Nittedal's Gunpowder Factory

In the forest next to the river about half a mile from where I’m staying, for 93 years, from 1883 to 1976, there was a gunpowder factory. At some point in my first weeks here, my host told me that for a long time people didn’t go to that part of the forest because of what had happened.

“There was an explosion,” she said. “People were very upset about it.”

For whatever reason, my power of questioning fails me at that moment. I forget to ask how long ago it happened, what precisely happened, what exploded, if anyone was injured, if it blew up the whole town, what exactly the damage was, why the people were so upset as to shun a section of the forest, and was my host one of those people. Was it radioactive gunpowder?

“But now they have done something with the forest,” she says, as an afterthought. “It’s very good.”

For time heals some wounds, they say, or, at the least, it allows people to make a sort of outdoor gunpowder factory museum off to either side of the nicely graveled walking trails. It allows them to make nicely graveled walking trails through the part of the forest that used to be a gunpowder factory.

My breath pushes smoke into the air as I walk down the path. Off to my right, marked by a tilted wooden beam with a blue arrow painted on it, lies a collection of rusted wheels and gears in an unenthusiastic half circle. At the top of the circle is a sign standing like a podium without a preacher.

I go stare at it. It’s written in Norwegian and doesn’t have the one Norwegian word I’ve mastered (which happens to be Takk and means Thank You). I take a picture and then turn to stare at the rusted, discarded parts. Why can’t we leave no trace? Dry grass has withered itself around one axel pole, has interwoven long fingers between the thick spokes of what might have been some kind of fan. Damp leaves, now crisp with frost, have turned purple and brown on top of the dry grass. Given enough time, I think, all this humanmade debris will be covered up by the longsuffering, erasing hand of nature. That thought comforts me.

There’s a kind of beauty, though, in the rusted parts, in the abandonment. Although only 42 years neglected, I feel like I’ve come to some ancient ruin, nearly all forgotten and nearly gladly so.

Once in its life, the gunpowder factory had had 120 different buildings spread out over this forest area. One sign, which later I translate from Norwegian to English using an online (and not entirely accurate) tool, states that it’s basically impossible to know how many people worked onsite over the years because there was a huge turnover rate due to miserly ownership, the seasonal nature of the work, constant labor restructuring, explosions, fires, and deaths.

On May 7 of 1919, an explosion rocked the riverside factory. Fire spread from building to building. Seven men died. When the smoke cleared, the company rebuilt the buildings at a greater distance from each other to prevent such widespread destruction. The signs say nothing about what they did regarding the seven men.

And yet, a bit further on, stands a plaque to those seven men and the ten others who died over the factory’s lifetime. Nittedal has not forgotten them. Their names, their ages, and the date they died are listed one after the other in chronological order. One twenty-five year old man in 1888, four youths of fifteen and sixteen (two girls, two boys) in 1906, a thirty-six year old man in 1912, the seven men in 1919 ranging in age from 26 to 57, one fifty-four year old man in 1967, and two men, 34 and 56 years old, in 1976.

Their memorial has a short-walled garden behind and encircling stones around to mark it. It’s some conciliation to death to be remembered, isn’t it? Is it?

One plaque states that in the gunpowder warehouse matches and metal were forbidden. Of course, they were. Any spark, no matter what its source, was a matter of life or death. At the end of that plaque is a quote from one of the workers. He said, “A spark is the last thing you'll see, and so, you become an angel.”

It doesn’t say which worker, who he said it to, or why. It doesn’t say if his name is one of the names listed on the memorial.

After paying some silent tribute, I turn and leave the angels behind me.

Around the bend, where the river spills down over giant stepping-stone rocks, is the crumbling remains of the power plant built in 1904.

When the light turns golden and casts a gold-pink hue into the water, the old power plant pulsates as if with magic. The building itself could be alive. A witch could live there. A domiciled troll. The Three Billy Goats Gruff. An introverted, solitary princess. A reclusive, forest-loving bard.
Standing with my elbows on the bridge’s railing, I get caught up in the fairytales rather than tangled up in the facts of hydroelectric power and dams that the nearby signs are explaining (in Norwegian). Later, in the midst of talk of dams and power, my handy online translator spits out this jewel: One of the reasons why the herb farm was added to the trout fishing was that there was good access to hydroelectric power. In the beginning there was an impeller in the eleven, the foundation for this is seen on the other side. And I wonder how and when exactly herb farms and trout fishing got introduced into my gunpowder factory history lesson and what the heck an impeller was doing in the eleven. How dare it?

I leave the bridge and the power plant and head across the trail.

There’s an old rusted vat like a hot water heater standing in a corner of a building that no longer exists as if it grew right out of the hill it backs into. Here’s a pile of rusted parts, an old light, wheels and cogs, fittings, and joinings, outlets and vent hoods. There’s a crumbled brick wall with tree roots and moss grown like a canopy over it.

As the years went by, after explosive accident after accident, the factory officials increased the safety measures. They must have done okay, for from 1919 until 1967 (as far as the memorial plaque confirms), there were no fatal accident. Not until Wilhelm Veseth was killed in an explosion in the smelter house in 1967. After his death, the company fully automated the production so that the machines could run without any human present. Even so, even with their precautions, as a final plaque says, in 1976, “something went wrong. An explosion occurred and two men died.” This was the final straw for the gunpowder factory. They closed production. The town stayed angry for years. The forest grew taller. The grass faded from green to dried out gold, from green to gold again and again. The once shiny and oiled machinery turned rusty under the Norwegian rain and snow.

As I walk beyond the site, leaving rust, ruin, and death behind, I wish I could say the gunpowder factory closed down because the need for gunpowder had become obsolete. But I can’t. Scraping a little frost off the ledge of a wood shed, I take a seat and reach into my bag to pull out the hot tea I’ve brought along with me. Easing off my gloves, I wrap my hands around the glass jar and let the warmth soothe the chill out of my fingers. The river rushes on just below me, singing out an enthusiastic lullaby. A woman and her dog pass by. The clouds move overhead. The earth keeps circling the sun. I take in a breath and smile. The forest doesn’t hold on to loss. It dies every winter itself and then blossoms when spring finally comes again.

Grindelwald in Lillestrøm

Wednesday morning, while doing a half-hearted scan through my social media sites, I see an ad for Grindelwalds Forbrytelser. Ah! It’s the opening day for The Crimes of Grindelwald which is the second movie in the Fantastic Beasts series written by J.K. Rowling.

Almost unexpectedly—“Oh gosh,” I’d thought, “here we go with another prequel.”—I’d loved Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them which was the first.  

I saw it in the theater with my older sister and my second to youngest brother. The day we went, we had the entire theater to ourselves except for one other person. My sister and I laughed out loud at more than one moment during the film, filled with delight as if we were children again.

Of course, my brother was a little cooler than we were. He might have stated, “It was good,” with a small shrug when it was all said and done, but he’s not one to gush.  

What I loved most about the film was the character of Newt Scamander. Not that he is played by Eddie Redmayne, though there is that. Redmayne does a fine job. But rather, that Newt loves all the magical creatures, even the ones that wizards and non-wizards fear and hate. I loved that he tries to protect those creatures and show the people of the world that they don’t have to kill the things they fear. I loved that his character is contrasted against the two warring sides: Wizards who want to live peacefully with and unknown by the Non-Wizards (aka Muggles, aka Non-mags) and the Wizards who want to reveal themselves for who they are and step into their power for what they call the greater good. These latter Wizards are headed up by Grindelwald who at first glance doesn’t seem so evil with his desire to let Wizards live their lives out in the open. And yet, as he tries to gather his followers, his crimes (which are still not all quite clear) at least include murder which is no small thing. Surely, murder is crime enough. In that same vein, it’s also vaguely implied that what Grindelwald is going for (beyond the occasional murder here and there) is basically mass slaughter “for the greater good.” But I’m not sure if that mass slaughter is of the opposing Wizards or of the Non-Mags. Or both. Anyway, he’s silver-tongued and when he speaks, he speaks of unity and peace, not of killing. He talks a good talk.

Fantastic Beasts, based in real-world time between the two World Wars and 70 years before the Harry Potter story, presents an interesting contrast between American Wizards and their American Wizarding Ministry (rules, rules, rules, control!) and European Wizards and their European Wizarding Ministries (abide by the rules and obliviate!). The Europeans Wizards seem to view Non-Mags as harmless and interesting rather than as dangerous as the Americans Wizards tend to do. In many ways, the presentation is a reflection on actual cultural differences and historical events. It’s funny, a little bit, in the film, to see it with Wizards and Magical Creatures, but it’s not really funny. In some ways, it’s a little too close to real, a little too close to home.

“It’s a movie about loving what’s frightening,” I said, or something really close to that as I came out of the theater after viewing Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. For, Newt’s story, with his character and his mission, touched me. For too often, we kill what we fear. We come in with wands blazing and wipe out what’s not like us, what we feel is dangerous to us. We smack down laws and forbid things. In the midst of ordering the magic into rules and regulations, we forget the magic. Naturally enough, stories being what they are, there’s a good bit of that in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—the wands blazing, one side against the other, Us vs. Them, but Newt’s message is not lost. Not on me.

For I want to be like Newt. I want to love all things and I want to help bridge the chasm that separates the feared from the fearful.  

On the other side of fear is love.

On the other side of fear is adventure.

On the other side of fear is friendship.

“It’s a movie about understanding what we fear.” Maybe that’s what I said. For understanding what is feared and why it’s feared often helps remove fear. Understanding (truly understanding) fear helps transform the individual experience and enriches life.

All this to say now, on Wednesday morning, a bit out of character for myself, when I see the advertisement in Norwegian for the movie, I abandon the To Do list I’d made the night before and get online to check movie times.

The town I’m staying in does not have a cinema. But I’m within walking distance of the train station. While Oslo, only half an hour away by train, has a theater, it is also roughly a three mile walk from the station. And then that far back again. Lillestrøm, on the other hand, while a bit further out by train from my town than Oslo, has a cinema which lies only half a mile away from its station.

Also, I haven’t been to Lillestrøm yet.

I buy my movie ticket online, eat my breakfast, pack a lunch, dress in layers, and walk up the hill to the train station.   

Taking full advantage of my day trip, I arrive a few hours before the show’s start time so that I can explore.

From what I can tell, Lillestrøm is a shopper’s town. I am not a shopper. Overall, I’m not really much of a spender. In fact, I can barely justify the ticket expense for this movie. It feels a bit extravagant. But I want to see where this story goes. Stories have power and I’m captivated by this one.  

I want Newt’s character to withstand the events that will surely happen. I want Newt to influence the people around him to be better and kinder, like a ripple effect of a stone thrown in water.

Touring the town street by street, I pass clothing stores, a mall, some odd statues, bike stands, candy shops, fancy sit down restaurants with lit candles and wine glasses on their tables, bars, cafes, a cultural center, hair salons, an eyeglasses shop, and take-away restaurants with no inside seating.

Judging it rather harshly, I find Lillestrøm to be a charmless town, but not an unfriendly one.

After I’ve walked away enough time, and not finding a café that looks inviting enough to entice me inside, I go into the cinema. It’s bright and clean. I take a seat at one of the wooden tables with wooden chairs set up in the lobby as the waiting point for incoming movie-watchers, for me. I read a little of the book I’ve brought along in anticipation of waiting.  

“How long until I can go inside the theater before the movie starts?” I ask the cinema attendant when he walks past me. He looks at his watch.

“Ten minutes before,” he says.

“Thank you.” I’ve still got half an hour to wait. I’m not the only one. A guy is sitting at a table catty corner from me. Two women are waiting on a bench.

I’m pretty sure the movie will be shown in English with Norwegian subtitles, but I gear myself up for watching (and enjoying) it in Norwegian if that’s what happens. After all, I am in Norway.

I read a little more in my book. I check the time. Still twenty minutes to go.

Three adolescent boys saunter in and over to the large candy and popcorn room off to the right. It’s a flashy room, almost Wonka-esque in its presentation and selection. I’ve brought my own snacks, but I go walk through the shop and admire the salted licorice fish (not real fish, just fish shaped candy), the chocolate mice (also not real mice), the gummy candy, the hard candies, the chocolate bars, and the flavored popcorn.

When it’s time, I show my ticket to the attendant and go down the stairs and into the theater. The room feels new with its black upholstered seats, dark walls, and shiny floors. I’m up near the top. The online purchasing tool had made me select my seat and I’d tried to get one that wouldn’t be obstructed by other movie viewers. I find my number and I’m satisfied. As the commercials play (in Norwegian, thank goodness, so I don’t have to worry about inadvertently understanding and being influenced to go out and shop), about eighteen other people come in and find their seats.

Then, finally, the movie begins. To my good fortune, it’s played in English with Norwegian subtitles. I lean back and settle in.

In the trailer for The Crimes of Grindelwald (and also in the movie), Newt tells his brother, “I don’t do sides.”

Although he is known to choose the magical creatures’ side, again and again, in his avoidance of choosing human sides is something pure, solid, and beautiful.

At one point, Dumbledore tells Newt, “Do you know why I admire you, Newt? You do not seek power. You simply ask, ‘Is a thing… right?’”

That’s also what I admire about Newt. That’s the absolute jewel of his character. That ‘doing what’s right because it’s right’ is what I wish for myself. It’s what I wish for the humans I know and love. It’s what I wish for the humans I don’t know and don’t know to love. It’s what I wish for all beings.

Now, of course, in a good story, a character is presented with conflicts that force them to choose. That’s what strengthens or destroys a character. It’s what gives conflict and tension. It’s what drives the narrative forward to either doom or joy. It’s what creates what’s called Character Arc. It’s what develops a character. It’s what makes characters become three dimensional and real to the viewer/reader. For, we all face conflicts that make us choose.

But I don’t want Newt to be sullied by human pettiness. I want him to remain golden, solid, and pure. I want him to go on saving creatures and bridging the gap between magic and fear, between humans and fear, between fear and fear. When faced with a choice, I want him to do what’s right because it’s right. Crossing my fingers, I sit through the movie absorbed, hopeful, and fearful.

The rumor is that the Fantastic Beast story will be a five-film series. With that in mind, and having the first movie already made, this instalment feels a bit like a setup scene. It presents the darkening. The events increase the tension. We get a little backstory of Newt and Leta’s history and also a little of Dumbledore and Grendelwald’s relationship. People, heartbreakingly, do choose sides. While there is some fun in seeing the characters again; Newt, Tina, Queenie, Jacob, and a few of Newt’s creatures, the connection between the characters feels hasty and, in the case of Queenie and Jacob the emotional connection isn’t there the way it should be. The character development seems to have been set aside in order to pump up the drama. For me, this film is not as full or as rich as the first film had been. As the scenes unfold, I do laugh a couple times, but even so, I’m not as enchanted or charmed as I had been with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. However, knowing that this is only the second chapter, it’s too early to tell if what this film does will work for the story overall. It’s too early to tell if Newt’s character will be completely compromised in the building conflict; if he himself will be changed rather than being the one to change others.

I sit as the credits roll, waiting to see if there is any final scene at the very very end. All the other moviegoers go. The theater staff come in with their cleaning supplies.

One of them says something and I can tell it’s kind of directed at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, letting her know that English and not Norwegian is what I can speak.

“Do you agree that we have the best cinema?” she asks. She’s cheerful. She’s proud.

“It’s very nice,” I say, because it is. “I’ve come all the way from Nittedal to visit it, in fact.”

“You have? Are you visiting or do you live there?”

“I’m visiting.”

She holds her broom against her side and looks at me. “Why did you choose Norway?”

“Well, I’d never been and I heard it was beautiful.” That’s true. I pause and then add, “It is beautiful.”

She seems pleased. I stand a moment and then with nothing more to add other than, “Thank you,” I wave my hand in goodbye and head for the exit.

“Enjoy your stay,” she says.

I walk my way in the gathering darkness back to the train station, running the movie back again through my mind, comparing it to the first one, comparing it to my expectations and hopes, and analyzing the plot.

As I sit on the train, I pick the scenes apart for the story, for the ways that the characters have remained true to character or not, for the dialogue, for the strength of the narrative as a whole, and for the ways that the story will have to go forward now with what has happened. That’s what I love to do.

Standing up as we pull into Nittedal, I’m pleased I went, but I’m lightly disappointed with the film. Time and the third, fourth, and fifth movie will tell if the story is great or only okay.

Walking down the hill from the train station to the house, I mull over the parts of the movie that had struck me as off or of needing further explanation. There were three points. One had to do with something that Newt says. One had to do with something that Leta Lestrange says. The third had to do with something that Queenie does. Passing beneath the misty white glow of a string of street lights, I reflect on choice. Is there a point when “not doing sides” isn’t the right thing? I want the answer to be no. But, with World War II and with genocide in mind, I have to think that maybe sometimes choosing a side is essential for saving one’s own soul. Sometimes. And is choosing what’s right because it’s right ever the wrong thing to do? Surely, not. Surely, not?

I realize, it’s frightfully irritating to be so vague about the parts that bothered me. But I don’t want to spoil the movie. I’ll let you go, by train or otherwise, to the cinema of your choice and judge it for yourself.

But in the meantime, we should all try to understand what we fear. We should all do things because they’re right. We should always be against genocide. And we should all be kind.