The Redbreast(5)

judge accede with some irritation: ‘I agree with the

defending counsel. Unless the prosecutor has

anything new to add, may I suggest we move on?’

Groth opened his eyes so that a narrow white

stripe could be seen above and beneath the iris. He

inclined his head. With a fatigued movement, he

raised a newspaper aloft.

‘This is Dagbladet from 25 January. In an

interview on page eight one of the accused’s co-

idealogues —’

‘I object . . .’ Krohn began.

Groth sighed. ‘Let me change that to a man who

expresses racist views.’

The judge nodded, but sent Krohn an admonitory

glare at the same time. Groth continued.

‘This man, commenting on the attack at Dennis

Kebab, says we need more racists like Sverre

Olsen to regain control of Norway. In the

interview the word “racist” is used as a term of

respect. Does the accused consider himself a

“racist”?’

‘Yes, I am a racist,’ said Olsen before Krohn

managed to interpose. ‘In the sense that I use the

word.’

‘And what might that be?’ Groth smiled.

Krohn clenched his fists under the table and

looked up at the podium, at the two associate

judges flanking the judge. These three would

decide the fate of his client for the next few years,

and his own status in the Tostrupkjeller bar for the

next few months. Two ordinary citizens

representing the people, representing common-

sense justice. They used to call them ‘lay judges’,

but perhaps they had realised that it was too

reminiscent of ‘play judges’. To the right of the

judge was a young man wearing a cheap, sensible

suit, who hardly dared raise his eyes. The young,

slightly plump woman to the left seemed to be

pretending to follow the proceedings, while

extending her neck so that the incipient double chin

could not be seen from the floor. Average

Norwegians. What did they know about people

like Sverre Olsen? What did they want to know?

Eight witnesses had seen Sverre Olsen go into the

burger bar with a baseball bat under his arm and,

after a brief exchange of expletives, hit the owner,

Ho Dai – a forty-year-old Vietnamese, who came

to Norway with the boat people in 1978 – on the

head. So hard that Ho Dai would never be able to

walk again. When Olsen started to speak, Johan

Krohn Jr. was already mentally shaping the appeal

he would lodge with the High Court.

‘ Rac-ism,’ Olsen read, having found the

definition in his papers, ‘is an eternal struggle

against hereditary illness, degeneration and

annihilation, as well as a dream of and a desire for

a healthier society with a better quality of life.

Racial mixture is a kind of bilateral genocide. In a

world where there are plans to establish gene

banks to preserve the smallest beetle, it is

generally accepted that you can mix and destroy

human races that have taken millennia to develop.

In an article in the respected journal American

Psychologist in 1972, fifty American and

European scientists warned about the dangers of

suppressing inheritance theory arguments.’

Olsen stopped, encompassed courtroom 17 in one

sweeping glare and raised his right index finger.

He had turned towards the prosecutor and Krohn

could see the pale Sieg Heil tattoo on the shaven

roll of fat between the back of his head and his

neck – a mute shriek and a strangely grotesque

contrast to the cool rhetoric of the court. In the

ensuing silence Krohn could hear from the noise in

the corridor that courtroom 18 had adjourned for

lunch. Seconds passed. Krohn remembered

something he had read about Adolf Hitler: that at

mass rallies he would pause for effect for up to

three minutes. When Olsen continued he beat the

rhythm with his finger, as if to drum every word

and sentence into the listeners’ brains.

‘Those of you who are trying to pretend that there

is not a racial struggle going on here are either

blind or traitors.’

He drank water from the glass the court usher had

placed in front of him.

The prosecutor broke in: ‘And in this racial

struggle you and your supporters, of whom there

are a number in this court today, are the only ones

who have the right to attack?’

Boos from the skinheads in the public gallery.

‘We don’t attack, we defend ourselves,’ Olsen

said. ‘It’s the right and duty of every race.’

A shout from the benches, which Olsen caught

and passed on with a smile: ‘In fact, even among

people from other races there is race-conscious

National Socialism.’

Laughter and scattered applause from the gallery.

The judge asked for silence before looking

enquiringly at the prosecutor.