moved us deeply.
The Wehrmacht copy Is our soldlers'
most prlzed possesslon.
And thus art, great poetry,
alds us In our struggle.
Mrs Hamsun, would you?
It belongs to my son.
He loves to read It.
You know I want my porridge
so the spoon will stand upright.
Upright, by itself.
What are you bawling about?
Well, you see, Mr Hamsun...
Mette's brother in Grimstad...
He was with the Resistance.
Now Terboven is going to have
them shot. There were 13 of them.
Two from Grimstad.
Don't cry, my dear.
You mustn't cry.
Oh well, a couple of lice
more or less makes no difference.
Mr Hamsun...
Do you recall you stayed at
our hotel while you were writing?
What do you want?
You have to intercede for Esben,
forthem all, with Terboven.
The Germans trust you.
The boys are going to be shot.
- Have you seen my father?
- Not since he left for his stroll.
They've tortured him.
Burnt the soles of his feet.
Torn out his finger nails!
Intercede for him, Mr Hamsun.
They've tortured him.
He's only 20,
and now he's going to die!
Be quiet!
You're a Nazi.
It said so in the paper.
- Please ask Terboven...
- I can't do that.
They don't listen to me.
I keep sending them telegrams.
- Stop begging me.
- Don't you understand?
Dear, kind Mr Hamsun.
He's going to die.
You pig!
You dirty German pig!
What's his name?
You can't sit there, father.
I just want to die in peace.
But they throw themselves at me,
screaming and yelling.
Come on, let's go home.
- Did you know Esben?
- Which Esben?
Esben Brodersen, 12 Solvgate.
Are you in distress, father?
Is it really bad?
I just wanted to die in peace
when all this started.
Well, you can't,
so you'll have to live with it.
What am I to do?
It's too late to ask my advice.
- It's too late, father.
- What is it?
"Idealism isn't just an armchair
occupation," to quote mother.
Are you out of your mind?
What good will it do?
You're going to enlist?
The Eastern Front? You don't even
know what a rifle looks like.
What will you do? Write poems?
Have you thought this through?
Who put this insane idea
into your head? Mother?
Father?
- Don't worry about it.
- But it's absurd.
You can't possibly have
come up with this yourself.
Absurd.
Arild, you're a...
poet by nature.
It's absurd.
What is happening to ourfamily?
- Everything's in ruins.
- I came here to...
- Another plea for mercy?
- What of it?
You do think the idiots deserve a
beating, at least, if not being shot.
- Don't you?
- Go.
Well, no one's been pardoned yet.
Maybe it'd help if I wrote.
Maybe Terboven likes me better.
You couldn't be bothered.
You're fartoo busy in Germany.
When I think about
how happy we used to be...
How did we end like this?
Please go, Marie. Haven't we
tormented each other enough?
Father?
I'm leaving in a week.
I'm training at Lichtenfelde West,
and then on to the Eastern Front.
- This is her doing.
- No, I'm following my conscience.
But you're going to be an author.
What do you want a rifle for?
You're the one always praising the
Norwegian lads fighting Bolshevism.
He's not an armchair philosopher.
He's true to his ideals.
- You should respect that.
- They are yourideals.
This was my own decision!
I'm glad to see you're worried.
You never have been before.
So maybe it's about time.
I take your writings seriously.
It matters a lot to me.
- But what good will it do?
- It's all forthe cause.
The fight against Bolshevism.
My conscience!
- You talked him into this.
- It's his own choice.
I've given hundreds of lectures
about the sacrifice.
Women must be brave and send their
sons off to fight the Bolsheviks.
I tell them not to think about
how long their son will live, -
- but whether he'll achieve
anything in his life.
"Could you send yours off?" they ask.
"No, it would break my heart. "
But the boys make up their own minds.
It's their own affair.
"Their own affair"?
I get