Will and Testament by Vigdis Hjorth: A Haunting Tale of Family, Trauma, and Resilience

Will and Testament by Vigdis Hjorth — a haunting exploration of abuse, memory, and survival.

I’ve decided to break with the standard social realism tradition I have seemingly started on this blog and write about a slightly different novel this time. Will and Testament is the first Vigdis Hjorth novel I’ve read, but I can assure you it won’t be the last.

I had been hearing praise for this author in different places and from people with very diverse literary tastes, but for totally unexplainable reasons it took a while before I got around to reading this novel.

I bought it and then let it sit on my shelf for a while because I had exams and generally a lot of work. I ended up reading it on the beach in Spain, and while it stressed me out, I have to say I also enjoyed it wholeheartedly. But I have to be honest here – Will and Testament isn’t necessarily the novel you want to read. In fact, chances are you will hate it at some point. Nonetheless, in my humble opinion it is absolutely worth reading.

Vigdis Hjorth writes about abuse and trauma in a profoundly different way than what we are used to. As I’m sure everyone knows, it is quite common to depict violent men as belonging to the lower working class — alcoholics, drug addicts, etc. — while the rich live in the land of milk and honey. This is something we often find in books and films from the States and, honestly, I’m getting a bit tired of it. Yes, we know that living in poverty can lead to a whole set of other problems, but that shouldn’t and doesn’t mean that being poor equals being abusive or an addict or both.

Therein lies the brilliance of Will and Testament. Hjorth brings us the harrowing experience of a woman from a rich bourgeois family, painfully reminding the reader (she reminded me, at least) of the brilliant Danish film Festen (The Celebration, I believe, is the English title).

The narrator, Bergljot, is in her 50s, a magazine editor and theatre critic, and seems at least professionally accomplished. She has a dog, a partner she doesn’t live with, four adult children, and grandchildren. Her life could certainly have been worse, I thought at first. However, we very quickly find out that she is estranged from her family — or rather from her parents, her brother, and one sister — while she exchanges messages infrequently with another sister.

As the story unfolds, she gets a message from her brother, who also fell out of touch with the rest of the family, informing her that their two sisters inherited early their parents’ holiday homes on Hvaler, a luxurious Norwegian island, while he and Bergljot were left out of this part of the inheritance. From that moment onwards, she gets pulled into resuming contact with her family after more than 20 years.

Further in the story we learn the reason Bergljot decided to sever ties with her family. As a young girl, she was repeatedly raped by her father over a period of two years. And as it so often happens to girls (and boys) who survive incest, she buried this violent experience deep in her memory, probably not expecting it ever to emerge on the surface. But it did – she remembered in her late 20s or early 30s. After seeking professional support and working through her trauma, Bergljot decided to speak up and tell her mother and sisters about her experience.

I was saddened but definitely unsurprised when it becomes clear that the three most important women in her life make a conscious decision not to believe her. However, in this so characteristically bourgeois rejection of truth lies the second reason why this novel is so good. It is far easier for the sisters and aging mother to live in their distorted reality and label Bergljot as problematic and a troublemaker, because that way they not only shield themselves but also preserve their reputation.

I find the beauty of this novel also in the fact that it isn’t focused on the act of sexual violence itself. While we are perfectly aware of the incest Bergljot survived, we are not bombarded with descriptions of violence. Instead, Hjorth shows us the effects of such trauma that remain even decades after the act. She is so successful in this that it made me think the book is not just one woman’s story but an homage of sorts to millions of women out there who have experienced sexual violence from their fathers, brothers, uncles, or just “close family friends.”

Her writing is simple, straightforward, and void of stylistic devices to the extent that it might  feel like something a journalist and not a novelist wrote. Despite that, Hjorth skilfully crafted a poignant and impactful story that evokes not only sadness but also anger — not just at this particular family but at the entire society that allows such things to be pushed under the rug and go unpunished.

Will and Testament is the kind of novel that shows the full power of literature — the power to make you face the truth, no matter how ugly it gets or how much it might hurt. Once you read it, the world will not feel quite the same. However challenging at times, I found it utterly rewarding and I am definitely looking forward to reading Is Mother Dead and other Hjorth's books. I would like also to hear from you - your opinions about this author's work!