Facing me was the road leading up to the castle, maybe three hundred yards away. The battlements, festooned with swastikas, looked to be in good shape: probably the local Party headquarters.
Around the square were a cluster of shops: Apothek (pharmacy), Bäckerei (bakery) Metzgerei (butcher), all olde worlde establishments in keeping with their surroundings. The baker seemed to be doing the best business, with the butcher trailing in third place; meat was clearly in short supply.
On the corner, dominating the square, was the Gasthof zum Löwen: three stories, half-timbered, hanging eaves; typical mittel-European. Way back, the main danger would no doubt have been avoiding the night soil cascading down from upper windows. Today it was merely the slight drip from recently watered flower baskets. In a brave effort to ignore the war – and on the assumption it must be spring – the enterprising owner had managed a very decent floral display under the windows facing the square.
In front of the gasthof stood a cart, between the traces a horse, head down, pretending to be asleep. Petrol also in short supply? Maybe our bombing was having some effect.
Slumped on that bench, I was by now knackered and totally out of ideas. The initial adrenalin rush long gone. If a uniform had come up and, in the time-honoured phrase, had said, “Tommy, for you the war is over,” I’d have followed without a murmur, POW camp a welcome release.
But nothing happened. The town went about its business, mostly civilian, but with the odd military vehicle puttering through the gate, left turn, then up the hill to the castle; surely either Nazi Party or Wehrmacht. I might as well have been invisible.
I tried to work out where I was, but my knowledge of Germany was based on a short visit to Hamburg in ‘38 and, more recently, our briefings on the Kammhuber line of flak batteries around our favourite targets. Places like Berlin, Frankfurt and the Essen. I had little idea what lay between, beyond the fact that I must be somewhere between Schweinfurt and the Ruhr. In a pretty little place, as yet untouched by war.
Fatigue and lack of food were beginning to take their toll, when I was woken by something moist touching my hand. I looked into a pair of brown doggy eyes. His nose nuzzled me again. At least the animals were friendly.
He could have been a mix of retriever, labrador, collie... I’m not very good at canine models, but the result was large, dark brown and rather decrepit. Having confirmed me as his best mate, he struggled arthritically to the tree, where he cocked a leg. Then returned and lay down by my feet.
I was nodding off yet again, when I heard a small, piping voice saying something. Something...? I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and tried to concentrate. A small boy, maybe five or six years old, was eyeing me suspiciously. Short trousers, a shirt with food stains down the front, tousled light brown hair.
The snag with understanding German is that few people speak Hochdeutsch as taught in schools, but in a bewildering array of dialects. One of the worst offenders was the Führer himself, his rasping Austrian delivery an affront to the language of Goethe, a defect that had not stopped him enslaving a nation with words.
The little lad in front of me wasn’t top of his elocution class either, but second time around I got the gist. He was telling me the dog was his.
Before replying, I put a few mental cogs into place. Born and bred in Norway, I’d spent the past three years hearing only English, which I now spoke well enough to be often taken for British. But that language now had to be utterly banished from my mind. A lapse into Norse would be part of my new persona, but any hint of English would be fatal.
So, in what I hoped was my best schoolboy Deutsch, I replied, “Then you’re a lucky boy. He’s a nice friendly dog.”
“He should bite people!” was the reply.
“Well, I’m glad he didn’t bite me.”
“Mum says he should guar... you know...”
“Guard you?”
The boy nodded gratefully, then said, “You talk funny.”
“That’s because I come from another country, far away.”
“Then Mummy won’t like you.”
“She hasn’t met me yet. Anyway, what about you? Don’t you like me?”
“Dunno. You look funny.” ‘Funny’ seemed to be his catchphrase. He had a point. Unshaven, dirty and hungry, I could not have been a reassuring sight.
Keen to keep our tenuous chatty link alive, I went on: “And what’s your name?”
“Benni. I live over there.” He indicated the gasthof. “And he’s Karl,” who lay at my feet, occasionally twitching in doggy dreams.
Life is often changed by the most trivial events. If, at that precise moment, Benni had not drawn my attention to the dozing dog, who knows what might have happened. As it was, turning to glance at Karl, another movement caught my eye.
During the time I’d been sitting there, activity in the square had been slack, at best. The horse and cart outside the gasthof had gone. A couple of military vehicles had laboured up the hill, before disappearing into the castle compound.
Now, I vaguely noticed that an open kübelwagen – the Reich’s standard military vehicle – had also turned left towards the castle. But instead of continuing up the hill, this one had stopped halfway. The uniformed driver got out, slammed the car door shut, and strode into the nearby building. A man in a hurry.
I was starting to turn my attention back to Benni, when I did a double-take. Had the ‘kübe’ moved? It had. And was still moving.
You don’t survive nearly a tour of ops over the most heavily defended country on Earth without fast reaction times. In the air I fancied myself as dead-eyed-dick, the fastest draw in the west – or, in this case, the east. But sitting there on terra firma, I was paralysed.
Maybe this was because the ‘kübe’s’ track seemed at first to be taking it to my right, between me and the pharmacy. If that was indeed the case, something – a slight camber in the road, a rogue cobblestone? – had changed its trajectory. One fact was beyond dispute: an out-of-control hunk of metal was now heading directly towards me. And Benni. Only yards away and gathering speed.
Reacting at the last moment, I hurled myself at Benni, the impetus taking us slithering across the square. As we rolled to a stop the kübelwagen embedded itself in the tree, showering us with debris.
After every accident there’s a short hiatus, a few moments of silence when the participants try to take in what has happened. How long this lasted I’ve no idea. Probably only a few seconds. I was getting shakily to my feet, making sure Benni was OK, when I became aware of the rumpus around us.
Out of nowhere a crowd had gathered; not that many, maybe a dozen, but a lot more than a moment ago, when it had been just Benni, the dog and me. What hit me was the noise. Mostly female noise. And mostly coming from two sources: blue-blouse banshee on my right; red-skirt banshee to my left.
Their yelling had not been covered in my German language syllabus, but was clearly colourful. I realised to my horror that red-skirt’s fury was directed at me. Hardly surprising in view of the fact that she was looking at one wrecked car and one unknown male. Who therefore had probably been the driver. She was clutching Benni protectively – his mother by the look of it – and obviously held me responsible for her son’s near brush with death.
For a reason I could not at first fathom, blue-blouse banshee seemed to be in my corner. Their screaming contest was finely balanced when an overweight officer, sweating in spite of the modest temperature, puffed to a halt in front of the congregation.
Both banshees took a break. Then red-skirt, reassessing the situation, strode up to the officer until her face was inches from his. Pointing to the wreck around the tree, she hissed, “Is this yours, Willi?”
He nodded, abjectly. “I put the brake on... I’m sure I did.”
“Idiot!” Red-skirt was seething. “You damned near killed him. Werner’s son. The last of the Weisses.”
It was only later that I realised the significance of this phrase, ‘the last of the Weisses’. Because now b
lue-blouse took over.
“I saw everything from the pharmacy,” she explained. “You got it all wrong. This man...” pointing at me... “is a hero.”
If there’s one word that epitomises the Teutonic psyche it’s ‘hero’. Richard Wagner wrote the most monumental of all operas – some sixteen hours if played non-stop – about a mythical world of gods and heroes. Most of whom meet untimely ends. Then, after the creation of the first Reich in 1871, mammoth memorials to its historical heroes started littering the countryside. Hermannsdenkmal celebrates the destruction of three Roman legions by Arminius, and ‘Wacht am Rhein’ – Watch on the Rhine – towers above that river to intimidate another old adversary, France.
Now Hitler was harnessing this cult to create a new generation of heroes. Iron crosses were being distributed like confetti, many of them posthumously.
My situation had now utterly changed. Any idea of trying to sneak through Germany by keeping a low profile had to be binned. I was a celebrity, albeit only a minor and local one. According to blue-blouse, I was a hero, a status which might afford some opportunities. On the other hand, an awful lot of heroes ended up dead. I would have to play my role carefully.
The crowd was beginning to gather its wits when a wail went up from Benni. He tore free from his mother and dashed over to the scene of the crime where, on closer inspection, he recoiled with a whimper. Because Karl, his faithful canine friend, was not only dead, but very obviously so. Mangled. Bloody.
This was excellent news. It went to show what Benni might have been like had it not been for their hero: yours truly.
There followed a discussion about what to do with the corpse. A garden burial was quickly discounted. In the end it was decided to offer the dog to Felix, the butcher. For human consumption? Less said the better. In the eleventh year of the thousand-year Reich meat was a valuable commodity.
When Benni’s tears had been mopped up, attention turned back to me. If I had been a mess before this incident, my skid along the cobbles, Benni in my arms, had enhanced the scarecrow effect. I now had a big tear in my trousers and a bloody knee. Again, excellent news. The probing questions would come soon enough, but for now it was all sympathy and gratitude. Trade on it while I could.
I meekly followed when red-skirt, now won over to my cause, led me across the square into the gasthof, through the public rooms, and into a bathroom.
“Trousers off!” she barked.
I debagged myself reluctantly, not from any notion of modesty, but because my survival effects were stashed in those trouser pockets. She thoroughly washed the wound, which looked worse than it was, dressed it, and pronounced me fit. I reached over to recover the trousers, but she wouldn’t have it.
“If there’s one thing we’re not short of it’s men’s trousers. Millions of them, waiting hopelessly in cupboards for someone to wear them.”
I was startled, both by her tone of voice and sentiments. Could it be that victory for the master race was no longer a foregone conclusion? She disappeared upstairs and returned with three pairs to choose from.
“The length should be pretty close,” she announced, “and waists don’t vary much these days. The Führer doesn’t permit corpulence. Except, of course, for Fat Hermann. Reichsmarshal Göring.”
They were indeed a good fit, so much so that red-skirt permitted herself a wintry smile. I quickly transferred my effects from the old pair.
“And now, I think, it’s time for introductions,” she said. “I’m Sieglinde; but everyone calls me Siggy.”
“Per,” I replied. “Spelled P-E-R, and that’s not short for anything.” I shook her hand and hinted at a bow. Continental etiquette is more formal than in Britain.
“From Norway,” I added, anticipating the next question.
“Ahhh. I was wondering. So. One of our foreign workers.”
“I was. Until a couple of days ago. Then we got bombed out. So now I’m trying to get home.”
“I didn’t think leaving... just like... that was permitted.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t been back for nearly three years. Nothing left for me here...” We were approaching the moment of truth. When she would either hand me in, or...?
“Well, I think we owe you a drink. On the house. Least I can do, seeing as how you apparently saved my son from a nasty accident. That’s what Irma says, anyway. I didn’t see it.”
“A beer, if you have it.” I tried not to sound too desperate.
“It’d be a strange gasthof that didn’t have any beer.” She moved over to the bar and put a large stein under the tap. “It’s one of the few things that’s still almost pre-war. Probably a ploy to keep the lads half-cut and ready for the next round of heroics.”
Red-skirt – Siggy as I would now have to think of her – did an unsettling line in sarcasm.
Never had a drink tasted so good. The ultimate golden nectar. I was into my third gulp when Siggy led me over to a corner table.
“Our stammtisch,” she explained. “Treat it as yours. Give you some privacy. It gets pretty crowded later on.”
I’d never come across the ‘stammtisch’ custom in England, but it’s common on the continent: a pub table set aside for family or other regulars. Sometimes they’re labelled as such, but in smaller places, where everyone knows everyone, signs are unnecessary. I suspected privacy was not the main reason I was being given this honour. They needed to keep this stranger – me – under control, while they tried to work out what to do with me.
“Have to dash. Back soon. I’ll try to have a chat before the evening rush.” As Siggy left, I realised she was rather attractive. Not beautiful. Her nose was too long, hair cut rather short, and rather stumpy in the leg department. But sexy. Or perhaps I’d be bowled over by any old witch these days. Wartime is hardly a normal environment.
I looked around the ‘stube’, the lounge, which was empty apart from myself. Probably the dead time between lunch and dinner. Or maybe German pubs were in similar dire straits as the rest of the country. No doubt I would soon find out.
It was a large room, which managed to appear cosy because of all the nooks and crannies. Quite dark, even at that time of day, with mediaeval latticed windows and wooden furniture. The arm-rests featured intricately carved lions’ heads. It was, after all, the ‘Lion Pub’. Two of the walls were dedicated to photos of local scenes, sepia toned by decades of tobacco smoke. Even the snow shots were off-white. The inner wall was like a zoo: a profusion of antlers, demonstrating the gasthof’s ‘sporting’ credentials – although why mass slaughter of harmless animals had ever been considered ‘sport’ was beyond me. I wondered whether the rear half of these animals decorated the other side of the wall; a kitchen panorama of bums to amuse the chef? Probably not.
Alcohol on an empty stomach is heady stuff and soon I was pondering the absurdity of my situation. A couple of days ago I was trying to follow Churchill’s order that ‘the only good German is a dead German’. A professional killer. Licensed by His Britannic Majesty. Now, perversely, instead of killing, I had saved the life of a young lad, who in a few years would be licensed by Adolf to try and kill me. Worse still, I was beginning to fancy one of those brood mares, whose sole job in the Third Reich was to produce more heroes. All very confusing.
In an attempt to return to the real world, I started reading the local rags. The Gasthof zum Löwen still followed the peacetime practice of offering guests copies of the daily paper: in this case either Angriff! (Attack!) or Völkischer Beobachter (People’s Observer). Both Nazi party publications.
Did I say ‘real world’? This was pure fantasy. A skirmish where the Wehrmacht had managed to stem the red tide for a few minutes was heralded as a major victory. The tone was optimistic. Even though the allies were halfway up Italy. Stalin knocking on the door of the Fatherland. And the second front clearly imminent.
In wartime no country can escape the censor. You never get the whole truth. But in Britain defeats as well as victories were reported with tolerable
accuracy. So I had a pretty good idea of the current situation. Which was a mile from what Josef Goebbles was telling us.
I’d finished my beer and was wondering what to do next, when Siggy reappeared and sat down opposite.
“I’ve got two minutes,” she began. “Everything’s a mad rush. But I need to know a bit more about you. Norwegian, you said. Got any papers?”
I handed over my one tenuous lifeline.
She flipped through the pages with a puzzled frown. “This isn’t an ordinary ‘ausweis’ – identity card?”
“No, it’s even better. It’s my passport.” The escape and evasion guys back in Britain had told us to carry with us anything that might be remotely useful if we were shot down. This was my get-out-of-jail card. A very feeble one.
“Nineteen thirty-eight,” said Siggy, studying the stamps. “You entered at Hamburg. Then left again. According to this, you’re not here.”
There was no answer to that, so I said nothing.
“What were you doing in Hamburg?”
“Student exchange. German had been one of my school subjects, so I wanted to get some practice. Hamburg is one of the closest cities to Norway. Easy and cheap to get to.”
“What did you think of Hamburg?”
I chose my words carefully. “Exciting... stimulating...”
“Lots of swastikas, marching songs and sieg-heils, I’ll be bound.”
“True.”
“That was six years ago. What have you been doing since?”
“The last few years I’ve been here in Germany. As a foreign worker.”
“Doing what?”
“State secret. Gestapo told us if we ever breathed a word...” My finger did a throat-cutting gesture.
Although the flimsiest of lies, it gave Siggy food for thought. The word ‘Gestapo’ was a good conversation-stopper.
“I’ll have to take advice. See what we’re going to do with you. Meanwhile, you might as well earn your keep. Can you plant potatoes?”
THE LAST WEISS Page 2
