Madam Prime Minister

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 toprovide 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 tohave. 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, wholater 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 ourbuilding, 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 suddenlystopped, 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 mylittle 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 unfamiliarvegetables 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 andsky. 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 hadlearned 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 wasdeeply 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 subjecttoo seriously. During the few tests we did have, we all used our books quite openly.
One day during a test, all the students were sitting with their books open, some on top of the desk, others underneath. Suddenly the usually mild-tempered Lilleøien stopped by my desk and said sharply, "What do you think you're doing, Gro?"
I looked at him, surprised, then looked around at the other desks. All books had been cleared from them. I knew that his tests had been conducted the same way for years, and we had been permitted use of our books in an exam earlier that schoolyear. I knew that he knew it. Why then this sudden attack on me? No one came to my defense, and I didn't want to defend myself by telling on the others. That would have been too embarrassing. I felt strongly that it was unreasonable, even immoral, for him to make an example of me on a whim. I stood up, looked him in the eye, and in a loud, clear voice I cried, "You shit!"
My heart was beating like thunder. But it was what I felt I had to do; I had no choice in the matter. Then I walked or, more accurately, marched out of the classroom. As I took hold of the doorknob I saw that Lilleøien was coming after me! I ran down the corridor and down a flight of stairs, Lilleøien hot on my heels as I burst into the schoolyard and out into the streets.
How had we wound up in such a tense, fraught situation? I felt offended, and afraid, too. Afraid of what I had done, afraid of what he might do.
I brought the matter up with the headmaster myself, describing to him everything that had happened, and I accepted responsibility for having used bad language. My parents were never involved at all. Shortly afterward the headmaster suggested I transfer to another class, in which I might find much more to stimulate me. It was a blessing for me, as it certainly must have been for others around me.
The Struggle over Lipstick
Poor Mamma had the task of keeping up with a teenage daughter. She had always been the outdoors type, wearing no makeup anddressing simply. As a rule she didn't even wear lipstick. In my teens I began making friends with girls from other backgrounds and we would try all sorts of things, curling and cutting our hair, experimenting with lipstick, and buying earrings. In short, we played at being little women.
My parents disapproved of lipstick almost as much as the silk and taffeta I wanted to wear to dancing school. I could and did wear lipstick whenever I liked, but my ballgown had to be made of cotton--they said it was prettier. The fact that it was cheaper must have been entirely coincidental.
Eventually I realized that my mother genuinely thought cotton was prettier. It was obvious that she had two aims in mind: to make her position clear and to try to guide me toward a similar one. My friends were all wearing taffeta with no apparent protest from their parents. I wore the cotton dress and envied the other girls. But a voice inside me whispered, Maybe Mamma was right after all.
Later I made my own dresses and chose the material myself--taffeta and tulle, as it just had to be in those days, the top strapless, the skirt full. This feminine phase lasted two or three years, and then it was away with the lipstick and bring on the outdoor look for open-air Gro, rambling and hiking Gro, skiing Gro. I took this so far that one day when I was visiting my aunt Gegga, she said, "Look at you, Gro, you're dressed like a domestic missionary!"




Hegdehaugen was a stimulating place. I was only fifteen when one of the older students asked me to take over as editor of the school magazine, Lightning. I was taken aback. Surely that was something one of the older students should do! I spoke to my new classmates Lars and Even, and we agreed to give it a try. We worked late into the night at Lars's father's office in the Directorate of Prices and used the photocopy machine. We had a lot of fun and learned that working together, we could achieve a lot more than we imagined.
Lars and Even were knowledgeable, and increasingly the three of us spent time together both in and out of school. We read books and discussed them. Lars was very interested in Nietzsche. The discussionsabout Hegel and Kant continued round the dinner table at home with Pappa.
We went sailing. Lars was skipper on board his father's boat; they used to sail in regattas together. Gradually I became more interested in Even than in the boat. We walked home through the streets, chatting away as we wheeled our bikes along. We went walking in the forests together, just the two of us. We were sweethearts. I had turned sixteen. But my friendship with Lars survived being in love with Even.
Wanted
One Sunday morning in the late autumn my friend Else and I were sitting at the breakfast table at home in CC2 discussing where to go on our hike. We decided on the tourist hostel at Løvlia, fifteen miles up north; we would stay overnight since Monday was a holiday. We were a bit late starting to make such a long distance on foot. We were also a lot slower than usual because Else had an upset stomach and had to keep stopping to answer the call of nature.
It began to get dark, but I felt pretty sure that it would be quicker to go on than turn back, and I knew there was a phone at Lovlia where we could call home. Soon it was pitch-dark and we were faced with a choice of several different routes. We had no flashlight and had to go right up to the signs and try to read them with our fingers.
We arrived sometime between ten and ten-thirty. This was November, so it had been dark for over five hours. We were worn out but glad to get there at last. We told the manager at Løvlia that we had to call home at once. He said that was not possible, unfortunately; the phone was out of order. In that case, I said, we would have to walk on to the nearest village, because the people at home didn't know where we were. He said that the next village was a long way away and we would just have to wait until daylight.
I remember how uneasy I felt. It didn't seem right. But the advice was offered by a friendly and experienced adult, and Else and Iwere both dead tired. I had no inkling that the man had a car, and that there was a road to the village!
It was eleven o'clock when the first announcement about us was made on the radio, but Else and I had gone to bed five minutes before. The radio was on, and later the manager said he hadn't heard it.
It was a dreadful experience to reach the village the next day and hear that we had been reported missing, and that the police and a lot of volunteers were still out looking for us in the forest. The temperature had fallen below freezing in the night. Our parents and the police were afraid that we might have had an accident and had frozen to death. Our teachers and classmates also organized search parties for us.
Tuesday at school wasn't a pleasant experience. I felt I was to blame. We ought to have turned back in time, but since we didn't, we ought at least to have ignored the manager's advice. So you certainly can't always trust adults, and you can never relinquish responsibility, not when you're sixteen years old!




When I was asked to stand for election as president of our school society, I was every bit as surprised as I had been the year before when I was asked to take over as editor of the school magazine. Still, I said yes.
We worked out an interesting program for the autumn of 1955, beginning with a political debate. There were local elections that year, so I invited both the Conservative and the Labor Parties to provide speakers. I must admit that the conservative who stressed individual freedom was more elegant than the socialist with whom we mostly agreed.
Later that autumn I managed to get the most controversial author of that time, Agnar Mykle, to attend a debate about his book, The Song of the Red Ruby. I can't remember a better-attended meeting at Hegdehaugen. Freedom of speech and morality were the red-hot subjects of discussion at that time. Mykle had even been taken to court for having written an obscene book. The prosecuting attorneyin the case was Mr. Dorenfeldt, who lived on the fourth floor in CC2. I remember asking him in the elevator one day just how the law operated in such cases. He ducked the issue.
One of the president's obligations was to arrange the Christmas ball and invite the headmaster to dinner. I also had to give the main speech of the evening. I had plenty to say. But when I stood up at the dinner table to deliver the speech, I noticed that a rash had appeared on my chest. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I continued. And when I sat down some seven or eight minutes later, the rash had disappeared. It had only been the result of nervous anticipation.




My experiences editing the school magazine proved very useful when I began coediting We Students, the organ of the School Socialist Society, which I cofounded with other radical students from various Oslo schools. Quite a few of them were the children of former members of the "Dawning of the Day" movement (from the times of socialist intellectuals' activism in the 1930s), so I wasn't the only one with a well-known father. Throughout my childhood the workers' movement and the ideals of social democracy had influenced me. On the bookshelves at home classics like Marx stood next to Karl Evang's Sexual Education and the Workers' Lexicon. There were history books, polemical tracts, party literature. I started reading early and I read a lot, borrowing and being given children's and young people's books with socially conscious themes. Founding the School Socialist Society was a natural continuation of the process that had begun in my childhood, and was at the same time something fresh and exciting.




Graduation was approaching, and I made myself a dress of white cotton with a flared skirt and jacket. A Simplicity pattern, Mamma's sewing machine, Singer thread. It had a decorated pattern round the neckline and arms and on the collar and down at the wrists of the jacket. I chose a blue blazer, not the customary red one. Blue would be more useful for later. I was getting 50 Kroner a month inpocket money at this time, and that was supposed to cover everything except my winter coat.
The graduation celebration in those days ran from early in the morning of our National Day, May 17, until the middle of June. While many of the most popular celebrations were going on, Even and I were far away, walking in the forest.
When you have a boyfriend, there isn't really room or time for many other people. So it was only after Even moved away to Trondheim to study that I began to meet a new crowd.
Before Even left we had become engaged to be married and had exchanged rings. As time passed, though, the distance between Oslo and Trondheim had its impact. And so did the fact that we were very busy in different circles, Even in his world of engineering and me among medical professionals and people with political interests. The second year, when Even had come to Oslo to spend the Christmas holidays, I was at a party with my medical student colleagues. We were having a good time. Some wicked boys had even put pure liquor in our beer. When Even arrived and asked me to leave with him, I declined his invitation. I knew instantaneously that I had made a decision with far-reaching personal consequences; I had broken up with him. It was a moment of truth, a sad one.




I had chosen what to study at university the summer I turned eighteen. Law, economics, and engineering were attractive to me, but medicine had never been far from my thoughts since I was a little girl and had found out about illness, poverty, and the groundbreaking strike among the matchstickmakers in Christiania in 1887. All of them were women who had been exploited and had suffered from terrible health problems. But perhaps I should think about being a dentist, since I also wanted to marry and have children, and dentistry would give me more control over my own time.
It was a very difficult choice to make. I had put considerable pressure on Pappa to tell me what he thought. In a letter from London he concluded, "So I think, Gro, in the end, the best thing for you would be dentistry."
Then I was ready to choose.
Why medicine? It was not out of a willful desire to do the opposite of what Pappa had advised. It was probably because, reading between the lines, I realized that the advice he gave me was based on a logical, sensible deduction, not an idea of what he thought I would find most challenging and rewarding.
A New World
I encountered much more than knowledge and learning at the university. In my fellow students I met Norway the way it was.
I came across a great deal that was new to me--new dialects, new attitudes, new cultures, religious fundamentalism. We got to know each other better in the chemistry lab than at the lectures. As a city girl I had read and learned a great deal, but firsthand experience was something quite different.
Now I made friends with people who had lived away from home since they were fourteen, who had gone to secondary schools in the country, whose whole cultural attitude was formed by these experiences. This was a world in which equality between boys and girls was not taken for granted, a world in which sons rather than daughters were sent on to be further educated. Religion and the church played a much more influential role for many of the students than I had experienced.
We had heated discussions about sex education, sexual equality, and abortion; about Christianity and religion; about religious fundamentalism and hell. I was always an active participant, curious to discover the strength and variety of other people's views. But unlike me, none of the other medical students frequented the Student Union or belonged to student political organizations.




The first two and a half years we saw plenty of Bunsen burners, as well as gases and powders under the microscope, but not a single human body.
There was a lot of theory to digest, and much memorization ofthe names of all the bones, muscles, and nerves. Our teachers were all highly respected and excellent instructors. And what excitement when we finally began at the clinic! At last we would know what it felt like to be a real doctor. We were based at the Municipal Hospital, Department Eight, internal medicine. Here we learned about people, about case histories, about fate. Here we began to study the limits of medicine.
I will never forget one particular patient, a young girl of nineteen who had been born with a chronic heart condition. We listened as she told us how her condition gradually deteriorated, how she had difficulty climbing the stairs, difficulty even standing up. She had coughing fits from which she turned blue and passed out. She had Fallots tetralogy, four classical major faults in the structure of the heart.
In those days such patients were not operated on until they were adults, if it was at all possible to wait. But now an operation to try to correct some of the faults was imperative or else this girl was unlikely to live much longer. We were told that the operation involved a considerable risk, but that there was no real alternative.
As young students, standing on the threshold of our adult lives, it was easy for us to identify with that girl. Our hearts were in our throats at the thought of what she must endure, and of the great risk involved.
She was taken into surgery. The days went by. We heard that the operation had proved difficult. And then one morning came the shock: Complications had arisen and she had died during the night. We stood there, boys and girls, and wept. How brutal life and this world of medicine could be.
Why did it go wrong? What sort of complications were there? Could things have been done differently? A discussion ensued. Why indeed had her operation been carried out here at Oslo Municipal Hospital? The team at the National Hospital had operated on several similar cases over the years; they had more experience and more results on which to base their procedures. There the mortality rate both during and after such operations was markedly lower.
The situation presented some difficult questions. Shouldn't anypatient with a rare and complex diagnosis be offered only the best treatment? Medically and socially, wasn't this their right? One could argue that the municipal hospital too must somehow acquire the competence to handle these cases; its surgeons must also learn. I remember concluding that, no, the surgeons must learn from and with the team that has the greatest experience.
It is a prickly issue in the world of medicine. How many of our hospitals should have specialist departments and offer specialist treatment? To increase and distribute the number of specialists means that competence and knowledge in the area advances less. The patient first and always--that must be our credo. The patient's desire to be treated close to home, when the condition may be life-threatening, cannot be entertained.
No one would deny the need for specialization within medicine. It is not the issue on which to raise a cry of protest against centralization. When an individual needs a difficult operation or a special course of treatment, an expert in the particular field should take charge.
No Substitute for Experience
I remember one summer early in my medical career. Pappa and I were talking about the tough daily routines of the young American hospital interns. I thought it would be practically impossible for any mother with young children to deal with such routines. The situation was almost feudal, with the interns on call day and night for a period of two years.
It was not simply a question of convenience. I had personally experienced some very trying work routines, including working a shift in a hospital every weekday, every second night, and every second weekend. And these watches were not inactive. Generally speaking we were up and working at least half the time, including the night. But it was fun, and I never complained.
We discussed the American system. Pappa explained, "This is how they learn as much as possible in the two-year period. They are only ready to assume the responsibilities of being a doctoronce they have acquired experience of the greatest possible variety of cases. There is no substitute for experience. Less learning time means fewer patients and worse doctors. Practice breeds perfection."
No social considerations such as working conditions and hours can be weighed against that reality. And in the health sector, people's lives and futures are at issue all the time.
The Student Union Unites
I was used to inspired debates about politics and social issues from my time at Hegdehaugen. I was very surprised at the lack of interest among my fellow students at the medical school.
I was a curiosity because I spoke about political matters, followed issues in the newspapers, and always tried to apply what we were learning as students to a wider social perspective.
The Student Union brought me into a broader community of students. And the Student Socialist Society, of course, had interesting and intense political debates.
One day a theology student approached me in the reading room at the university library. He wanted me to put my name forward as a member of the radical team in the Student Union elections. Again, I was surprised to be asked, but again I said yes. And again we won.
Through the Labor Party's student group I got to know several people from the Institute of Political Science. One was a certain Arne Olav Brundtland.
"Is your boyfriend a Conservative?"
I have often wondered about the role chance plays in our lives. Would I have been so intensely curious about who Olav was and what he was like, had it not been for my medical school friend Marit? One Monday she told me that when she was eating her dinner the day before in a nearby restaurant, she had been sitting near two other students, Olav and Pål Caspersen, his friend from Drammen.She told me that the two of them had sent their food back to the kitchen because it was cold.
Marit and I would never have dared to do such a thing. We were both speechless at the behavior of such cheeky boys--and rather impressed. I guess my curiosity was aroused.
Over the years we've had many a laugh about that episode, with Olav insisting that I had been completely misled--it was Pål who had been the active party, Pål the bold one who had made the big impression on Marit, and on me.
There was something charming about Olav's eyes that attracted me, something in his look. He had a bold, open way about him that I liked. Later I heard that his sergeant in the army had written of him, "He isn't one to hide his light under a bushel." He certainly wasn't afraid of me.
But what was it about his eyes? Later on I realized what it was I had seen: Olav has an unusual little fold over the corner of his eye, right by the root of his nose. Inuits and Asians have it. Many years later, I was trying to explain to my Swedish aunt what I meant. Finally she understood and said with a big smile, "Oh, you mean the Mongolian fold?" Yes, that's what it was, all right. A dominant gene. Our four children and eight first grandchildren all have it, too!




Olav was the editor of Minerva, the Conservative student magazine. My male Labor Party friends were not at all pleased, even though they liked Olav. Was I crossing the divide? And what a fuss when I met Werna Gerhardsen, the wife of the Prime Minister, in the street one day that winter of 1960: "What's this I hear, Gro? Are you going out with a Conservative?"
"Yes, but I don't know whether it'll last," I mumbled. Werna was a powerful authority figure. And Olav and I had only been together for a couple of months.
The rumors ran ahead of me. If Werna knew, then obviously many others must know, too.
I felt a growing sense of defiance. This wasn't right. I was a free woman, after all. The Labor Party didn't own me. I was still Gro,and Olav was Olav. That was equality, if you like--and this was life in a free, modern country.
I immediately regretted that I had vacillated when I met Werna. Surely I could stand by whatever I did, in this as in any other matter. All the same I felt a certain ambivalence. The values and ideals associated with social democracy were central to my life and attitudes. Wasn't it a little odd that I should fall for someone with other values and traditions? I could understand Werna and the others. All the same, it was my choice.
Engagement
In the spring while we were visiting his family in Drammen, Olav proposed in traditional style, hardly to be believed today. He solemnly knelt down and expressed his wish. It felt beautiful and not at all comic.
At home my father was standing in the kitchen by the bread board holding a knife in his hand when we came in and I told him the news: "We're engaged to be married."
"Damn!" he said as the knife fell from his hand.
How much of his reaction was due to differing political viewpoints, and how much to the fact that this was new, that it had happened so quickly, and that his only daughter, young, but still his oldest child, was about to leave the nest, I don't know. He had asked me down to his office one day in February or March, and we talked about Olav. I ought to think deeply about whether I was making the right choice, he said.
"Yes," I said. "I ought to." And then we didn't talk about it anymore. He probably sensed the ties loosening, bit by bit.
The Bride's Father
One image from our wedding is stamped indelibly on my memory. On the wedding day, December 9, at home at CC2 where I grew up,the table is set for fifteen (the same table that we have today at our summer holiday home at Helleskilen). Pappa rises to give his speech. The opening words of welcome are second nature to him. Then he comes to a full stop. I hear the lump in his throat, the sob in his voice--"Now, now that Gro is leaving us ..."
He is crying.
My heart sinks. First of all, I'm not leaving anyone. Secondly, I have never seen Pappa this way before.
It makes such a lasting impression on me, to behold this secure, well-balanced, and rational man reacting in such an emotional way. Strong feelings well up inside me too. Tears come to my eyes. I feel the strength of our bond, all the love. It goes both ways. In the years since, I have often thought about my father at my wedding. Especially when I have noticed how hard it is for me when I speak straight from the heart, at funerals and remembrance ceremonies in particular. No doubt our genetic heritage also includes much of our own psychosocial and biological mechanisms.
The Trip to Yugoslavia
In 1960 I traveled to Tito's Yugoslavia--to the part that is now Croatia--with my school friend Marit. We paid a visit to a birthing clinic in Split on the Adriatic coast, a lovely town with its ancient Mediterranean culture and Diocletian's palace. We spent long days on the sunny beaches and didn't work too much. We were not really given a chance to.
We two young medical students were allowed to eat with the doctors, who were all men. In their small black bowls were meat, potatoes, and vegetables. Our two bowls held just potatoes and vegetables. I remember thinking, Haven't I been through something like this before? Yes--in nineteenth-century literature! Some of our colleagues elected to share meat with us, no doubt finding such open discrimination embarrassing.
We saw our first birth. It was impossible to forget. The mother was expecting her seventh child. Her body showed her long life of struggle and hard work. We kept a discreet distance as the dramathat is every birth unfolded before us. Suddenly the baby shot out like a projectile and ended up between the mother's feet. She smiled in relief, saw the shock in our faces, and laughed.
I can still see it now: The experienced mother and the quick, expert midwife, the power of nature, the mother's pride and joy over her newborn child.
The standards at the hospital were those of a relatively poor country. We noticed also that women had a considerably lower status than in our own country. The equal treatment of men and women was not considered a natural thing, nor was anyone especially interested in pursuing it. The kind of attention we received in Yugoslavia was largely due to the fact that we were nice young women, and had little to do with professional consideration or the sharing of medical knowledge. It was another lesson to me, in the practice of discrimination between men and women.
How Does She Dare?
It is my week on duty in the surgical ward at the Municipal Hospital. New patients arrive in the course of the afternoon and evening. A pleasant but anxious woman of about sixty has been admitted. In his referral her doctor writes that he has felt a small lump in her right breast. She says that she too believes she can feel it.
I examine her thoroughly, both breasts, and describe my findings: "There is a tumor about the size of a hazelnut in the right breast, to the right and beneath the nipple." I feel for her. She may have cancer. I show her record to the assistant doctor on duty that evening and he promises to take a look at her.
The next day all the doctors are gathered in the auditorium for clinic, with the professor on the first row. One patient after another is wheeled in. Each doctor describes his patient's condition and suggests treatment. Heads nod. Now and then someone asks a question. We students sit tightly packed together in tiers. Finally my patient is brought in.
"She has been admitted with a suspected tumor," says her doctor. "I can find no tumor, and I suggest she be discharged."
I go hot and cold. What am I to do? Is he going to let her go, just like that? My heart is pounding. Am I really prepared to have this on my conscience? He does not even say that I, the student, have written up in my practice report what I have observed.
I stand up. "Professor, I felt that tumor."
All heads turn. Nothing like this has ever happened before. What did she just say, that young Harlem girl? How does she dare challenge the doctor? Alarm and astonishment are written across every face. The young doctor in front of the blackboard is clearly irritated.
The professor stands up. "Come down here," he says. We go out into the corridor where the woman is lying. He draws up a chair for me. "Sit down. Show me what you found."
Then it's his turn. He examines the woman, hesitates, then says, "We'd better take her into the operating room." I feel relieved. Now matters are in good hands. A person with a possibly fatal condition will be properly treated, not ignored and sent away.




A few weeks pass. In the corridor one afternoon I meet the chief anesthesiologist. She comes straight up to me. "Congratulations."
This is the early summer of 1960. I look down at my hand: Does she know I have just got engaged?
"Oh, you saw it in the newspaper," I say, a little surprised.
"Newspaper? No, I'm talking about the clinic that morning. A sample of frozen tissue was examined. You were right. There was cancer of the right breast. She was given a mastectomy."
Only then did the anesthesiologist congratulate me on my engagement. I sensed in the whole encounter a sort of sisterly solidarity. She was glad that the woman had been given the treatment she needed, and she was proud because I had stood up in front of all those people. She wanted to express her support and admiration.
I had learned how to observe properly. And, furthermore, I had learned to be sensitive to the dangers of overconfidence, but also to take people seriously, to be precise.

Copyright © 2002 by Gro Harlem Brundtland All rights reserved