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“Alexander and Gesine Grieg had five children. Edvard was number four in a row. He grew up in Strandgaten 152 near Fisketorget and Tyskerbryggen. The house was destroyed in an explosion on April 20, 1944 and the area was rebuilt, but a memorial plaque has been erected where Grieg's childhood home previously stood.”

That is what Wikipedia says about the birthplace of Edvard Grieg, the most outstanding Norwegian composer who ever lived. We had a few hours free this afternoon, so we decided that we would walk to find the spot where the composer was born. Not that I expected to find a house. I knew about the explosion of April 20, 1944. The German transport ship Voorbode was in port adjacent to the Bergenhus Fortress. Loaded with 120 tons of high explosives, the ship detonated, 150 people were killed, and half of the historic city of Bergen was destroyed, including the house in which Grieg was born. Yet, because Wikipedia says that a historic marker is at Strandgaten 152, I purposed to go find it.

Apple Maps served admirably to lead me right to the lot at Strandgaten 152. I looked around and saw nothing resembling a historical marker, or even a lot large enough to hold a house. There is a crusty old concrete retaining wall for a ramp leading to the next street up the hill, and a tired-looking Comfort Inn. I walked all around the location, all sides, up on the next street (which would have been the Grieg’s back yard). Nothing. Over to the right is a street sign over a stairway leading up to the street above. Strandgaten is cut out of the side of a steep hill leading up from the harbor. The street sign read “Holbergsallmeningen,” or “Holberg’s Alley.”

“I’m getting warm,” I thought. I know about the Holberg Suite, written by Grieg in 1884 on the 200th anniversary of the birth of Louis Holberg, Norwegian author. “Maybe there is some connection.” I went inside the Comfort Inn where a young lady stood behind the front desk.

“I’m looking for the birthplace of Edvard Grieg,” I told her. “I understand he was born at Strandgaten 152, right here where the hotel stands.”

“No, you’re mistaken,” she said. “Louis Holberg was born here. His name is on the alley running beside our hotel.”

“I know that,” I said. “But Wikipedia says Grieg was born at 152 Strandgaten. Is that the address of the hotel here?”

“No, you’re wrong,” she repeated. “Holberg was born here. Grieg was born south of here near the airport. He has a big yellow house.”

“Please excuse me, I said. “I know that house. I’ve been there. You’re talking about the house out at Troldhaugen.”

The desk clerk closed her eyes and nodded.

I continued, “He and Nina bought that house after he had already become a successful composer. But he wasn’t born there. Wikipedia says he was born here.”

She appeared miffed. “Just a minute,” she said. And she disappeared through a door that led back to the office. She emerged in a minute or two with another woman.

“I am so sorry to trouble you,” I said. Then I rehearsed the conversation I had just held with her younger colleague.

Her face lit up as she said, “I’m so glad you came and asked the question. We’re always learning new things about this place.” I relaxed.

I lifted my cell phone and showed her the reference in Wikipedia. I also told her, “I read in Grieg’s biography that he was born very near to the Nykirken, and that he was baptized there when he was a baby. That church is less than a block away.”

“Hmmm. Interesting,” she said. “We have always thought that Holberg lived near here because of the name of the alley next door, but maybe Grieg lived here too.”

I repeated the information about the explosion of the Voorbode and the report of a plaque.

“I don’t know of a plaque,” she said, “but let me bring up the city map on the computer.” After a few seconds she said, “You may be right. The restaurant at the end of the last block is Strandgaten 90, and our hotel is the first building on this block at number 180. So lot number 152 must have been somewhere between here and the corner, but I know of no historical marker.”

I was encouraged. The corner was only 50 feet away. “Thanks,” I said, and went back outside. There is a grungy old retaining wall holding up a ramp rising to the street up the hill. The ramp curves to the left around what appears to be a supply hut for the local electric company. It is somewhat shabby and bears its share of graffiti.

It is possible that somewhere along those fifteen steps I took to the corner, I occupied the space where a young Norwegian girl struggled through the pains of childbirth in the summer of 1843 to produce one of the greatest musicians the world has ever known.Weiterlesen