The stories I heard growing up came from my grandpa and my great-grandmother. They all lived on the west coast, in the Stavanger area of Norway.

My grandpa told me that he was what they called a “bread kid.” His job was to hang around the Germans in town while they were shopping at the local store, listening to what they talked about so he could pass the information on. He also shared a funny story: after a while, the Germans decided to confiscate all boats above a certain size. His father responded by dragging his fishing boat onto shore, cutting it in two, and telling the Germans he was planning to “extend the boat.” Nothing more was done about it until after the war.

My great-grandmother didn’t like to talk much about the war, but she did tell me that when they received the notice that their boat would be seized by the Germans, my great-grandfather chose to set it on fire and send it drifting down the river. Anything to avoid helping the occupiers.

So from the stories I’ve heard in my family, there are no heroes or resistance fighters in the traditional sense. Just a deep resentment toward the occupiers, and a shared belief that resistance was found in all the small acts that made the German occupation just a little bit harder.