Sarajevo-Jerusalem
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 1 | 6
The Ordinary Heroes of the “Jerusalem of Europe”
Through the history of Sarajevo’s Jews, a journey in two cities on a quest for universality, symbols for the people of the Book, and epicentres of modern conflict. A journey towards a certain idea, real or imaginary, of coexistence. Today we look at the courage of a handful of men and women during the wars of the 20th century.
A stele in the Jewish cemetery in Sarajevo in May.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
It’s a day like any other during the Siege of Sarajevo. A Saturday in February with no snow or rain. A morning a little on the cold side, like any other morning in winter, and a little sad, like any other morning of the siege. Accompanied by her daughter Aida, her son-in-law and her granddaughter, Zeineba Hardaga has just got onto a bus that will take her away from her birth town forever. Servet Korkut has also got on this coach. No one knows if these two women know each other. Yet an invisible thread connects their lives.
It’s an ordinary Saturday in 1994, among the 1395 days of a besieged city at the edges of a Europe that is, at the end of the 20th century, overwhelmed with war, carnage and drama. That day could have been forgotten, like so many before and after. In Sarajevo, it was not.
Around midday, a Serbian army gun position launches a round of mortar shells from one of the surrounding hills. After grazing a roof, the 120mm mortar shell comes crashing down on the Markale market, on Marsala-Tita street. The explosion rips apart the bodies of the sellers and the onlookers. Not that there was much on sale that day in the surrounded and starving city but, when the morning is calm and even if they know the bombing always returns, Sarajevans walk around, share a cigarette and discuss the news from families and frontlines.
That mortar shell enters into History as being the deadliest of the war: 68 dead, 144 wounded. While the lengthy investigation of the International Criminal Tribunal concludes that it was a deliberate strike by the Serbian army on Markale market, and some of its generals would later be sentenced for the war crime, the gunner himself probably has no idea that on this day he will set a gruesome record in artillery history: 212 people scythed by one single mortar shell.
The horror of the carnage and the international reverberations divert attention away from what was happening right at the same moment, that February 5th, 1994, just five hundred metres away on Dobrovoljacka Street. Buses are setting off, transporting Zeineba Hardaga, Servet Korkut and three hundred other Sarajevans away from the city. While the journalists are busy rushing from the market to the hospital, from the hospital to the morgue and from the morgue to their satellite phones, this story goes unnoticed.
That day could have been forgotten, like so many before and after. In Sarajevo, it was not.
A lot of the passengers on this bus know each other: they are the last Sarajevan Jews fleeing hell, thanks to this eighth and final evacuation convoy of the war. Zeineba Hardaga has a particular status amongst the group. Not only can she not name any Jewish ancestors amongst her relatives but she is a Muslim and the only passenger to be an honorary guest of Israel, the final destination of these refugees. She is due to be met by Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. The other elderly woman, Servet Korkut, is also a Muslim with a particular attribute but, as opposed to Zeineba Hardaga, she doesn’t know it yet. Her destination is Paris, where her son Munib has taken refuge at the end of the first year of the war.
If, on this morning, these two women find themselves with hundreds of others fleeing the “Little Jerusalem” or “Balkan Jerusalem”, as some of them like to call Sarajevo, it is because this is not their first war.
The other conflict they have lived through also started in April, when the German army and its Croatian Ustachi allies entered Sarajevo in 1941, fifty-one years before the collapse of Yugoslavia. The city is used to invaders, and is used to not worrying too much about them. Its Ottoman then Austro-Hungarian past has shaped a very particular identity, between East and West. The Sarajevan natural inclination towards indolence means that they have always viewed each new pretender to power with wariness, without hate or prejudice towards them. The other trait of this provincial city with a majority of Muslims, tucked away in the mountains and neither possessing the strategic or economic attractions of Constantinople or Salonika, is that it is a very Jewish city.
The good neighbour as way of life
The story of the Sarajevan Jews is that of the Spanish Sephardim – before some Ashkenazi Jews joined them coming from the north during the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A little after the end of the Reconquista and the Catholic armies’ entry into Toledo in 1942, the Spanish sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabelle, offered Jews the choice of either conversion or exile, brutally drawing to a close what Sephardi history holds as its Iberian golden age. As a community fleeing Christian Europe, they went on to take refuge in the heart of Muslim lands, from North Africa to the Balkans and to the Middle East.
The first fifteen Jewish families of Sarajevo are merchants from Salonika who arrive in 1565. They speak Ladino (also called Judeo-Spanish), a language close to Castilian which they will retain as a community and family language until the 20th century. The Ottomans allocate them a neighbourhood in the old town and permit them to build their first synagogue (the town would have up to six sites of Jewish worship in 1941). The neighbourhood, which translates as “The Courtyard” (Cifut Han in Turkish, Il Kurtijo in Ladino) is not a ghetto and is populated only by the poor. Other Jews come and live in the Bjelave neighbourhood, then elsewhere in Sarajevo.
Over the centuries, even though some of the administrative rules are discriminatory, no political power, be it Ottoman, Austro-Hungarian or Yugoslavian, persecutes the Sarajevan Jews.
In April 1941, the German army and its Croatian Ustachi allies, enter Sarajevo. The tracking of the Jews begins
By all accounts, this is a town that welcomes them. And far from the modern terminology making Sarajevo a “multi-ethnic” symbol during the war of the end of the 20th century, its inhabitants have always cultivated what they call komsiluk, which is to be a good neighbour. Nothing here (the nation, the community, or religion) in times of peace and even during periods of political tension or war, can take precedence over the relationship with komsije, with the neighbours. Generally accepting about whoever is in charge in Constantinople or Vienna, it reflects how Sarajevans live side by side with respect for each other’s communities, religions and traditions.
In that month of April 1941, Zeineba Hardaga is with her husband, Mustafa Hardaga, and she barely gives a thought to what is going on in the capitals of their new masters, Berlin and Zagreb. In any case, how could they imagine the unimaginable? Especially since this town like a lost island is where, above and beyond its Muslim, Christian and Jewish traditions, the real religion could only ever be the gentleness of co-existence, the only city in Europe able to claim to have never had a Jewish ghetto. Who could imagine Auschwitz here? The Hardagas have only ever worried about their family, and their neighbours.
In their case, their neighbours are called the Kabilios, and they are Jewish. Mustafa Hardaga and Josef Kabilio like to sit and talk together, they have become genuine friends. In When Neighbours Were Real Human Beings (University of Sarajevo, 2010), the historian Eli Tauber gives an account of the good neighbour relationship that is typically Sarajevan: “Each family maintains a high level of respect for the customs of the other. The Hardaga family women would not clean or dust their rugs on the shabbat, in order not to disturb the atmosphere of rest and celebration that reigned in the synagogue next door. The Kabilios were careful not to have too many festive activities during Ramadan, mindful not to make fasting any more difficult for the Hardaga family.”
When the persecutors begin hunting down Jewish people, the Hardagas take the Kabilios into their home. Josef Kabilio quickly gets his family to safety in Mostar, in the Italian occupation zone. There, in Herzegovina and Dalmatia, Jews are discriminated against and put in detention camps but they are not exterminated and the majority will survive the war. But Josef Kabilio becomes overconfident and returns on his own to Sarajevo. He is arrested by the occupiers, manages to escape and yet again takes refuge with the Hardagas, who hide him for months before he can get back to his family.
Atheists, communists and not very Jewish
After the war, Zeineba Hardaga spoke about how they and the Kabilios formed “one single family” during those troubled times, how the women took off their veils for the first time in front of a stranger, and received into their home a neighbour who had become a brother. When the Kabilios return to Sarajevo in 1945, they stay with the Hardagas again. They find their hidden-away box of rings carefully watched over for them, ensuring they can emigrate to Israel and start a new life. Josef Kabilio will give his testimony to Yad Vashem, the Jerusalem memorial paying tribute to Gentiles who saved Jews during the Holocaust, and Mustafa and Zeineba Hardaga will be awarded, in 1984, the honour of “Righteous Among the Nations”.
The story of the Hardagas and the Kabilios is far from being a unique one in Sarajevo. On that bus of 5th February 1994, Servet Korkut’s life is also an echo of Zeineba Hardaga’s, again casting a light on the Second World War.
They find their hidden-away box of rings carefully watched over for them, ensuring they can emigrate to Israel and start a new life
One morning in the winter of 1942, after having spent a night sleeping on a bench in Sarajevo, a young Jewish woman called Mira Papo meets a neighbour from before the war. As opposed to the huge majority of Sarajevan Jews, hers is a unique story. She has managed to evade the roundups and deportations through escaping to the mountains and joining the Partisans, Tito’s communist guerrillas. One day, her commander made the decision to expulse the thirty-two Jewish fighters in the unit, ordering them to return to occupied Sarajevo. “Apparently it was a one-off event in the Partisans and when told about it, Tito himself gave the order that it should never happen again”, the son of Mira Papo, Davor Bakovic, explains. Today, he lives in the Moshav (community village) of Neve Ilan, in Israel. “Of those thirty-two Jews, only my mother survived.”
The neighbour insists that Mira Papo waits in the park for him. He comes back accompanied by a very elegant man wearing a fez. The man introduces himself: he is called Dervis Korkut and is the librarian of the museum. He lives with his wife Servet and their newborn, Munib. He offers to conceal Mira Papo and takes her back to his home. To neighbours and visitors, they make out that she is a cousin from the countryside, who has come to help Servet look after the house and baby. The young woman cannot say a word in front of anyone, because the Korkut family only speaks Albanian, Servet’s native language, at home. People would be confused if the cousin from the countryside were to speak Serbo-Croatian. “My mother gave Mira Papo a Muslim veil and together they would walk around Mejtas”, a neighbourhood in the centre of Sarajevo, Munib Korkut explains in his house perched upon a rock overlooking the Adriatic sea, in a village north of Dubrovnik called Zaton, in Croatia.
The young woman hides with the Korkuts for six months. After this, another neighbour, also party to the adventure, supplies her with false documents to leave the city and re-join the resistance movement, where she will stay until the end of the war.
Museum of the History of the Shoah, Jerusalem, May 28.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
Escaping the deathly grasp of a Holocaust that killed 10,000 in Sarajevo, both the Kabilios and Mira Papo eventually headed for Jerusalem, in different eras and for different reasons. Not all Sarajevan Jews responded in exactly the same way to the founding of Israel. For some, it was an immediate call to leave a genocidal Europe, for others, the temptations of a new life, a promised-filled adventure. In Mira’s case and others like her, who were atheist, communist and not very Jewish, it proved to be a long journey towards their rediscovery of Judaism.
Mira had two boys, Daniel and Davor, with her officer husband Bozidar Bakovic only to become widowed soon after the war. Afterwards, Mira devotes herself to Tito’s Yugoslavian project, continuing her career in the army. An officer, she is transferred to Split, then Zadar, before settling for two decades in Rijeka, where she raises her children. It is there, on the Dalmatian coast, that she discovers her Jewish identity. It is not that this hardened socialist suddenly finds God or that she begins to attend religious services fervently. It is more about the pleasure she takes in educating her sons through contact with the community’s cultural activities, so much so, after their military service and university studies, when they are at an age to make the decision, they emigrate to Israel. Davor remembers his mother’s discovery of Jerusalem. “It was a dream for her. She lived there for the last twenty years of her life. The city reminded her of Sarajevo, and mostly, she spent her time with Yugoslavian friends.”
What her son has no idea about for a long time, is that Mira harbours a secret pain, “the great regret of her life”, he says. In 1945, in Sarajevo, a woman had stopped her in the street. It was Servet Korkut who revealed to her that her husband, Dervis Korkut, who had been such an honourable man and had saved Mira, had been arrested by the Yugoslavian police and was about be tried for collaborating with the Nazis. “The truth is my father was an anti-communist and did not hide it”, Munib Korkut says. Mira promised to come to the trial to testify in his favour but her son, Davor Bakovic, explains: “My father, an officer, convinced that she would be executed if she dared to contradict the official version, forbade her from going to the courthouse and locked her at home for several days. My mother was sure that Korkut was an extraordinary man and that he would be unfairly executed. She lived with the guilt of never having testified.”
Yad Vashem memorial in Jerusalem: the plaque dedicated to the Hardaga family, who hid their Jewish neighbors during the Second World War
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
“Righteous among the nations”
It is only at the end of her life, when war once again ravages Sarajevo, that Mira Bakovic learns by chance, from a newspaper article about the Sarajevo museum, that Dervis Korkut had not been condemned to death. In fact, he was freed from prison six years later and passed away peacefully in 1969. Still eaten away by guilt, and in the meantime having learnt of the existence of Yad Vashem memorial, she writes her testimony.
In its archives, Yad Vashem preserves all documents relating to the Righteous and the people they have saved. Recorded on a typewriter and signed by hand, Mira Bakovic-Papo’s letter, dated 20th February 1994, recounts the adventure of how her life was saved thanks to the Korkuts. Ten months later, on December 14, 1994, after an investigation, Yad Vashem bestowed the title of “Righteous among the Nations” to Dervis Korkut posthumously and to Servet Korkut, who will be handed her medal by the Israeli ambassador to France. Her son lived in Paris at the time and she was joining him as she steps on that bus in Sarajevo. Munib Korkut then receives a phone call from Jerusalem, from Mira, who shares with him how she “carried this weight all her life” and how happy she is that his father is honoured in this way, even if many years after his death.
And by these bonds forged through five centuries of communities living together, through some people’s heroism during the Second World War, the rescue operation of Jews during Sarajevo’s siege and the buses carrying the Righteous Zeineba Hardaga and Servet Korkut along with many other towards new horizons, something else was forged. Above and beyond the waves of immigration between the cities, it created a special tie between Sarajevo and Israel.
“My son, we didn’t save Jews, we saved our neighbours”
– Zeineba Hardaga, Muslim from Sarajevo
These individual destinies, and so many others, make you go on a journey through the history of Sarajevo’s Jewish community and then on to a certain idea, real or imaginary, of coexistence. To explore these two cities is to understand their symbolism for the people of the Book but also for the fractured world of today: Sarajevo, the last “Jerusalem of Europe”, the first place to have been a target of the return of nationalist ideology in Europe thirty years ago, a city besieged at the end of the 20th century; Jerusalem, the centre of the world, holy city of three monotheistic peoples, the epicentre of the tumult in the Middle East and of the Israeli-Palestine conflict. Two Jerusalems both on a quest for, but also refusing, a hypothetical notion of “cosmopolitanism”. Two cities often mired in hatred, war, nationalist division and religious intolerance. Depending on the era, two cities that embody the destruction or gentleness of life. Two cities at the ends of the world, islands but also bridges. Two cities that attract the world’s attention and tell a universal story.
Zeineba Hardaga died in the Holy Land, which, in principle, had never been promised to her. “When she arrived in Israel, we, as Jews of the former Yugoslavia, went to the airport to greet her, recalls Eliezer Papo, the rabbi of Sarajevo, who lives in Jerusalem and at the time was a student in Judaism. A minister made a fine speech on how Israel would never forget those who had rescued the Jews during the worst time in history for the Jewish people. Zeineiba had these words for the minister: “My son, we did not save Jews, we saved our neighbours.” We were all deeply moved. It was magnificent, so humble, and it was the truth.”
Her daughter Aida, born from Zeinaba’s second marriage, converted to Judaism and became Sara, a name chosen as a homage to Sarajevo. She works in the archive department of Yad Vashem, the institution which praised her mother and allowed her family to escape the hell of Sarajevo and come to Jerusalem in search of a better life.
Portrait of Mira Papo, a Jew from Sarajevo who was saved by the Korkuts, a Muslim Sarajevo family.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
Full circle
As for the Korkuts, it did not take long before their descendants also took the road to Jerusalem. Having married the Kosovan Vllaznim Jaha, their eldest daughter, Lamija, lived in Pristina, unaffected by the siege of Sarajevo. But then the war reached her in 1999, when Belgrade, fighting against Kosovan guerrillas, deported non-Serbian Kosovans on a massive scale.
Having sent her children in advance to safety with a friend in Budapest, she flees to Skopje, Macedonia, with her husband. On her arrival, she shows leaders of the Jewish community the Yad Vashem certificate honouring her parents. The Jewish centres of Skopje and Budapest work together to organise the couple’s passage to Israel, their children following a few days later. As they arrive at Ben-Gurion Airport, amongst the crowd of officials and journalists, an unidentified man steps forward and addresses Lamija Jaha in Serbo-Croatian. “Hello, my name is Davor Bakovic, and I am the son of Mira Papo.”
One war later, destiny has come full circle. Fifty years after Dervis Korkut met Mira Papo on a bench in Sarajevo and took her into his home, Davor, a Sarajevan become Israeli, receives Lamija, a Sarajevan become Kosovan, in the land of Israel. The Bakovics help the Jahas to settle in. “For the only time in my life, I felt a closeness and an immediate friendship”, says Davor, in an emotion-filled voice.
And yet it is not for Mira Papo’s rescue that the museum librarian Dervis Korkut, dead long before his name was inscribed on the Wall of Remembrance in Yad Vashem’s Garden of the Righteous, remains in the memory of the city. It is an act far more mysterious and today much more famous that propelled him into the legend of Sarajevo.
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 2 | 6
Saving the Sarajevo Haggadah
Coveted by the Nazis in 1942 then threatened by Serbian bombs in the Bosnian War, this fabled 14th century manuscript recounting the Hebrews’ exodus from Egypt had to be hidden several times. Today, it takes pride of place in the town’s national museum.
When the German General Johann Fortner introduces himself to Jozo Petrovic, the director of the Sarajevo Museum in 1942, he knows exactly what he is looking for. His orders are clear: in the name of Nazi Germany, the general must lay his hands on the Sarajevo Haggadah, the museum’s masterpiece and one of the most precious Hebrew manuscripts in the world.
In Berlin, three competing institutions share the task of plundering Jewish treasure across Europe: The Reichsleiter Rosenberg Taskforce, led by Hitler’s close associate and chief ideologue of national-socialism, Alfred Rosenberg; the Ahnenerbe presided over by the Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler; and last, the Sonderkommando Künsberg. Under the guise of archaeological, cultural and anthropological studies, their objective is to prove the Aryan race’s superiority. Suffice to say, although he is already handling the deportation of six thousand Sarajevan Jews and the communist resistance rearing its head in the surrounding mountains, General Fortner, Commander of the 718th Infantry Division based in the region and mandated by the Einsatzstab Rosenberg, is undoubtedly not taking it lightly.
A stele in the Jewish cemetery in Sarajevo in May.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
The Sarajevo Haggadah is an illuminated manuscript containing the text of the Haggadah, the story of the Hebrew exodus from Egypt, read for two thousand years on Passover, the Jewish Easter. Its richness and perfectly preserved illustrations make it the most precious Sephardic Haggadah in the world.
Its story is one of a thousand mysteries and it inspires as many legends. Even its place and date of creation are unknown. According to experts, it was most likely created in Aragon, in the north of Spain, in the 14th century. The details of how it survived the Expulsion of 1492, which saw the Catholic kings drive the Jews out of Spain and destroy their heritage, are equally unknown. No doubt a family took it with them as they headed for exile towards the east. Historians have put forward possible theories about its passage to Dubrovnik or Salonika, without ever being able to furnish evidence. The only viable information that has emerged since its re-apparition in Sarajevo is that it passed through the hands of a catholic priest, Giovanni Domenico Vistorini, in the Venice region, in 1609. He appended his signature to the manuscript, saving it from the Church’s censorship.
It is a man named Josef Cohen who brings the Haggadah to the Sarajevo Museum, in 1894. Poor and needing to feed his family, it is with a heavy heart that he decided to give up the book after the death of his father. He sold it to the museum for 150 Austro-Hungarian crowns. The manuscript is then sent to Vienna to be evaluated. Viennese curators concluded it was masterpiece, one of a kind, which did not stop them from giving it a brand new and tacky cover. At least the evaluation ensured the book acquired the name it bears to this day, Die Haggadah von Sarajevo. The Hebrew manuscript was returned to its place in the Sarajevan museum collection, where it would seldom be exhibited for a century.
When, in 1942, General Johann Fortner presented himself to Jozo Petrovic, the museum director, unable to speak German, asked the librarian Dervis Korkut to join them in his office. The German officer’s visit having never been officially reported, the only account of it is that given by Dervis Korkut and his wife Servet, after the Second World War.
Its story is one of a thousand mysteries and it inspires as many legends.
Dervis “Efendi” Korkut is a man of a certain status in Sarajevo. His integrity and erudition have earned him the trust of both the museum’s director, Petrovic, and its curators. Before becoming guardian of the books in the museum, he had studied Islamic theology in Istanbul and Oriental languages in Paris. He speaks twelve languages. He loves history and traditions. “He was a living encyclopaedia and he was very respected in Sarajevo”, his son, Munib Korkut, says. Before the war, this pious man, decent and respectful of others, had written a text warning of the rise of antisemitism and praising his city’s inter-community relations.
So, when General Fortner asks to see the Haggadah, for Korkut, no worse fate could have befallen him. The museum’s director and the librarian know perfectly well of the priceless value of the manuscript. Dervis Korkut, a courageous man with profound anti-fascist convictions, loathes those who lack culture, who profane the sacred and who hunt down Jewish treasures. He cannot hand over the Haggadah to the Nazis.
Nestled amongst the Korans
In Zaton, a village by the Adriatic sea, where he retired after having been a refugee in Paris, Munib Korkut opens — after having served a welcome loza (grape brandy) — a bottle of dalmatian white wine and recollects. “My father told me the story of the Haggadah when I was an teenager, after the war. He said to me: “One day, a German officer arrived at the museum, and as Jozo Petrovic could not speak German he called me. The officer asked to see the museum. During the visit, he requested to see the Haggadah. So, I answered: “I’m sorry but another German officer came two hours ago and took away the Haggadah.” Furious, the officer left.”
What became of the Haggadah after General Fortner, who must have searched for ever for the identity of the other officer who had taken the treasure, left? “My father brought the Haggadah to our house, explains Munib Korkut, still wandering through his adolescent memories. A few days later, he entrusted it to a hodja (imam) who hid it in a village mosque near the Treskavica mountains. After the war, the hodja came to return the book and my father brought it back to the museum.”
In Sarajevo, countless stories circulate the city about the fate of the Haggadah during the Second World War. The mosque referred to by Dervis Korkut was said to be in Treskavica, or Bjelasnica or Igman, all three neighbouring mountains west of Sarajevo, however no one has ever found the village, the mosque or the imam.
“My husband had returned home with the Haggadah hidden under his jacket. He said to me: “No one should know, or they will kill us and destroy the book”.”
– Servet Korkut
Popular legends gladly add intriguing details: the Hebrew book could have been hidden in the mosque’s library, amongst the Korans, a Holy book among other Holy books, or have been buried in the mosque’s garden under a tree. When met and asked about it in Jerusalem, Eliezer Papo, the Rabbi of Sarajevo says, “Dervis Korkuk was an intellectual, an erudite man and would have never buried the Haggadah under a tree”.
Dervis Korkut was not a man to boast about his achievements. In fact, after the war, he never spoke to anyone about his act of hiding the young Jewish woman Mira Papo which would see him honoured as “Righteous Among the Nations” posthumously in Jerusalem. Nothing indicates that he ever spoke about his rescue of the Sarajevo Haggadah either, other than to his wife and on one occasion to his son Munib.
The other known details come from Servet Korkut, who spoke about the story after her husband’s death in 1969, first to her children, then in the last ten years of her life to a range of visitors, journalists and historians as the Sarajevo Haggadah became famous worldwide due to the Bosnian war (1992-1995).
In particular, she met the Australian journalist and novelist Geraldine Brooks who, before writing a novel inspired by the story of the Haggadah (People of the Book, Viking Penguin, 2008) published the interview in the New Yorker (“The Book of Exodus”, 3rd December 2007). The version recorded by Brooks matches with that given by the son: “My husband came back home for lunch with the Haggadah hidden under his jacket. He told me: “Say nothing to anyone. No one must know or they will kill us and destroy the book.” That afternoon, he went to Visoko, where one of his sisters lived, under the pretext of visiting her. From there, he took the book to a village tucked away in the Treskavica mountains, where his friend was the hodza of a little mosque. The Haggadah was hidden among the Korans and other Islamic books for the duration of the war”.
The youngest daughter of Servet, Lamija Jaha, lived, between two exiles in Israel and then in Canada, in Sarajevo with her mother during the last four years of her life. She often heard her mother telling the story to visitors. However, she recounts a detail that contradicts previous versions on one point, which would throw light on why the location of the Haggadah’s hiding place has never been found: “I always heard my mother say my father brought back the Haggadah to the house, hidden in his clothes. She then said that he had entrusted it to a friend who lived near the village of Travnik.” The fact that Dervis Korkuk was born in Travnik, a small town in central Bosnia and previously the Pachaluk (headquarters) of Bosnia when it was part of the Ottoman empire, gives credence to the hypothesis that he entrusted the treasure to a childhood friend who had become an imam is not an implausible one.
Sarajevo on the brink of collapse
The really funny side to the story is that while Sarajevo is a city brimming with one legend more spectacular than the next about the Haggadah, a great number of museum professionals do not believe a word of the Korkut family’s story. It is as if they cannot bring themselves to admit that their predecessors, such humble and serious professionals, could have let this jewel slip through their hands during a few troubled years. Mirsad Sijaric, the current director of the museum, who fought to defend the city during the siege before returning to his history studies, bats away all such stories. He wants it to be known: “I am sure the Haggadah never left this museum. We have a library of over 350,000 books and had maybe 100,000 books during that era. What better place than here to hide a book? We do not have any official documents proving the Haggadah was hidden elsewhere.”
This opinion, founded on the absence of archived documents, does not explain why Servet Korkut remembers her husband bringing home a book so precious that it could endanger their lives, or why Dervis Korkut, a man of integrity, would have lied to his adolescent son. Either way, the Sarajevo Haggadah is part of the museum collection in 1945. After having survived the destruction of Jewish treasures in Spain in the 15th century and eluding the Nazis in the 20th century, this was not, however, the end of its tumultuous destiny…
In the spring of 1992, war comes back to Sarajevo. This time, no enemy officer is on a quest for Jewish treasures, but the Serbian army bombs the city relentlessly. Sarajevo shakes, burns and threatens to collapse. The Haggadah is once again in danger as the national museum finds itself on the frontline. While, all around the city, those laying siege have positioned their canons on the surrounding hills, this is the place where the frontline descends to the city centre and skirts the Miljacka river, at the edges of the Grbavica neighbourhood. To reach the frontline, rather than crossing areas exposed to sniper shots, the city’s defenders pass by the museum’s gardens. If the Austro-Hungarian building just about survives the war’s mortar shells, it is nevertheless hit, gutted, and progressively abandoned in the death throes of the conflict. Pipes explode, water invades the basement. The museum is in a state of absolute desolation. Five hundred centuries of national history risk being washed away.
The Haggadah of Sarajevo is today preserved in the National Museum of Sarajevo. The richness and preservation of its illustrations make it the most precious Sephardic Haggadah in the world
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
Enver Imamovic is an archaeologist and historian who teaches at the philosophy university next door to the museum. After two months of war, he is the first person to have the idea and the courage to try, at all costs, to save the Sarajevo Haggadah.
One June morning, he runs into Hamo Karkelja, a museum curator. He shares his idea of rescuing the Haggadah and asks the curator to join him. Both know that, after its extraordinary adventure in the Second World War and in addition to at least one theft attempt during the Yugoslav era, it is now kept in a secret place only known to the museum director, who, ill and bedridden, has now disappeared. Enver Imamovic therefore needs an ally who knows every nook and cranny of the building, to find where the manuscript might have been hidden.
The two men first go to the Ministry of Culture and Sciences where another professor from the philosophy faculty, acting as deputy minister in that period’s chaos, signs a document giving an official character to the mission. They then go see a police captain, asking him to assign them a combat unit to assist getting to the museum, and if necessary break open any safe. “The police officer asked me: “What is this damn book? Is it really worth someone dying for it?!” I replied that in my opinion, yes”, says Enver Imamovic.
This is why, as dawn broke on June 6, 1992, the historian Imamovic, the curator Karkelja, the officer Hajrudin Alispahic and two other policemen set off for the Marindvor neighbourhood and the museum. The bombings are intense. They get to the museum around 8.30am and find two other curators as well as the guard, Meho Mulic. Having continued to live there with his two young children, he has devoted the first weeks of the war single-handedly transporting antiquities and works of art from different pavilions down to the basements, to shelter them from the bombs.
“What is this damn book? Is it really worth someone dying for it?!”
The historians start their investigation in the director’s office: a safe has already been opened and pillaged; a policeman promptly opens a second safe. In it, they find antique gold and silver jewelry, as well as a Haggadah. Enver Imamovic, who has never seen the real Sarajevo Haggadah, quickly realises, because of the paper’s texture, that it is a reproduction.
Their trek continues to the museum basements, one room at a time, in the dark, with water up to their ankles. “Then, in a little room, I saw an old Austrian safe”, remembers Enver Imamovic. The policeman cannot do anything when confronted with this ancient safe with an unknown mechanic device. His keys and modern tools are powerless in the face of its Austro-Hungarian robustness.
The improvised commando unit of police and intellectuals are forced to attack the safe with chisels and axes. After a couple of hours, around 4.30pm, the door finally yields. Inside sits another safe also closed by key. The policeman is able to force open this lock without too much difficulty. Using a lighter, Enver Imamovic takes out the Haggadah and studies it, leafing through its illuminated pages. He touches the paper. “I sniffed the book and said: “Guys, this is the real Haggadah!””.
Archaeologist and historian Enver Imamovic teaches at the Faculty of Philosophy, next to the museum. In the spring of 1992, when the Serbian army bombed Sarajevo, he was the first to have the idea and the courage to try, at all costs, to save the Haggadah. Here in Sarajevo on May 15.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
Its rightful place in the museum
After a night under guard in the police headquarters, the Sarajevo Haggadah is placed by Enver Imamovic and his fellow accomplices in a safe of the central bank — the most secure place of the besieged city — where the new independent Republic of Bosnia & Herzegovina keeps its treasures, its money, and where, apparently, on certain nights of particularly violent bombardment, the president Alija Izetbegovic (1925-2003) sleeps for a few hours, sheltered from the war.
The problem is that, at the time, no one knew this story. A policeman indeed went the next day to notify the city’s Jewish community leaders Ivan Ceresnjes and Jakob Finci that the Haggadah was rescued but the Jewish representatives did not see it or talk to anyone about it. Hence, during the siege, as in the Second World War, the Haggadah is once again deemed to have disappeared, at least to the common man.
Because disappearances prompt fantasies and mysteries sometimes lead to lies, the unknown fate of the Holy book even caused a journalist to rashly write that the Muslim Bosnian authorities had sold it to buy arms. Rumours spread so quickly that, in the last year of the conflict, Ceresnjes and Finci suggested to President Izetbegovic to authorize a public display of the Haggadah for Passover.
“Izetbegovic asked me: “Where is it, this Haggadah?” I replied to him: “We have been told in a safe at the national bank”, Jacob Finci recalls. As Izetbegovic didn’t know who could get access to it, he called the Culture Minister, Enes Karic, who didn’t know either. Then he called the Prime Minister, Haris Silajdzic, and told him he had to sort out finding the Haggadah. Silajdzic oversaw the operation. We presented the Haggadah in the synagogue for Passover in April 1995, in the presence of Izetbegovic.”
The precious manuscript arrives at the synagogue in an armoured military vehicle. Rarely had so many military security forces been deployed during the siege in one place, even for the visit of a foreign head of state: the Bosnian special forces’ soldiers and policemen, the president’s security officers, UN “blue helmets” and US embassy guards.
In April 1995, the Sarajevian Jews take back ownership of a missing treasure, saved by a Muslim historian from bombing, and brought to the Synagogue by a Muslim president.
On that day, many of the officials present, including Jewish dignitaries, see the Haggadah for the first time in their lives. Before the Hazzan of Sarajevo, David Kamhi, celebrates the religious service and leads the prayer, many cannot help but leaf through the pages of the book, so long hidden from sight. The emotion of Jewish Sarajevans is palpable. Once again, they are taking possession of a lost treasure, rescued from the bombing of the museum by a Muslim historian and brought to the synagogue by a Muslim President. It is one of the siege’s powerful moments, a brief respite of peace during the war, and a symbol and testament to the fact that the city’s inter-community relations have been perhaps stronger than its attackers’ fascism.
Two rescues in a century
Today, the Haggadah has finally found a proper home, in room 37 of the national museum. It is on show on some of the visiting days. Touching and leafing through its pages as occurred in the spring of 1995 is out of the question. Sophisticated security protects the manuscript. Mirsad Sijaric, the director, opens the room and shows how the manuscript, kept under glass, can disappear, thanks to a special mechanism, and be replaced by a reproduction in two minutes.
The story of this Hebrew manuscript is then the story of the exceptional bond between a book and a city. Mirsad Sijaric still smiles remembering the amazement of the most recent expert who came to examine it, Israeli art historian, Shalom Sabar, from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and author of “The Sarajevo Haggadah: History and Art (The National Museum of Bosnia Herzegovina, Sarajevo, 2018).
After a few days in the city, the historian confided to the museum director: “Which Londoner, Parisian or Viennese knows the value of the manuscripts buried within the depths of their city’s museums? In Sarajevo, I have not yet met a taxi driver who doesn’t talk to me passionately about the Haggadah!”
Many in Sarajevo are certain they know where Dervis Korkut hid the Haggadah during the Second World War, or how Enver Imamovic saved it during the Bosnian War. The most incredible tales circulate about the illuminated Jewish Sephardic manuscript’s two rescues in one century, illuminated again because of a Muslim librarian and then a Muslim historian. Even when the truth is sublime, this is how legends are made.
***
Parts 1 and 2 are translated by Sarah Robertson for the European Press Prize
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 3 | 6
The Jewish musketeers of the siege of Sarajevo
Throughout the Bosnian war, Sarajevo Jews find themselves at a new crossroad of history and their community launched an incredible humanitarian operation, organizing the evacuation of 2500 Sarajevans and providing assistance to the besieged. Israel, on the other hand, witnessed the arrival of hundreds of Sarajevan so little Jewish.
Igor Kozemjakin, whose father, Boris, was one of the organisers of the evacuation in the Bosnian war. Hazzan of his community, every Friday, Igor officiates for the Sabbath, in the only synagogue still in operation in Sarajevo.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 4 | 6
The peculiar customs of Sarajevo’s rabbis
Similar to the last Yugoslav rabbi Cadik Danon, a line of religious leaders, today personified by Eliezer Papo and Igor Kozemjakin, takes liberty with Jewish laws and traditions and represents, according to the current rabbi, “the true values of Judaism”. A vision of Judaism adjacent to Sarajevo’s spirit.
Young Israelis – outside the Damascus gate – celebrate the ‘Jerusalem Day’, which marks the takeover of the Holy City by the Israeli army during the 1967 war.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 5 | 6
From “Sarajevan education” to the Palestinian cause
A daughter of a Bergen-Belsen survivor from Sarajevo, Amira Hass has been the only Israeli citizen living in the Palestinian Occupied Territories for the last 25 years. Very critical towards Israeli colonizers, the journalist and columnist of the daily newspaper Haaretz continuously defends the Palestinian cause.
Amira Hass, Israeli journalist famous for her reports and editorials published in the daily newspaper “Haaretz”, chose to live in Ramallah, in the West Bank. Here, on June 7, she discovers the fields of olive trees of the Ibrahim family burned down by Israeli settlers the day before.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
SARAJEVO-JERUSALEM 6 | 6
Sarajevo-Jerusalem, two cities, two destinies
As opposed to Sarajevo which resisted the ethnic division of the city with the strength of despair, the inhabitants of Jerusalem live separately today, and the holy city is more fractured than ever.
Palestinians celebrate the end of Ramadan at the Dome of the Rock in the Old City of Jerusalem on June 5.
Photo: Damir Sagolj for Le Monde
Inger’s Last Wish
PREMEDITATED: On September 8. 2018, Dagbladet’s opinions section received an email from Arne Svalastog. The chronicle he supplied was written by his wife – who was dead. Inger Staff-Poulsen had performed euthanasia – as she called it herself. In the chronicle she explained why.
Photo: Arne Svalastog
During the autumn of 2018 a chronicle arrived in the mailbox of Dagbladet’s opinion department. The chronicle was written by Inger Staff-Poulsen (57) who was ill with cancer. She argued that patients who suffered greatly should have the right to receive help with ending their lives.
“When animals get acutely ill, loving owners are informed that the most humane act is to put the animal to sleep,” she wrote. “However, human beings are to be tormented, suffer pain and to be tortured until their last breath in an enclosed sick room.”
It was her husband who had sent the chronicle. By then, Inger herself had been dead for four months.
Euthanasia is forbidden in Norway. If you assist someone in taking their own life, you can be sentenced to 8 to 21 years in prison. This is also the case when whoever wishes to commit suicide is terminally ill, with no higher wish than to die.
Inger Staff-Poulsen was in her last stages of ovarian cancer. She had passed any hopes of recovery and was suffering greatly. Despite this, she was fully committed to complete her chronicle before she died. “I feel that my view on euthanasia is an important contribution to the debate,” she wrote.
Euthanasia is a controversial issue which raises many ethical questions. Can we, as a society, accept that someone with full awareness deliberately helps shorten another person’s life? Who should have the right to decide whether a life is too painful to live or not? Inger Staff-Poulsen’s opinion was that this decision should remain with the dying person, and not with politicians and lawyers.
“We have the freedom to choose what life we wish to live, in the same way we should have the liberty to die in a way that suits us best,” Inger wrote. She herself dreamed about what she called “the perfect death:” To sit on a gold embroidered bed spread from Marrakesh and toast her nearest and dearest in champagne, before getting as merciful and professional help as possible to fall asleep.
She never lived to see such a death. Instead she chose to take matters in her own hands, leaving on her own to end her suffering. But the most brutal chapter of her life, was still ahead of her.
This is Inger’s story.
CABIN LIFE: Quality – not quantity – of life, became important for Inger after she got ill. Together with Arne she enjoyed good meals, drank prosecco and went for regular trips – among other destinations to their beloved cabin in Gvarv, in the mountainous region of Telemark.
Photo: Agnete Brun
Should a dying person be able to receive help with ending one’s own life? Inger Staff-Poulsen’s opinion was, yes. But for her, the end turned out to be even more brutal.
“Now I have finished my chronicle,” Inger said. “Now I can’t delay it any longer.”
The calendar showed April 23rd, 2018. Spring had properly begun to thaw the Telemark region and the ground around the farm at Gvarv. Inger said to her husband Arne: “Tomorrow I have to leave. If you think you can manage it, I want you to drive me to the station. If not, I can take a taxi.”
She had planned in detail how she wanted the morning to pass, from the moment she said goodbye to her home for the last time, until she boarded the train. “The dog cannot come with us,” she said. “And I have not got the strength to say goodbye to you. You have to stay in the car.”
Arne did not know where his wife was going. All he knew was that the next time he saw her, she would be dead.
Inger had been given the diagnosis five years earlier. For a long time, she had felt that something was wrong. She felt shortness of breath, being worn out, and during walks in the forest, she was breathing and puffing so heavily that Arne finally asked her: “But Inger, what is wrong with you?”
Her ovarian cancer had reached the fourth and final stage when it was finally discovered. The doctors told her that the chemotherapy could extend her life somewhat, but, regardless of that, the illness would drastically shorten her life.
Inger started to read everything she could find about the illness, treatment procedures, side effects, loss of hair, chemotherapy and radiation. During consultations at the hospital she knew to a large extent what their messages meant. Meanwhile she felt how the cancer progressed; she was always a step ahead.
Inger’s mother had also suffered from cancer. The doctors could not do anything for her either. Inger had seen her mother spend the last weeks of her life in a morphine induced slumber in the palliative ward of the hospital. She did not wish this for herself. More than anything, she feared lying helpless in a hospital bed and just exist.
Very soon Inger was not only reading about ovarian cancer, but also about a possible way out of this life.
Arne did not know where his wife was going. All he knew was that the next time he saw her, she would be dead.
– She wanted to decide for herself. She was determined not to enter the final stages of the illness, Arne Svalastog (58) tells Magasinet.
He and Inger found each other late in life, they had 14 years together as a couple. After the illness knocked on their door, they had four surprisingly good years – and one very painful. Now Arne has been a widower for nine months.
– Inger had never believed that her final days in a hospital would be dignified. When she was given the death sentence, she saw her life quality as preferable to life quantity.
Arne is sitting by his dining room table. He is looking at the CD-shelf, which Inger herself had designed and built. She was always occupied with several ongoing projects, these could be making her own furniture, sewing a “bunad” (Norwegian national outfit) to her niece, or making warm clothes to the beige puddle Rask. Now she also made her own death into a project.
– Rather early she started to talk about Switzerland and euthanasia, Arne says.
– But I did not want to hear anything about it.
Inger had read about the organisation Dignitas outside Zurich. Since its foundation in 1998, Dignitas has offered assisted suicide. Contrary to Norway and most other European countries, Switzerland has legalised assisted suicide. By the end of 2018, around 40 Norwegians were members of Dignitas. In total they have over 9000 members, and approximately 200 persons end their lives there every year.
At Dignitas the patients receive a ready mixed poison, which they then have to drink themselves.
Within a short period of time, the patient falls asleep without any pain. A similar organisation is Life Circle, also in Switzerland. There the patient is given the poison intravenously and the dying person must undo the last screw for the liquid to pour through. Last year two Norwegians ended their lives there.
Dignitas’ motto is: “To live with dignity – and die with dignity”. Inger liked that idea.
– To begin with I tried to remain positive about travelling to Switzerland. But I believe it was impossible not to hear that I found it unbearably tough, Arne says.
He’s cried too many tears for his eyes to contain them. They begin falling down his cheeks.
– In retrospect, I realise how much better that would have been. Then I could have held her hand.
OPENED THE DOOR: When Inger first began talking about finishing her life at a clinic in Switzerland, Arne was skeptical. Now his doubts have disappeared, and he’s become a member of the Norwegian euthanasia lobby organization.
Photo: Agnete Brun
Inger and Arne went to the same high school. He was a farmer’s son, she was a banker’s daughter from Nesodden, who attended a boarding school in Telemark. Once they danced together at a Christmas ball. Otherwise they were not too much in contact during their time at school. Inger moved back to Oslo when she had finished school while Arne gradually followed in his mother’s footsteps and took over the farm. They lived half their lives separately before they met again at a school reunion 25 years later. They were seated opposite each other at the table.
Inger was experienced in the ways of the world, and had lived in New York, Paris, and Hamburg. She had studied to be a graphic designer Westerdals School of Art, and a clothes designer at Esmod Fashion School. Arne had always thought of her as being “in a different league” than himself. But after they met again, at the school reunion party, it did not take long before they became an item.
Inger handed in her notice in Oslo and moved out of her flat in Frogner. She enrolled in a teachers’ college, and moved, with her cats, to Arne’s farm. From there she commuted weekly to Røyken and her job as a teacher, while Arne made sure the blackcurrants they grew on the farm got properly big and juicy. They travelled together to Japan and Italy, went for walks in the woods, bathed, enjoyed good meals and drank prosecco.
When Inger became ill, she was determined to spend her time carefully. The couple spent one winter in Berlin, while her condition stilled allowed it. If they were going out and Arne had to finish off something first, she went ahead and let him catch up. Inger did not want to waste any time waiting.
She told him: “Arne you have to take pictures of me while I still have my hair, so that we can remember what I actually look like.”
Arne built a studio. The arts photographer changed from taking landscape motives to taking images of Inger. Today Arne has her standing in a framed photo on the kitchen table. Inger is smiling at the camera. She has big earrings, and her hair is in a bun at the back of her head.
– She never reached the point where cancer made her look really ill. She was never marked by death in that sense. In the end she was fed up with being told how well she looked, says Arne.
For a long time, it was mainly the laboratory test results which indicated how far the illness had progressed. In the spring of last year, Inger began feeling shaky.
– For Inger it was only a matter of time until she was so far gone that she could no longer control her own death, says Arne.
– This is what she was most afraid of – to lose control. She could not take that risk.
NOT VISIBLY ILL: They went to the same high school, and became a couple in 2004, after celebrating the 25th anniversary of their high school graduation. Here Arne and Inger are celebrating Inger’sbirthday, at the Villa Malla residence at Filtvedt, Norway. – She never reached the stage where she was visibly ill with cancer. She was never stained by death in that way, Arne says.
Photo: Private
The cancer specialists who examined Inger, found that she had inherited a gene malfunction tied to the gene BRCA1. According to the “Big Norwegian Encyclopedia” the genes BRCA1 and BRCA2 are connected to a rather high risk of breast and ovarian cancer if they are altered. A mutation of BRCA1 gives around 70 percent risk of developing breast cancer, and approximately 45 percent risk of ovarian cancer.
When Inger found out she was a part of that statistic, she suggested a large-scale family gene test. This showed that Inger’s younger sister Madeleine and nephew Marius had the same genetic disorder. Madeleine chose to remove her breasts and ovaries to avoid being hit by the disease.
– I have been through four operations and I’m about to have one more, explains Madeleine Beck (54).
– It is a bit strange to wear prostheses. But I have had the children I wanted; therefore it was a simple choice.
Madeleine knew about her sister’s thoughts of going to Switzerland the whole time. She respected Inger’s wishes.
– But I was wondering who was to go with her. I thought it must be Arne, as I, who cries so easily, could not go with her.
Inger’s travel plans never materialised. Arne relates that she gradually put away the thought of going to Switzerland to have someone help her end her life. She felt the cost of one hundred thousand Norwegian Kroner, which was the fee Dignitas demanded, was too high. And she was uncertain both of the waiting time and the journey itself. Joyous of life as she was, she could also not take the risk of having an appointment in Zurich before the cancer really had taken a firm grip.
– If she had gone, she would have had to say to people: – Now, Arne and I are going to Switzerland so I can die, says Arne.
But even if she had let go of the thought of going to Switzerland, Arne knew that his wife had not given up on the thought of ending her life before the final stage of her illness.
– After a while I understood that she was planning to do it herself, he says.
“After a while I understood that she was planning to do it herself”
At Gvarv in Sauherad the temperature has crept below zero. A thin white layer of frost is covering the farm. On a heap of cushions in the kitchen, the poodle Rask is resting his head on his front paws. His snuggle bed is below a kitchen cupboard Inger once made from some old cupboard doors.
“Remember to transfer Rask’s insurance from my DNB-bank to your DNB-bank”, it says on a green post-it sticker on the fridge. The whole cupboard is covered with messages, invitations and memorabilia. A bit above the neon-green sticker hangs an invitation to the spreading of Inger’s ashes. On the door is also a map over Las Palmas with a red paper heart placed over a park. This marks the place where Arne fell on his knees and proposed to Inger.
Inger had for many years dreamt of getting married, but Arne had not felt like it. He wasn’t too fond of marriages – possibly because his own parents divorced when he was a little boy. Around Christmas time 2017, the illness had also started to wear and tear on the relationship between Inger and Arne. There were no more treatments available. They both knew that their life together was nearing its end and that this was their last Christmas together.
Arne describes that Christmas as “terrible”. He and Inger could not manage a single conversation without squabbling, for instance about Rask. When were his claws to be cut, and when to give him a shower? They argued about things that seemed important to Inger and unimportant to Arne, or the other way around. Finally they both realised they could not spend their last couple of months together bickering.
– Inger called Radiumhospitalet and explained: “I am about to die and need to talk to a marital therapist. Can I have one tomorrow?” A couple of days later we sat in a consultancy room at the hospital. “After having listened to you,” said the therapist, “I have one advice: compromise! You will never agree about the dog, but can it really be so difficult?”
Arne says that the conversation with the therapist changed everything.
They booked a trip to Spain. In secret, Arne visited a goldsmith before they departed. In the park in Gran Canaria he put the ring on her finger and asked if she would marry him. Inger’s first answer was “no”, as she thought he only did it to make her happy. She soon realised his question was genuine.
– When we returned to the therapist one month later, he asked how things had been. “Great”, we replied, “we are getting married in two days.”
QUIET: Arne built the cabin, and Inger decorated it. They often came here. After she was diagnosed with cancer, they borrowed a neighbor’s ATV to access the property. Inger’s swimsuit and hat still hangs there.
Photo: Agnete Brun
The marriage was planned in no time. Inger made her own wedding dress. For a while she had rented an office in Bø and went there every morning. The skirt and jacket was of the same subdued flower pattern material, in addition she made a black hat. She was so exhausted from her illness that she had to lie down on the floor to sew. Work half an hour, then rest, then work again.
The big day dawned. The wedding had to be in front of a registrar, as Inger was an atheist and Arne had left his religious believes in his youth. The couple brought their own witnesses and Madeleine took the wedding pictures. In the Munch room (After the artist Edvard Munch/transl.) in Oslo’s City Hall they gave each other their ‘Yes’. Afterwards they had a seven course meal at the restaurant Annen Etage. Arne believes that the sun was shining, but he cannot say for sure. What he does remember, though, is that he felt an entirely new kind of joy.
– I am one who usually worries about all formal gatherings, but as from the moment I arose that morning, I was only happy. It was a dream day.
Arne also remembers that the wedding ceremony was more solemn than he had anticipated.
– It was a very special setting. All of those present knew it would not be a long marriage.
He proposed in early March, they married on the 21st of March and managed a short honeymoon to Prague. By then Inger’s condition had deteriorated to the extent that she had to rest several times a day.
Then came April.
Arne relates how for several years, small hints had been uttered which made him realise what she was thinking. She talked about methods and he told her she should not risk hurting herself or anybody else.
She said to Arne, “You will have a totally horrible day and completely terrible 24 hours. For that I am sorry. But the advantage is that when those 24 hours are over, it is all over. You will then receive a telephone call, and by then it is all over.”
Inger wrote her last will and testament. She wrote letters to her nearest family. Agreed with Arne he was to have Rask and came with suggestions on who should take over the care for the dog if Arne was to pass away. She wrote the wording that her husband was to publish on her Facebook profile. There she told her friends that when they read this, she would be dead and that she had performed euthanasia. She gave instructions on who should have what piece of her jewelry and decided what she was to wear when she was to be cremated: the silk kimono from Tokyo. She issued the invitation to the spreading of her own ashes; it only remained for Arne to fill in the date. She instructed him and Madeleine on who should be invited and where the ceremony was to take place. It was to be by the Steilene (Islands in the Oslo Fjord/transl.) outside Nesodden, a stone’s throw away from where she grew up. Those invited were to have a meal of pasta with pesto sauce at Madeleine’s home, and they were to toast Inger in prosecco, the Italian sparkling wine, which Arne calls her elixir of life.
Arne and Madeleine were not to know anything further, because if they knew the details on where, how and in what way Inger planned to end her life, they could risk being prosecuted as responsible.
The specialists at the hospital had told Inger that the type of cancer she was suffering from only on rare occasions could spread to the brain. Still, they performed an MRI-scan of her brain when she began to feel shaky.
The images showed that she had several tumours on the cerebellum and both cerebral hemispheres.
– She then called me and said: “Arne, this is it. This is the end.”
SURPRISED: Inger loved surprises. Following a demanding winter, Arne surprised her with asking her to marry him in March 2018, in a park in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. No, Inger replied – before she understood that he actually meant what he said.
Photo: Agnete Brun
Inger had decided to leave already the next day. She began writing her chronicle, but wasn’t able to finish it on the first day. She decided to remain at home another day to finalise the text. That is the way the next day passed and the following one as well. Inger wrote, polished and made tiny adjustments. Arne read the proof. He was happy for every extra hour he had with his wife, at the same time as the fact she was soon to leave was hanging over him. They went for a short walk every day, always on an even ground as Inger had no more strength to walk along hilly paths.
A week passed, and then finally the chronicle was completed.
CREATIVE: Inger always had projects running. She loved sewing, often her own designs. This picture was taken two years ago. The outfit she’s wearing on this picture, is one of her own creations.
Photo: Agnete Brun
It takes ten minutes to drive from the farm at Gvarv to the railway station in Bø. None of them said anything as Arne started the car, nor when they drove down the hill. They sat in complete silence while the white Swiss style house became smaller and smaller in the rear window. Silence reigned also for the next minutes while the car drove along the river Bø and when they left the main road for the railway station, their final stop.
– I could not wait for the train to leave, this I had promised Inger, so I parked in a way that the car could not be seen from the train, Arne says.
When he saw the train with his wife leave the station, he was unable to keep his promise. He followed in the car across Akkerhaugen and Sauarelva. With his eyes fixed on the train and its engine while passing kilometre after kilometre. Blinded by tears he suddenly saw the headlights of a meeting car, he had to pull his car back into the correct lane.
– For nine months I have been thinking about how terrible it was, her embarking on that train. But imagine how it must have been for her, to sit there and know that now I’m putting everything behind me, everything that has made me happy.
The train takes 13 minutes from Bø to reach the first stop at Nordagutu. With a car it takes 22. That station is a white building with green bordering which greets the travellers welcome, 112 metres above sea level, but Inger was to get closer to the sea. Arne did not know that, but the plan was for her to leave the train five stops later, at Oslo S, 3.7 metres over the sea level, just a few hundred metres from Bjørvika and the inner Oslo fjord, a few nautical miles from the place where she wanted her ashes to be spread.
As the train continued after its stop at Nordagutu, Arne turned the car around and drove back home to Rask.
WROTE A LETTER: Inger planned the ending of her life to every minor detail. She wrote a letter to all who were close to her, also her doctor, where she explained her decision. At Inger and Arne’s cabin it looks as if she was still alive.
Photo: Agnete Brun
The rest of the day passed better than Arne had feared. He worked a bit around the farm and went for a few kilometres run with Rask. Watched TV, and read a little. At dusk he took a short walk with his camera taking images of the moon and some tree branches.
Once during the afternoon he sent her an SMS.
– I thought I should be able to do at least that. She will either answer or I will hear nothing back, so I sent her a heart, says Arne.
Shortly afterwards Inger called.
She did not want to tell him where she was or enter into precise details about the next few hours, but she said she sat in a bed, looking through old pictures and memories.
– We had a conversation, 20 – 25 minutes long. It did not include anything on what was about to happen, we only talked about nice things. Then we hung up.
Later a few messages came in from Inger on Arne’s phone:
– Some very nice, short SMS-es, as a kind of thank you for the journey. A declaration of love. It was obvious that she had found peace, Arne continues.
Remarkably, he slept very well that night.
“It was obvious that she had found peace”
The next morning Arne woke up very early. He was overwhelmed with anxiety. Questions were roaming around in his head. Where is she? How have things developed? Is she alive? What if Madeleine calls, what do I say? He was afraid that Madeleine would call. Even though she knew that Inger was planning to take her own life, she did not know where and when that was to take place.
Arne thought Inger would check in at a hotel to end her life. That she would be found around noon by a maid. Then, he would receive a phone call.
Arne waited and waited for the telephone to ring. The hours were unbearable. He tried to get some work done on that day as well but was unable to concentrate. He had an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He was unable to leave the farm. His phone could ring at any moment; he didn’t want to be standing in line by the till in a shop.
He called a friend, one who lived far away, too far away to be able to stop Inger. His friend listened and tried to comfort him, but could not give Arne any advice on what to do.
Finally, Arne couldn’t bear it any longer. He called a hotel that he and Inger once had visited and from which they had pleasant memories. He thought she might be there, but nobody by that name was registered at the hotel.
– In a way I was relieved she did not stay there, for what would I have done if I had been connected to her room and nobody answered? It became obvious to me that I could not do this, that I would break the agreement I had with Inger, Arne says.
He said to himself that if he had not heard anything before 5 o’clock that afternoon, he was to call the police and report her as missing.
A quarter to five the telephone rang. It was from the Diakonhjemmet Hospital in Oslo.
Arne listened quietly to the voice at the other end. At first he understood nothing. After he at last had somewhat pulled himself together to say something, he uttered three words:
– Is she alive?
MEMORIES: Inger made her mark on the farm where they lived together. The cabinet behind Arne, which was made by her, is just one example. On April 30, 2018, she left her last note to her husband on the kitchen table. He was not to go out to the barn – he should only call for an ambulance.
Photo: Agnete Brun
She had signed herself in at the patient hotel of the Radium Hospital. She had calculated on that the staff there were used to seeing dead people and that the shock to the unfortunate person finding her, would not be so great. In the room she had left her personal life testament, which she had gotten from the lobby organisation “Foreningen retten til en verdig død” (The Association for the right to a dignified death/transl.) which stated that she did not want to be resuscitated. She had also left behind a letter she had written, one in Norwegian, another in English, in case the finder was a foreigner. In the letter she stated why she wished to leave this life and as she was irretrievably sick, would die very soon anyway.
Inger had been found immediately after she had given up breathing. According to the Paragraph 287 of the Penal Code, it is the duty of every person to assist “a person who is in obvious risk of losing ones life (…)” Any person abstaining from helping, regardless of what the danger is, can be liable to a fine or up to 6 months imprisonment.
Inger was resuscitated by medical staff. As soon as she began breathing again, she was admitted into the Diakonhjemmet Hospital.
Arne got into the car and drove to Oslo. When he was admitted into Inger’s room, he saw that she was scratched and had obviously fallen over and hurt herself. She was heartbreakingly distraught over having failed.
– I have never seen anything like what I saw in her eyes, Arne says. – Just black emptiness.
On the following day, Madeleine visited her sister in hospital.
– The first thing she said when I entered was “mom”, as if to say she was now lying there just like our mother had done towards the end, says Madeleine.
– She then waved her arm towards the window, as if to ask on what floor she was. We had to explain to her that she was on the first floor and that there was no point in jumping.
“I have never seen anything like what I saw in her eyes. Just black emptiness.”
Inger was now so desperate and depressed that she was given a guard in her room. She wanted to sign herself out from the hospital, but Arne and Madeleine wanted her to remain as admitted until her next check-up at Radiumhospitalet. They understood what she was planning and knew she would make another try. They feared the way she would do it, could perhaps be even more brutal.
On Sunday the 29th Inger was released anyway. She and Arne got into the car and drove back to the farm. Rask was extremely happy to see her, but the sparkle in Inger had been extinguished.
Thoughts were spinning around in Arne’s head. He was glad that his wife was alive, but what was he to do now? What did Inger want to do? Were they to go to Switzerland? Or was she to die in a morphine slumber, as she absolutely did not want?
On Monday Arne went for a run, he needed to clear his head. He ran across the farm yard towards the forest and up the hill to a small lake to which he and his wife had walked so many times. He was away for about one hour.
In retrospect, he can’t imagine what he was thinking, how he could ever have left her alone.
As he got inside again, there was a piece of paper from Inger on the kitchen table. It said he was not to go into the barn but just call for an ambulance.
– In total despair I ran out into the barn with the hope of saving her, but saw immediately that she was dead, says Arne.
The emergency service arrived. Inger was confirmed dead less than 24 hours after having been released from the Diakonhjemmet Hospital.
SAID GOODBYE: On June 12, 2018, 19 of Inger’s closest relatives and friends bade farewell to her. From the Alværn jetty at Nesodden, a peninsula outside of Oslo, they said goodbye. Her nephew, Marius Beck, and sister, Madeleine Beck, returned to the jetty on Christmas day. Together with Arne they threw flowers into the sea. – Auntie was very important to my sister Mathilde and myself. Marius says. – She always had good advice for us, and for the most part, she knew best.
Photo: Agnete Brun
By the small lake above the farm, there is a tiny cabin. Arne himself had built it, Inger had done the interior. 12 square metres with a big window facing the water. A bed along one side and a wood burning stove along the other, with a jetty right in front. Arne and Inger used to go for walks here. Here it was only the two of them, the silence, and of course, Rask.
There are still two tooth brushes in the glass. Inger’s bikini is still hanging on a peg and her sun hat on the wall.
– Considering how Inger was as a person, this exit was probably right for her, says Arne.
He declares that he was previously sceptical about euthanasia. He no longer is. He means that Inger felt she was forced to go out in the barn. The law is such that Inger had to do this on her own.
– The price we pay for euthanasia being illegal in Norway, is that people must lay and suffer. It is easy to say now, but had I known what I know today, now when I have the answer, I wish I told Inger: “Let us apply for a place in Switzerland, then wait and accept fact when the time comes”. I wish the answer had been different.
DIFFICULT TIME: After Inger died, Rask was uneasy. He barked, and looked for Inger. Now he’s finally got accustomed to his new master, and Arne makes sure his fur and nails are regularly taken care of – just as Inger would.
Photo: Agnete Brun
“June 12”, Arne wrote in the open slot on the invitations to the spreading of Inger’s ashes.
It was one of those endless summer days, with blue sky and tiny white clouds. A group of 19 persons, and the dog Rask, drove down to Alværn jetty at Nesodden. Seven years earlier they had said farewell to Inger’s and Madeleine’s mother at the same place. The urn they had brought with them, was the same as they had used for their mother’s ashes.
In two boats, the group drove out between the tiny, oblong islands called Steilene. Only a small ripple fluttered on the surface of the glittering fjord. Outside the islands the boats stopped. The urn with Inger’s ashes was carefully opened. The content was poured into the water, dust and particles of sand swirled down as sucked into the deep, while the ashes sank slowly down to the bottom.
-We thought that now Inger and Mom can swim together to some warmer waters and bathe with the dolphins, says Madeleine.
They had chosen white, pink and red roses. While the flowers remained like a carpet on the surface of the water, Inger’s nearest family listened to the sound of the soft guitar music of “Cavatina”, the well-known tune from the movie “The Deer Hunter”.
Afterwards they toasted Inger in prosecco.
– It turned into a very nice day, says Arne.
– There was only one person missing, and that was Inger herself.
“For confidentiality reasons, the Diakonhjemmet Hospital can’t comment on her dismissal from our hospital. However, we underline that we are following existing health legislation and national professional guidelines in all our judgements. This is also the case when facing patients with serious somatic conditions who wish to end their lives”, deputy managing director Torkil Clementsen writes in an email to Magasinet.