other baby, the future Prime Minister, has to travel with a suitcase full of wet diapers.

At the cabin, Mamma was determined to find out what had happened to Pappa. The following day she made the long trip down to Lillehammer and back again. The Germans had already occupied the town and there were soldiers in the streets. She discovered that Pappa was with the Director General of Public Health, Dr. Karl Evang. They were with members of the government as the Norwegian defense campaign began to emerge. The improvised Norwegian defense managed to resist for two months and even gave the Germans their first tactical defeat of the war at Narvik. Mamma decided to go to Stockholm and hand me over for safekeeping to her mother. Shortly afterward she traveled north through Sweden and Finland to join Pappa, who was now already in Tromsø.

At the border she ran into problems—no one could quite make out the purpose of her journey. She had to call Dr. Evang in Tromsø. Once he confirmed her identity, she was allowed to pass.

On June 7 King Haakon and his government were forced to leave Norway. Largely by chance, Mamma and Pappa did not travel with the convoy to England. At the last moment Dr. Evang decided that they should return to Oslo and work for the Resistance at the University.

Several weeks passed while I was left in the care of my grandmother; I even learned to walk. When Mamma opened the door to find me playing on the floor, I rose and ran to greet her. But I did not easily forgive the separation: It took months before I would allow Mamma out of my sight again.

For the first two years of the war, daily life continued in more or less normal fashion, but food was in short supply, and heating proved problematic in the severe winters. My parents continued their studies even as they became involved in illegal activities. Mamma worked on the publication of the newspaper Free Trade Union. At all hours the smell of correcting fluid wafted from one of the two rooms that made up the original dining room in CC2. The typewriter had to be kept hidden. My parents did not even know the names of those to whom they delivered the paper. All precautions were taken to minimize the risk of the networks being exposed.

We froze that winter. The temperature indoors was often as low as 50 degrees Fahrenheit. My father sewed sleeping bags for me and my little brother, Erik. Made out of old wool blankets, the sleeping bags itched. After the war they remained on a shelf down in one of the basement lockers for many years. You never know, after all.

Arrest and Flight

In 1942 the occupying forces were tightening their grip. Several of the students active in the CC2 group were instructed to assist a group of Norwegian Jews who needed to go into hiding to avoid being transported to Germany. CC2 was a dangerous address to have. People came and went. Strangers often stayed overnight with us.

In autumn 1943 relations between the Nazi authorities and the University deteriorated and on the night of October 15 the police arrested fifty students and ten professors. This action would have serious repercussions for the CC2 student group.

The Norwegian Nazi police came in the early hours of the morning. They had warrants for the arrest of two of the students. Both were taken. They did not discover my father sleeping in the same room. Nor did they ask for him by name, so presumably his name was on a different list. He at once made his way down the narrow fire escape.

Half an hour later the German police, the Gestapo, came. This time they wanted Gudmund Harlem—a bigger catch than the first two. They failed to find him, so they took his young wife. She protested loudly when they tried to check another room where her sister-in-law Gegga lay sleeping: She’s just a schoolgirl!

Ola Evensen went out to look for Pappa and by some miracle found him in a nearby side street. Ola told him that Mamma had been arrested, and Pappa’s first reaction was that perhaps he ought to turn himself in. Ola disagreed. Pappa was the one they really wanted for his activities as an organizer of illegal resistance work among the students.

Pappa went into hiding in Ola’s mother’s house. A few hours later my mother was released. She had Swedish parents, and the Germans set store by their good relationship with the Swedish authorities; it was not the first time the accident of my mother’s birthright had come to my parents’ assistance.

Now they had to make their way to Sweden as quickly as possible.

Earlier that year, my Grandma Margareta had managed to get a diplomat’s passport and travel papers that enabled her to retrieve Erik and me and take us on the train from Norway back to Stockholm.

Grandma had her work as a solicitor to take care of, so Erik and I were sent to a children’s home just outside the city. We stayed there for almost five months. Erik was just three years old; I was four.

Mamma and Pappa remained in hiding during those cold autumn weeks and had to keep on the move all the time, equipping themselves with forged papers. At one point Pappa’s sister Gegga received a message to meet them and bring a backpack with a few of their clothes. As Mamma and Pappa were cycling, they were stopped by a German patrol because Pappa was wearing the backpack. Incredibly, he was not taken in for questioning. A few days later, they were finally able to board the train to Rena, a village close to the Norwegian–Swedish border. Tension was high. Would they be stopped? They were ostensibly going northeast to cut timber.

On the last section of their journey, their guide left them; in the first snowfall of the winter he was afraid the escape route would be discovered. Early in the morning they reached what they assumed to be Sweden and knocked on the door of a little house on the edge of the forest. As the door was opened Pappa whispered, No, this is still Norway! Tin cans were being used for flowerpots; this couldn’t be Sweden. My parents held their breath, then realized that the people inside were just as afraid as they were. They were given directions and soon they were across the border.

A few days later they arrived at the home to pick us up. Erik ran toward them with a beaming smile; I, however, was quoted to the spot where I stood, profoundly skeptical after having been abandoned for a second time. Mamma could never forget it.

Mamma and Pappa rented an apartment outside the center of Stockholm. Mamma worked in the office for refugees; Pappa was the camp doctor for the Norwegian police units, which were recruited by Norwegian refugees and allowed by Swedish authorities to be stationed outside Stockholm. There were many Norwegian families in Stockholm during the war, including the novelist Johan Borgen. Among the non-Norwegians I recall was Willy Brandt, who later became mayor of West Berlin, Prime Minister of West Germany, and chairman of the German Social Democratic Party. Another was Bruno Kreisky, who became Prime Minister of Austria. Mamma can remember how unhappy Willy Brandt’s wife was. She and Mamma went for long walks to talk about her marital problems.

In spite of everything, those war years in Stockholm were good and safe. Money was tight, but then it was tight for everyone. We went to a nursery school full of the children of Norwegian refugees. Erik and I were inseparable.

Childhood Streets

May 1945: I can remember the excitement and joy, Mamma’s keen anticipation—our train was bound for Norway! I waited impatiently, my nose pressed against the compartment window, looking for the exact moment when we would cross from Sweden into Norway. There were no houses, just trees and woods the whole way. And there had been no marker in the forest when suddenly someone exclaimed, Now we’re in Norway!

Gradually many of the old CC2 circle returned to join us. There were always many adults at home, and lively discussions at which I was allowed to sit and listen and soak up impressions. From an early age I had strong opinions and a large vocabulary.

My first year at school was exciting. But I was really not a very good little girl. Unlike some of my classmates, I was allowed to bring friends home with me. I was so proud and happy to be able to show off my new baby brother, Lars, a child of peacetime born in February 1946. And I had even more to offer: using my father’s medical textbooks in gynecology and obstetrics, I would explain to the other girls how the whole business worked!

I was full of ideas and energy and would enlist Erik in all sorts of downright mischief. We tormented the old ladies who lived in our building, hiding and teasing. I remember once in particular, not long after we came home from Sweden, Erik and I stood on the first-floor landing and shouted down to an elderly lady who had scolded us, You silly old bag!

I was always the ringleader.

When we lived in Sweden I had a friend named Sølvi. Now her family had moved into one of the new apartment buildings in central east Oslo. Sølvi’s father was the caretaker at the Labor House in Oslo. Eventually most communities had such a house consisting of offices and meeting facilities for the movement.

During that first year we visited each other almost every Sunday, riding the trolley across town. It was very exciting to travel by ourselves. That fall we both began at Progress Group, a Labor-inspired organization for children, with branches all over the country. I enjoyed myself in Progress Group’s central branch, not least because of our Sunday rambles in foiests east and south of Oslo. Prime Minister Einar Gerhardsen and his wife, Werna, lived on a nearby block, and he would sometimes join us.

Their daughter was my group leader; she was a couple of years older than me. Their son and I were the same age and were sweet on each other. Werna was a woman who commanded respect and we children were a little afraid of her. She was an energetic leader with a ready smile, but she was strict. I heard her discussing politics, too, and I understood that she really meant what she said. She had no doubts. Werna was on the Oslo school board, as was my father.

At the National Hospital

Pappa and I climbed the dark, broad stairway to the children’s clinic at the National Hospital. Mamma and Pappa had explained that I had to go to the hospital for a few days so they could try to find out what was wrong with my stomach.

It was autumn. I was six and a half years old.

I carried a grown-up briefcase with books, paper, and colored pencils. We entered a large room with big windows and many beds. Halfway along the long wall was a separate room, completely enclosed in glass. Inside was one single bed. That was where I was to be. In isolation.

Pappa escorted me in. A nice nurse welcomed us and talked to me when Pappa left.

I remember needles and blood samples. Someone came and squeezed my stomach, just as Pappa had done many times. I had a stomachache, sharp and painful under my ribs.

Two days later I was home again. It had been a special experience for me. I was small but brave in that big glass case. My books had helped me to behave myself.

Mamma’s experience was completely different. She wasn’t told why they had to carry out a major examination at the children’s clinic. All Pappa would say was that he didn’t know what it was but that he thought it ought to be checked. But he was unable to protect her from the pain of fear, for never before had she seen him in the state he was in during those days I was away He was silent and would lie awake for hours in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling.

Leukemia was always a fatal diagnosis in those days. No one survived. My liver and spleen were enlarged, and the blood tests looked bad. But the more experienced members of the clinical staff thought I looked too healthy to have cancer of the blood. Once they had examined me my father permitted himself to start hoping again. Might it, after all, be something else?

Mononucleosis, an illness familiar to us today, was almost unknown in those days. Someone in the clinic thought it might be one possibility. The symptoms in children were very similar. That was what I had.

Relief and joy replaced dark forebodings. I knew nothing of what was going on and was never afraid. Pappa had managed to hide his fears from me.

Friends

Inger lived in a large apartment on the fifth floor. She had two sisters. Big sister Borghild was bossy, so we often slipped away if she was there. Inger’s mother was always at home. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, baking bread and making sure nothing got wasted. Inger’s father read newspapers and chatted with us children. We sat quiet as mice when he told us his stories. He was a relative of the legendary arctic explorer and humanitarian Fridtjof Nansen, as well as of the radical historians and pioneering oceanographers, Ernst and Georg Sars.

Inger’s parents were older than mine. Her apartment became a second home to me.

We had another friend, Liv, who lived right next to our school, but we didn’t often go to her home. There wasn’t much room. She had several brothers and sisters, both older and younger. Her eldest sister was grown up and married and lived there too, with her husband and children.

One day the teacher on duty knocked on our classroom door and asked that Liv come to the headmaster’s office. We all wondered why. At recess Liv wouldn’t say anything, and we understood that we shouldn’t ask anymore.

A few days later Liv was wearing a pretty new coat. Then our teacher told us that she had gotten this coat from the school’s welfare budget. We were to act as though we knew nothing.

There were big class differences in our class and in the school. We noticed it. We could see that it wasn’t right that Liv should have to wear old clothes when children from the wealthier areas got whatever they wanted.

An episode at my friend Eva’s made a deep impression on me. After school we often did our homework at her kitchen table. Eva’s mother didn’t go out to work like mine; she was a full-time housewife.

One day there was a math problem we just couldn’t figure out. Ask your mother, I suggested. Eva hesitated, but she did it. Her mother puzzled over the problem and said, I don’t know.

Eva wasn’t surprised, but I certainly was. We were nine or ten years old. I had never known what it was like to ask a grownup a question and hear that he or she didn’t know the answer. It was an important lesson.

Why is your father in the Labor Party?

It didn’t take long for me to realize how lucky I was to have young parents who knew a lot and would have an answer when something puzzled me. Mamma was the one most often at home, and so it was easiest to ask her. She listened and explained. I asked and asked, curious and persistent, but Mamma never gave the impression that whatever was bothering me was not important. She often impressed on me her deep concern about all the injustice in the world.

There was always a group of grownups around at our place—and always in discussion. It was exciting for me, gathering up so many different impressions of the world in this way. They talked about Prime Minister Einar Gerhardsen, about the Labor Party and the government. At an early age I understood from what I overheard that it was important to defend the Labor Party

At Progress Group we began handing out election leaflets and putting up posters. Our parents considered it only natural. Our newfound righteousness was exciting.

Early on, I developed a sort of perverse pride when schoolmates or other children made sarcastic remarks about the Prime Minister or the Labor Party. It happened a lot. With great gusto I defended the government and the Labor Party and the Progress Groups as well. The political struggle was harsh, almost hateful, in the first postwar years, and the antagonism percolated down to us children. We had our debates, too, and I know I was always considered provocative. I just wouldn’t give up. Why should some people earn so much more than others? Could anyone explain that to me?

One day on the way home from school my friend Cecilie suddenly stopped, looked straight at me, and said, Why is your father Labor Party, when he’s a doctor? I mean, he’s not a worker, is he? He pays higher taxes with the Labor Party. We had a real argument about what was right and wrong, about how things ought to be. I remember thinking as I stood there, I’m proud of my father for voting Labor because it’s right, even though he doesn’t benefit from it.

My Own Person

I leapt out of bed. It was spring! The sun shone in through the bedroom windows; I stepped out onto the balcony and the streets were dry. There was still a little snow left on the grass, but no matter: I could wear short socks to school today! Winter was finally over.

At school the others stared at me in disbelief: Gro’s wearing short socks! Can you believe they let her! Shock was mingled with envy.

I liked it. I was proud of having a father who let me decide for myself: It’s up to you to make sure you’re warm enough, Gro. It’s your responsibility. I used the freedom that my parents gave me.

Another spring morning when I was almost ten, I got up at 5:00 a.m. I’d suddenly had an idea: Yeah, I’ve got time to make myself a skirt before school. I hunted around, but there wasn’t enough material. So I cut two different bits of cloth, one blue and one floral-patterned, sewed them together, and put an elastic band round the waist. A skirt!

I’d never seen anything like it before, but so what? I liked to obey my impulses, and I wasn’t afraid of others’ opinions. I had a lot of energy to use up, a lot of limits to test.

The summer of 1947 was the hottest in living memory. The six thousand children at the Progress Camp just about doubled the population of Gjovik. Erik and one-year-old Lars were there, too. Mamma and Pappa helped run the camp, and Pappa was the camp doctor.

Boiling-hot days that burned the grass brown. I wore just a little pair of cotton shorts. The camp had its own towns and roads, and handsome gateways erected by the various Progress Groups. There was a competition for the best gate.

One day a suntanned man with curly blond hair drove by our gate in an open jeep. That’s Haakon Lie! someone said. The news spread like wildfire. I caught a glimpse of his strong face, open expression, and blue eyes. Lie was the formidable Secretary General of the Labor Party. I’d heard talk of him at home.

Sssssh, Pappa’s sleeping!

Ruseløkka was regarded as a progressive school. The headmaster was intelligent, hardworking, and modern. We had a swimming pool and the first kiln in town. We were proud of our school.

The boys didn’t have cooking lessons, and they had more math classes than we did. I wondered about that. Was it right? Why shouldn’t boys learn how to make dinner, bake bread, budget for the housekeeping? Why just mothers and girls? Certainly it was wrong to give us fewer math classes than boys got, but it was inexcusable to believe that boys had no place in the kitchen.

Needlework and woodworking were also segregated activities. That’s just the way things were. I was disappointed that we girls weren’t offered woodworking, but the poor boys needed to learn to sew and knit just as much as we did. My father had taught himself to sew, and he’d made anorak jackets for himself and my mother for their Easter trip to the mountains in 1942. I saw them in our basement, with their French seams, ties, and tie-guides. They were splendid.

There was certainly more of a balance at home than at school. Pappa worked, and for him his job was the most important thing. The rule in our house was the same as in many others: Sssh—Pappa’s sleeping! Mamma was in charge of the house, and after my little brother Lars was born, she was home a lot of the time. But she was also a law student and had a job at the Labor Party’s offices.

In everything connected with leisure time, the holiday homes, and open-air life, I noticed that Mamma and Pappa shared the work equally. Mamma sharpened tools, painted and varnished, carried water. She thought it the most natural thing in the world to carry a yoke with a three-gallon bucket of water hanging from each end. She taught herself to drive the car; she carried her own backpack in the mountains when we went hiking from one hostel to another; and she participated actively in all conversations about politics and social questions. Gender equality was simply the norm in many areas of my life. Mamma knew her own mind and knew what she wanted. All the same, she did the most work in our house, conscientiously looking after the home and performing all the little chores of daily life.

To America

In August 1949, Mamma, Erik, Lars, and I boarded the Gripsholm, a huge Swedish ship. We were on our way out into the wide world, to see America and stay there for a whole year! I had been looking forward to it for what seemed like ages.

CC2 was rented out to some Americans. We would live off my father’s Rockefeller scholarship money while he did advanced studies in medical rehabilitation. We soon noticed that Mamma and Pappa were very worried about whether we would be able to manage. We children were certainly not spoiled with pocket money. We took our entire savings with us, thinking it might be all we had to live on for the whole year.

Pappa had made the crossing a few weeks before us. He met us when we docked in New York and installed us in a hotel room right next to the Norwegian Seaman’s Church. Then off he went to a lecture.

We went out for a walk, my mother escorting three curious and slightly impatient children who were beginning to feel hungry.

Mamma, can we have something to eat?

No, Pappa will be here soon. Then we’ll see.

In one shop we saw some enormous blue plums. Mamma, can’t we have one of those? Mamma gave in, probably hungry herself. Just one plum each. Big, sweet, and juicy.

When Pappa came back, he saw the four big plum stones in the ashtray. What are these? he exclaimed. There was a bit of an argument between the grownups. We can’t afford it, he said.

Yes, but the children have to eat something, said Mamma.

In Pappa’s opinion, the plums were a luxury. Bread and margarine would have been fine. I understood that we would have to be cooperative and careful if we wanted this trip to work out well.

We found an affordable apartment on 11th Street in Brooklyn, close to Prospect Park; the rent was $75 a month. Even so, it ate up most of Pappa’s scholarship money. Fortunately, we also had the money from the rent of our apartment back home. In December a dark-haired, dark-eyed man named Rafael came over from the Seaman’s Church with a sack of frozen potatoes, a welcome addition to the household. We got used to the fact that they tasted sweet.

Elaine, our next-door neighbor on 11th Street, was Irish. Her father was a lawyer, but I don’t think they had much money. She had two younger brothers, too. We were together every day, both in school and afterward.

Down on the corner on the way to school was a big drugstore, which had a few small tables at one end. A sign in the window read, Special Treat. Three scoops of ice cream, strawberry and chocolate sauce, with a creamy topping. This concoction cost 15 cents.

We’d never seen anything like it back home in Norway. Elaine and I saved up for several weeks. On the big day we had our brothers in tow. They hadn’t saved up. It spoiled our joy a bit to see them staring through the window at us, but we gritted our teeth and ate our special treats.

The deepest impression we had from that year in the United States came from all the things you could buy, all those unfamiliar vegetables and fruits, and berries ten times the size they were at home! Also, the colorful street life and all the cars. On Sundays we went walking in the parks—it wasn’t much like walking in the great forests back home around Oslo.

One Sunday we drove out to a skiing area in upstate New York and rented skis. I remember the signs in the woods along the sides of the road: No Trespassing. Private Property. This wasn’t like home, where nature was for everyone and you could just fasten your skis and set off in any direction you liked.

The great divisions in American society were very evident. We lived in a lower-middle-class area, and by a narrow majority most of the students at school were white. A few streets away it was another situation entirely. Everyone knew about these divisions. In the classroom and the playground we scarcely noticed it, but we knew it was different for the adults.

I was strongly influenced by my mother’s attitudes. She drummed into us that we were all equal—and that went for all peoples of all colors. She often worked to persuade me that black skin was more beautiful than white. Couldn’t I see that? Dark-skinned people were more beautiful; we were just pale and gray.

I could of course see for myself that people were different from one another. Some dark-skinned people were more beautiful than other dark-skinned people. But I didn’t have the heart to contradict her. For her it was a vitally important ethical question. In general my mother held very strong ideals and attitudes.

That year at school was educational, too. I particularly enjoyed American history and geography. But one thing was really odd—we stayed inside during recess! At home it was on with your jacket and outside with you, no matter what the weather. I preferred our way. It made you a bit sluggish to be indoors all the time.

At the beginning of May we traveled home on the Oslofjord, a magnificent new transatlantic liner. It was like a fairy tale. One early morning I was standing on deck alone amid a multitude of islands and skerries bathed in sunlight, and everywhere a blue, blue sea and sky. As we sailed into the city of Bergen, love and pride for my home country welled up in me. The national anthem was played on the quayside, and the tears came flooding. I sang along with all my heart.

Independence

One day in sixth-grade social studies we discussed the different forms of government. Norway was a kingdom ruled by a lifelong king, while countries such as Finland, Germany, and the United States had a president elected as head of state to serve for a limited period, with various possibilities for being reelected.

Then the teacher asked: Which do you think is best? Everybody shouted in unison: A king! A king! Our King Haakon was a very popular monarch.

The teacher noticed that I hadn’t put up my hand and said: Well then, Gro, what do you think?

President, because that way you can choose, and if you don’t like it you can change it. Everyone looked at me, almost annoyed. Why take that line, when King Haakon was such a wonderful king? I thought he was, too, but we were discussing a matter of principle.

I suppose the reason I remember that incident so clearly is that I found myself in a minority of one. This happened more than once, and it was something I discovered I was able to live with. It was more important for me to dare to think independently than to be one of the crowd. I was very sociable and had many friends, but when the subject we were discussing was important to me, I dared to stand alone.

In the sixth and seventh grades I had time and energy for everything, both what Mamma suggested and what I wanted. Every weeknight I did something, and on the weekends there was Progress Group or the family cottage. Some days I attended two classes after school. I did sewing, pottery, English, and woodworking. I remember the English course particularly, because I had learned so much during my year in America. And then there was dance class.

Mamma thought dance class was a good idea for all three of us. My brothers weren’t so enthusiastic, but I liked going. I had one dress for my dancing class, which Pappa had brought back with him from a trip to England. It was meant for Mamma but it didn’t fit her. It was bright green wool with a red and green tartan taffeta border round the neckline. Perhaps the pride with which I wore it, more than anything, made it mine.

Orienteering

When I was twelve years old I went on to summer camp below Gaustad Peak, but it was a hike through the wilderness of Vassfaret in south central Norway that made the most powerful impression on me. Rolf Hansen, who would later be an important partner in politics, walked ahead of me. He was the leader, a man in whom I felt complete trust. It’s curious, how significant other adults besides one’s parents and teachers can be. Werna Gerhardsen and Rolf Hansen were probably the most important adult role models for me. I remember how I took longer strides than a girl of five feet four naturally would, because I was proud to follow in Rolf’s footsteps.

We came across several deserted small farms with open doors. Everything told a tale of an era long vanished. For economic and other reasons people had moved away from such wild places to seek work and an easier life closer to civilization. For several days we didn’t see a single human being. We were in a wilderness.

Our great dream was to see the tracks of a bear. Some on our expedition thought bears had become extinct, or if not, so few bears were left that the chances of finding tracks were slim. In fact, we never found them, but a mystical, enchanted mood remained with us throughout the whole adventure. At Vassfar Place we finally met people. The isolation we had experienced was broken. Some Boy Scouts had made the climb from the other side, and our paths had now crossed.

Twenty-five years later, as Minister of the Environment, I was deeply involved in the conservation of Vassfaret. I and my department studied research on the size of the bear population, debated logging, and considered the formulation of a system of rules that would ensure the survival of our traditions and the conservation of our natural places. I felt quite at home: My position had its roots in intimate, personal experience.

In My Teens

The big question the spring I turned thirteen was whether I should apply to the Oslo Cathedral School, the oldest and most prestigious high school in Norway. My grades were good enough, but I worried that it might be a bit snobbish. And going there meant leaving behind some of my best friends.

In the end I chose the neighborhood school, Hegdehaugen. No one forced me; the choice was mine. I enjoyed myself there, but I grew a bit more stubborn, more restless in class. With puberty came an interest in boys and competition for them. Truls Gerhardsen, the son of Prime Minister Einar Gerhardsen, was in my class. He and I had been friends in Progress Group since 1945, and we had always had crushes on one another. Flirtation, for us, meant disrupting classes, throwing paper darts at each other, and teasing one another. Together we distracted everyone. There was a bit of insecurity in this behavior and a certain amount of showing off in a new environment.

We all liked and trusted our headmaster, a scruffily dressed good sport with a ready smile. He epitomized the open, progressive atmosphere in the school. One of our teachers read us short stories by Ernest Hemingway and Mark Twain. We were fascinated by both the reader and what he was reading. Our school gave me a lasting appetite for good literature and for the company of adults who believed in something and wanted to pass on that belief.

Our religion teacher was Mr. Lilleøien. We’d been told by older students that he seldom gave tests and that we needn’t take the subject too seriously. During the few tests we did have, we all used our books quite