Step back to 28 April 1940. A serene Sunday morning unfolds in rural Norway. Blue skies stretch over ploughed fields. Suddenly, there are low-flying German fighters buzzing the houses before they vanish over the fjord. As a result, whispers spread: the enemy has seized Værnes aerodrome. But that’s only the prelude. By afternoon, dark clouds mass in the west. However, they’re no storm. Rather, they’re smoke from Kristiansund’s inferno. In Anne Karin Elstad’s evocative novel Connections, translated by Iain Robertson, this moment ignites a nation’s terror. Moreover, it sparks a family’s unravelling.

Elstad captures the chaos with raw intimacy. Telephone lines buzz. The coastal town burns under relentless Luftwaffe raids. No military target justifies the fury; this is a civilian slaughter. Flames leap high, painting the horizon crimson. Villagers gather in the churchyard as dusk falls. Women outnumber men; mothers clutch evacuee children. Husbands stare westward. Their faces glow eerily in the blue twilight. “A crazy flame-red sunset,” Elstad writes. It dances endlessly. Clouds loom blacker than night. Yet silence reigns. No cries, no cheers – just stunned disbelief.

In the churchyard Jørgen Storvik stands apart, his arm draped over his wife’s shoulder. Julie cradles the young Sven; their older sons Helge and Jostein huddle close. But their eldest son, Krister? He’s trapped in the blazing town, chasing dreams about his future amid the chaos. Anxiety gnaws at Jørgen. “If anything should happen to the boy,” he thinks, “I would not be able to bear it.” Meanwhile, a neighbouring farmer, Hallgrim Ås, warns: ‘Go home….That’s not a circus over there.’ His words chill the air. Sarcasm turns into a veiled threat and laughter dies instantly. For the Storviks, invasion isn’t some abstract idea – it’s personal. Jørgen’s brother Ivar’s Nazi sympathies fester like an open wound. Jørgen seethes inwardly. How can he shield his legacy from such poison?

As midnight nears, the glow persists. Men linger, their voices low. “Is this never going to end?” one whispers. Elstad doesn’t glorify heroism. Rather, she reveals quiet endurance. Julie feels the chill of isolation as her family stands slightly apart from the others. Are there whispers of Ivar’s folly? They sting. Yet in this shared vigil, bonds strain but hold. Dawn breaks pale. 

Connections isn’t dry history. Instead, it’s a mirror to our fractures. Elstad, born in 1938, channels Norway’s collective trauma. Those flames? They scorched more than buildings. In addition, they tested souls.

Now, your turn. Got a family tale from WWII? A whispered betrayal? A defiant stand? Share in the comments below. For example, let’s honour the flames and the stories they birthed. What’s yours?