Four years into the Nazi occupation, life went on. Food was hard to come by; his brother's growth had been stunted by malnutrition, but Kjell had been 14 at the time of the invasion so his body had had plenty of time to develop before the lean years had hit. Hans Erik had only been 7; now 11 he was not even as tall as Kjell had been on his 9th birthday. Food was so hard to come by that when he'd turned 16 in 1942, he'd been sent to work on his uncle's farm - at least he'd be able to eat. It was hard work but the sojourn had ended when the Wehrmacht had seized both of their work horses in the fall of 1943. Back in Oslo that winter, he'd gone off a 30-meter ski jump on a dare to win a bar of chocolate, it had been worth risking his life for.
On this warm spring day with the mayflies a constant background annoyance he sat at his desk slogging through the Videregående skole exam that all graduating students in the nation took at exactly the same time. There were no "do-overs", no rescheduling. Headmaster Johansen paced around the room, ever watchful.
As Kjell was working on the 17th question of the exam's mathematics section, two racing engines could be heard outside, then the unmistakeable sound of a burst of rounds from a Maschinenpistole 40, then a crash. Kjell looked out the window just as a Norwegian aiming a revolver was hit by another burst and went down.
"Ladies! Gentlemen! Return to your seats!" ordered Headmaster Johansen. The examination must continue. There were no "do-overs", no rescheduling.
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