The AUF members are gathered in the cafeteria building. People sit and stand close to each other, stretching from the main hall through the little hall and out into the long corridor. Body heat from hundreds of young people causes the air to turn sluggish and humid in the building. The windows go from slightly ajar to wide open. It’s with a knot in his stomach that Eskil Pedersen climbs onto the elevated stage in the main hall. No one has fully confirmed that the explosion was caused by a bomb. The leaders don’t know any more than the other youngsters, who have been able to obtain information via their laptops and smartphones. Eskil shares his concerns with the others on Utøya: that those closest to them could be affected; that Norway will become a different country if it turns out there’s a premeditated, political decision behind the explosion; that Norway will in any case have a tough time if civil servants, secretaries, and ministers have lost their lives in a gas explosion. The last thing Eskil saw before he went to the main hall was the web page from an online newspaper in the editing room of Planet Utøya. On the PC screen were large black letters: “Stoltenberg is injured.”
Eskil’s face is pale, his eyes are glazed, and he is clearly trembling. He says that there has been an explosion in the government quarter, that the surrounding buildings are damaged, and that no one knows whether it was a bomb or a gas explosion. He tells the youngsters what he knows while taking care not to provoke fanciful speculations. But the AUF’S leader has to make an effort to put his words in the correct order. Utøya’s camp administrator is more comforting with her responsible, determined voice. The forty-five-year-old is said to be authoritative but fair. She has done everything on the island, from replacing door frames to feeding the youngsters. She has defied the ice in winter and dealt with liquidity crises. She has served prime ministers waffles when they arrived and sandwiches before they left. The youngsters couldn’t be in better hands. “We are in the safest place there is—on a desert island on Lake Tyri. We will grill sausages, we will get the news on the big screen, and we will eat all the goodies we have on the island.” She reckons there should be one or two sausages for each person. It’s her last summer on the island; she has been the administrator for over twenty years. Starting in the fall, she will be the director of the Norwegian Maritime Museum. A big farewell and thank-you party has already been planned.
When Stine Renate Håheim found out that the High Rise was most likely to have been the worst affected in the government quarter, she became worried. As a member of the Justice Committee, she has become close to the minister and the political leadership. Stine Renate sends a text message to the committee’s adviser in parliament to enquire whether people she knows in the Justice Department have been harmed. She gets an answer back that they are unharmed. However, the member of parliament is still uneasy. Before the information meeting she visited the media room behind the little hall and got to see pictures from the government quarter on the Internet. It did not look like a gas explosion.
In the course of the fifteen-minute-long meeting the youngsters are told that the rest of the day’s program will be canceled. There will be no self-defense course, which was supposed to start at five o’clock. There will be no stand-up show with Terje Sporsem, which was scheduled for half past eight. There will be no disco and no late-night movie. “There won’t be any disco?” a youngster asks in the auditorium. The banal, naive question, full of expectation and disappointment, temporarily lightens the grave, serious mood in the room. “No, there will be no disco,” Eskil replies in an overbearing manner and with a slight smile on his face. Finally the leaders say that there won’t be any boats going over to the mainland for the rest of the day because there are no buses going to the capital. It’s best that everyone stay on Utøya.
The youngsters are encouraged to call or send text messages home to their families. An eighteen-year-old from Levanger gets a pessimistic text message from his mother: “Be careful on Utøya. You all can easily become a target if terrorists are on the move.” Likewise a twenty-year-old from Orkdal gets the message: “Has security been tightened for you all now? This is certainly an attack against the Labor Party, and you all must also be protected.” Matti Brox is a young guy who doesn’t worry unnecessarily. The scope and the cause of the explosion are still unknown. For the time being the Oslo boy smiles and reassures those whose eyes have gone blank. The sixteen-year-old is a little smitten with a girl from his old class in Oslo and takes the opportunity to invite her for a stroll along Lovers‛ Lane later in the evening. The girl says yes.
Hildegunn Fallang calls home. Her mother is sitting in front of the TV and tells her daughter what she sees on the news channel. There’s a huge crater in front of the High Rise. A burned-out car lies on its roof. There’s a lot of smoke. “Oh, oh, don’t zoom in on those people lying there,” she says to the cameraman while her daughter is listening at the other end. They agree to call each other up again in a couple of hours. Hildegunn is a local politician while working as a journalist. In the long run this combination will create too many conflicts of interest, and she will have to choose. She believes it will be difficult to abandon politics while studying at the Journalism College. This spring her class did a course on Tunisia and the Arab Spring uprising. For the entire fall she will do an internship at Dagsavisen’s foreign news department. The explosion in Oslo affects her on many levels, both privately and professionally. The AUF office is located just a stone’s throw away from the government quarter, while the newspaper’s editorial office is even closer.
Jorid struggles to hold back her tears in the dining hall. She doesn’t understand why she’s in such distress. Perhaps it’s because the messages are too unstructured and conflicting. The Petroleum and Energy Ministry was the target, they say. If that’s true, it can’t be Muslim terrorists who are behind this. Environmental activists perhaps. One dead—no, two dead. A new car bomb? The only thing she wants to do is read the online newspapers and get more detailed and precise information, but the Internet is currently an unattainable luxury. She has called her mother, who’s at the Molde Jazz Festival; she has called her father, who’s in Italy; and she has called her boyfriend again. Someone asks Jorid whether she’s okay, and she answers, “Yes, thanks; it’s just that I was worried about Lasse for a second.” It’s a blatant lie to justify her lack of self-control. “I must pull myself together,” she thinks. Jorid belongs to the old guard on the island, and she’s employed by the party as a delegation leader. But she can’t manage to pull herself together.
Before Jorid goes into the woods to see whether a change of environment and a phone call to Lasse will help, she goes to see her Namsos girlfriends, who are charging their mobile phones at the far corner of the main hall. Hanne Hestø Ness and Lene Maria Bergum have just picked up their phones from the North Trøndelag campsite so that they can send messages. Outside the tent they ran into their county friends, who were gathered around the portable radio they had hung on a peg in the middle of the camp. They were asked whether they wanted to stay to listen to the news, but they declined because they had to charge their devices. “My God, if it’s the Muslims, then we’ll lose the election to the Progressive Party,” Jorid says to Hanne and Lene Maria in the main hall. The statement makes the three of them smile for a few seconds. “I’m just going for a walk but will be right back,” she says, and she gives the girls a hug.
The party leaders‛ emotional words have affected Hanne. She cries and feels sorry for them and for herself. At the same time she thinks to herself that the grief is primarily theirs and not hers. She knows no one in Oslo, at least none who are in the vicinity of the government quarter. Hanne should be the one who comforts, not the one who’s crying and needs to be comforted. She sends a text message to her parents, who are in Östersund, on the way home from a camping trip: “I’m doing fine.” She sends the same message to friends, without realizing that not all of them will understand the actual context of the short, reassuring message. Hanne’s mother calls back and asks how it’s going. The nineteen-year-old says that they are actually having great fun, and she tells her about the Datarock concert and working at the night cafe. Her parents update Hanne on the latest news about the explosion in Oslo, and her mother corrects her daughter’s gaffe. It’s the government quarter, not Youngstorget Square. Hanne knows that. Still she thinks that Youngstorget Square has been hardest hit. The initial information is difficult to erase from her mind.
Johanne Butenschøn Lindheim is embarrassed. Her face is swollen and her makeup is running, but she sees that none of the others in the dining hall are in tears. Thankfully the film crew has left the island and won’t be returning until tomorrow. It’s whispered about that some have already been confirmed dead in the government quarter. Uncertainty is the worst thing. How extensive is the damage? What and who are affected? Johanne manages to borrow a mobile phone and goes halfway into the kitchen to call her parents at the cabin in Hvaler. She’s shaky and scared while her father is calm and collected. Doesn’t he understand the gravity of the situation? He says that they still don’t know what it is. Johanne is convinced that it’s a bomb, so she knows the follow-up question must be: “When will the next bomb go off?” Johanne puts on her no-longer-white shoes in the hallway, goes down to her tent, and lies down in her sleeping bag. She’s cold, but that’s not why she’s trembling.
While the youngsters are calling around to family and friends, Tore Sinding Bekkedal tries to set up the projector and computer in the main hall so that those without smartphones can have access to news broadcasts. It turns out to be complicated. Internet access and mobile phone coverage on Utøya are weak to begin with. When hundreds of youngsters call and surf at the same time, the open network collapses. Hence the camp administration has decided that only a select few can have access. The twenty-three-year-old computer nerd from Oslo waits for someone to come with the password and is quite annoyed that he’s not allowed to fix the connection himself.
A little before five o’clock on Friday afternoon, July 22, a national emergency message is issued by the National Criminal Investigation Service (KRIPOS):
NATIONAL ALARM—
POSSIBLE EXPLOSION BOMB(S) IN OSLO CITY CENTER
With reference to media coverage of the case. It’s advised that one keep a lookout for a small gray van, possible reg. no. VH24605. As of now, the connection between the explosion and the vehicle is not known, but if it is encountered, notify the Kripos Desk or Oslo PD for further instructions. It’s advised to exercise due caution when approaching the vehicle.
Further information will follow.
PLEASE CONFIRM RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE!
Sincerely
Kripos Desk
Ingrid Endrerud has had a baguette with ham and cheese and coffee with her boyfriend at the Sundvolden Hotel. She has told him about Datarock, Gro, and choir practice, while he has given her a present. A passing remark, that was all—just a remark filled with irony—that she wanted a CD of the staid Irish band The Dubliners, and he went and bought it. While Ingrid chuckled gratefully at having gotten a CD that she certainly hadn’t wish for, Morten Djupdal called and asked for the keys to the campaign car. He needed it to buy bread and cold cuts for the Oppland camp. After making preparations for choir practice in the little hall, Ingrid took the MS Thorbjørn over to the mainland to meet her boyfriend. Either she was early or he had been delayed. Anyway she went to the registration booth and picked up the keys to the red campaign car in order to have a dry place to sit. She inadvertently took the car keys with her when she got into her boyfriend’s car. On the way from Sundvollen to meet Morten in Utstranda, her mother called and told her about the explosion in Oslo. “Okay, thanks for telling me,” she thought. The range of the explosion did not sink in, not until she began to think about the AUF office, located close by in Youngstorget Square, where she had been a week ago. The couple listened silently to the radio while he drove her to meet Morten at the ferry berth. After that they drove around the area randomly to delay their parting. It occurred to Ingrid that it was Friday, the Oppland delegates would be going home on Sunday, and the travel route was via Oslo. She would have to arrange for an alternative route. She has to inform the youngsters and their parents. She has to cross over to Utøya as soon as possible.
Now Ingrid Endrerud stands on the mainland side and waits for the MS Thorbjørn along with other youngsters, including a twenty-two-year-old who, on the number 171 bus to Utøya, was listening to his new audiobook, Fooled by Randomness. The Lebanese American author, Nassim Nicholas Taleb, argues that everything is more random than we think. The youngster has just arrived at the ferry berth in a rain poncho that his brother used in the scouts twenty years ago. The participant is registered, and his bag is thoroughly checked for alcohol or drugs. The older guard always tells the same old joke: “Yes, yes, I’m just checking to see whether you have some sawn-off shotguns or rifles.”
Down the hill rolls a little gray van and parks by the waterside just south of the pier. The AUF guard, Simen Brænden Mortensen, sees that the driver is a policeman. He walks over to present himself, “Simen.” The policeman says his name is Martin Nilsen of the Oslo police and that he is being sent to the island to check on security and to inform the people about the incident in the government quarter. It’s purely routine. Simen notes that the policeman, whom he perceives as firm and determined, calls the explosion a “terrorist attack”—information that has not been confirmed by official sources. Simen sees the gun in the holster on his thigh. He is puzzled that he came in a van and asks to see some ID. The policeman holds up the ID card hanging around his neck. Then Simen asks whether people on the island have been notified of his coming. “Yes,” he replies. The guard calls up the information house on the island and says that a police officer is coming over to the island. “Fine,” they answer at the other end. They will send the MS Thorbjørn over to the mainland now.
Jannike Arnesen sits cross-legged on the pier. The information house is to her right, while the MS Thorbjørn is to her left. She leans over her mobile phone so that her upper body shields it from the rain. Under her jacket she has a white T-shirt with the encouraging slogan “The Beat Goes On.” But it doesn’t. Not here anyway. Arnesen wants to go home to Kristiansand. The Utøya stay has so far been about reconsidering her plans. Originally she was supposed to go home today because she was starting work at the cafe in Ravnedalen Park in Kristiansand. But on Tuesday night, unfortunately, she injured her hand. It’s difficult to work as a waitress with a bandaged hand. So why not just stay on Utøya for a few more days?
The accident happened in the schoolhouse. To relieve back pain Jannike slept on a mattress under a roof and shared a four-square-meter bedroom with five other girls. One of them was allergic to the cold. Hence the windows remained shut. The still, stuffy air meant that Jannike could neither breathe nor sleep properly, so she concluded that she would probably be better off on the couch in the living room. The opening of the living room window did not go as expected. Her hand went right through the glass, and she was cut. Her nightgown was spattered with large, blotchy red spots. Jannike put on warmer clothes, sneaked out of the schoolhouse, and walked the few meters over the grass to the Norwegian People’s Aid tent. She was given a temporary bandage, taken over to Utstranda, and driven to the emergency ward in Hønefoss, where she got three stitches on her wrist.
After learning about the bomb explosion in Oslo, Jannike has thought only about going home. She wants to go to her sister, who is alone in Kristiansand while her parents are vacationing in Germany. In any case it’s what she says to the others—that she must go home to her sister—but strictly speaking, it’s a pretext. The hand works fine, the weather is miserable, and Jens Stoltenberg is definitely not coming tomorrow. Plausible reasons all of them, but the justification is just a veneer covering an abrupt, irrevocable desire to leave Utøya. People are told that the ferry won’t be operating anymore that day and neither will any buses on the mainland. She accepted the situation until someone told her confidentially that Norwegian People’s Aid would soon be crossing over to fetch some people with their own boat. Perhaps she could tag along with them. And then hitchhike further on?
Jannike is half-lying, half-sitting on the pier, alone and waiting for fear that she will miss the Norwegian People’s Aid boat when Utøya’s camp administrator comes from the information house and wonders what’s going on. Jannike says she’s going home and makes up the little white lie about her sister’s situation in Kristiansand. She’s told that she’s not allowed to leave. The administration doesn’t want to have too many youngsters milling around on the mainland side. And anyway it’s certainly not wise to hitchhike to Drammen, as Jannike said she’s planning to do. Jannike responds in an evasive and noncommittal manner, ever steadfast in her resolution—if only the Norwegian People’s Aid team keeps its word. The nineteen-year-old isn’t a petite, nimble blonde but measures 1.82 meters from head to toe. It’s broad daylight. Jannike reasons that motorists will be more inclined to give her a ride because of the explosion in Oslo. She’s not afraid to hitchhike to Drammen. Jannike browses the online newspapers and calls her sister again. “Don’t stay by yourself. Go to a girlfriend’s or something.” She’s reminded that no more boats are crossing over and that she must go up to the cafeteria building. Jannike answers back in a surly manner: “Is it a problem that I’m sitting down here? I have to make some calls.” Then she sees crewman Johannes Giske, the camp administrator, and the ferry captain on the MS Thorbjørn heading toward the mainland.
Giske sees the policeman in a bomber uniform from the wheelhouse of the MS Thorbjørn. He sees that he has a quite heavy hard plastic case with him. “Equipment to defuse a bomb,” he thinks. In reality it contains the hundred-liter black Pelican case with ammunition and two four-liter cans of diesel. The policeman is focused but clearly disconcerted. It’s no wonder, considering what happened in Oslo. Giske is taken aback for a moment that he has iPod earphones in his ears, but he doesn’t think any more about it.
Ingrid Endrerud also doesn’t think it strange that a police officer is going to Utøya. She has heard that the AUF and Labor Party building on Youngstorget Square was severely damaged. But she reacts to the policeman’s black garment, which is reminiscent of the kind of compression jersey that cyclists wear to make the blood pump faster. She also doesn’t know what the tube over his shoulder is for—she thinks it resembles a CamelBak straw. The most troubling is the bare skin between the jersey and the pants. The jersey has ridden up, creating an embarrassing opening on the back. “Strange that a police officer doesn’t dress properly,” the county chairman from Oppland thinks to herself. Ingrid notes that it is 5.04 p.m. when the MS Thorbjørn sets off from the pier on the mainland side.
Morten Djupdal was upset because someone had moved the red campaign car. He was upset because the driver had parked it in a mud pit. And he was angry because the car was stuck. “Everyone understands that it’s impossible to park there,” said Morten to the guys in the tent on the mainland side. “Come and help push.” They found gravel and stones to put under the tires. Morten was hit by a stone in the leg, and the mud splashed on his shorts and AUF sweater. On top of everything else it was raining. It was then that his father called and told him what had happened in Oslo. The three youngsters—Morten and the two who came with him from the island—jumped in the car, concluded that they wouldn’t manage to shop in Hønefoss, and headed toward the Joker grocery store in Sundvollen. Because there were speed cameras along the way, Morten couldn’t press down on the gas pedal as much as he wanted to.
Since it was difficult to start the car, Morten kept the engine running while they shopped. “It may not look so good that an AUF car is idling, but the hell with it,” he said to the other two and added that they had to hurry. The two youngsters from Oslo filled some bags with provisions while Morten wanted only two loaves of bread and a tube of cheese. While he was standing in front of the bread slicer, his father called again from Fagernes, and he was talkative. With one hand holding the phone and a cheese tube under his arm, Morten got so distracted that he dropped the sliced bread on the floor. “Oh, now we really have to hurry,” thought Morten, and he hung up and bent down to pick up four slices of bread. Getting into the idling car, he realized that they were probably not going to catch the five o’clock ferry to Utøya. Edvin Søvik, who was en route from Oslo with the current issue of Planet Utøya and who had just posted a message on Facebook—“Left Youngstorget before the bomb; am doing fine and on the way back to Utøya”—had told him that there weren’t going to be any more ferry crossings to Utøya today. The five o’clock ferry would be the last one of the day.
The story of how Morten and the two youngsters from Oslo missed the MS Thorbjørn by one minute and had to sit in the car on the ramp down to the ferry berth and watch it head out into Lake Tyri begins with Morten deciding that he needed a hot shower at his uncle and aunt’s place in Hønefoss. But the reason for the delay is hidden among the chance events that occurred after four o’clock: if the car hadn’t been moved, if Ingrid hadn’t taken the car keys, if the car hadn’t gotten stuck in the mud, if there had been no speed cameras on the road, if Morten hadn’t dropped the bread on the floor by the bread slicer in the Joker grocery store. If only one of these events had not occurred, Morten and the two youngsters would have managed to catch the five o’clock ferry over to Utøya. For the county secretary of Oppland standing on the mainland watching the MS Thorbjørn heading steadily toward the pier in front of the white information house on Utøya, this single minute-too-late was but one in a series of bad luck moments he has had to endure during the last hour.