“With that sort of history I’d have expected Willi to have been higher up the Party ladder.”
“There are Chiefs and Indians,” explained Irma. “Willi is an Indian. Needs someone to lead him. In the old days that was probably Gregor. Now Willi does what the Party tells him.”
“So he’s the one who’ll decide whether I can stay?”
“No, Willi’s just the messenger boy. My guess is it’ll go something like this: Gregor’s keen to get all the help he can, so he’ll go to Willi asking for you become part of our team. Willi still has some respect for big brother Gregor, so he’ll probably pass this request on to his boss, the Local Group Leader, who’s rather impressed with Willi’s Party credentials and usually does what he suggests. Usually.”
“Do I detect a note of uncertainty?”
“Local Group Leader Gustav Wallisch didn’t join the Party until the early thirties. So Willi has years of seniority, which counts for something. But Wallisch didn’t get to where he is by being nice to people. Wallisch is an entirely different kettle of fish. Maybe not look it, but he’s a born chief. A leader.”
CHAPTER 6
With the situation beginning to clarify, I could start some tentative planning. I had no intention of staying under Siggy’s roof forever. But before making a dash for freedom I needed the necessary ammunition: proper identity card and a supply of cash. That should take me up to Flensburg. Over the border into Denmark. From there a short boat ride to neutral Sweden. Might even drop in on my parents... no that would be rash. But daydreaming kept my morale up.
In the meantime, I had no option but to continue helping out at the Gasthof zum Löwen. It might be fraternising with the enemy, even helping the enemy, but the means would surely justify the end. Escape!
I’d always had an ear for language, so my German was already much improved. Critics might say it was worse, because my carefully polished Hochdeutsch was fast degenerating into the local patois. However, this gave me some kudos with the gasthof customers, who were not used to hearing foreign workers speaking idiomatic German. I was becoming almost one of them.
This might be turned to my advantage, so in my role as waiter, barman and general dogsbody I began to chat them up. At the end of an evening, I might even get a few precious minutes of real conversation. As when I found Willi finishing his beer, his pals just off to bed.
“A madhouse!” I gasped, plonking myself down opposite him.
Willi eyed me warily. Twenty years ago he would no doubt have answered to Irma’s description of a bouncing young pup, gleefully helping his Nazi gang beat up the Communists. Now his round face was becoming jowled, his brown hair thinning. He was wearing the sand-coloured uniform of a Nazi officer, his rank the lowest one of Block Leader. A uniform which performed the invaluable function of keeping him out of the clutches of the armed forces.
“So, Gregor wants you to stay?” he asked.
“Just helping out for a while.” Before he could ask any awkward questions, I continued: “I really felt for you that day... the unfortunate accident...”
Willi looked at me suspiciously. He wasn’t a complete fool.
“...Could have happened to anyone. Once the car had started rolling you were helpless. At the top of the hill. Too far away. I just happened to be on the spot. Sheer luck.”
Willi visibly softened. I could almost see his mind working. Of course. It was just one of those things. No harm done. Except a wrecked kübelwagen. Which didn’t matter, because it belonged to the state.
Seizing the moment, I continued: “They say you’re someone rather special; the oldest Party member in town.”
Willi’s face shone. “You bet. Things were pretty hairy back then. Hyperinflation. Munich Beer Hall Putsch. Lots of aggro from the Communists. I wanted to do my bit, so joined the Party in twenty-three. I’ll show you.” He rummaged in his breast pocket, pulled out the famous document, and laid it on the table.
“There we are,” he pointed proudly. “Ninth of December, nineteen twenty-three.”
I studied it. Two pages opened up in a little wallet. On the right side a photo of Willi, in uniform and looking suitably serious. Then four lines confirming the person in the photo as being a member of the National Socialist German Labour Party. The Nazi party to you and me. Below that his signature. Plus a couple of official stamps: a red eagle, wings spread out, holding a swastika in its talons.
The left page confirmed that this was Membership Book No: 57,564. Enrolled: 9th December 1923. Name: Wilhelm Weiss. Date of birth: 20th November 1901. At the bottom another eagle and swastika stamp over a flurry of signatures.
“Pretty good,” I acknowledged. “Number fifty-seven thousand and something out of... how many now?”
Will shrugged. “Goodness knows. Millions.”
“You obviously count for something in the Party,” I continued, hoping I was not laying it on too thickly. “Gregor may have told you I’m trying to make my position a bit more... official. Get the paperwork sorted out.”
Willi nodded. “I’ll do what I can. But things are not getting any easier. More rules. More paperwork.”
Sounded ominous.
“Tell you what,” he said, taken with a sudden idea. “Why don’t you speak to Gustav yourself?”
“Gustav being Local Group Leader Wallisch?”
“Yes. He makes all the decisions. Face to face is always a good idea.”
Didn’t sound a good idea at all, but I could hardly say that.
“I’ll introduce you next time he drops in,” said Willi.
“Very kind of you,” I replied, through gritted teeth.
CHAPTER 7
As it turned out, my next meeting was not with Wallisch, but Gregor. He was sitting at our family table when I returned from work. The field was now full of newly planted vegetables: potatoes, onions, beetroot, cabbages. Benni had been both a help and companion. I was becoming far too fond of the little lad. Had to keep reminding myself that this was the enemy. To be annihilated.
As Gregor waved me over, Irma appeared with my stein of beer. We were settling into a comfortable routine.
“Siggy tells me you’ve finished planting the field,” began Gregor. “Well done. Benni seems to have enjoyed it as well.”
“He’s been a real help. Doesn’t say much, but he’s nice to have around.”
Gregor nodded. “I’m worried about Siggy. She’s overdoing it. Should ease up a bit. On top of which she’s never really got over losing Werner.”
“Yes... Irma told me. Your son... I’m sorry...” What does one say in such circumstances?
“I keep telling myself we’re just one family amongst millions,” mused Gregor. “Happening all the time. And it’ll get worse. I can only try and do the best for those of us who are left. So now that the field’s planted I want you to take some of the load off Siggy. I know you’re already working evenings, but I’m talking about daytime as well. Help out in the kitchen. Peel potatoes, do the washing up... I don’t know. Just ask her what needs doing. If she cracks up it’ll not only be a personal disaster, it’ll be difficult to keep the gasthof going. And don’t forget Benni. He needs a man about the house. You’re almost becoming the father he never had.”
Irma arrived with our usual plate of gruel. As we tucked in, I said, “Had a word with Willi the other day. Your brother.”
“Ah, dear little Willi.” Said with resignation rather than love. “I expect he showed you his Party card.”
I nodded. “But I did ask.”
“Good move.”
“You never joined?” I ventured a delicate question. “The Party?”
“Thought about it. Often. Should have done, I realise that now. But I’d become too comfortable in my own little rut. Saw no reason to. The family arrived here with Wallenstein during the Thirty Years War. Sixteen-thirties. Built the gasthof. Wallenstein was assassinated, but we stayed. Been here ever since. Although I say it myself, the Weisses run this place. Always have done. Father and s
on, down the generations. I’m the current Bürgermeister...”
“You...?” I couldn’t contain my surprise.
Gregor smiled sadly. “Yes, the uniforms seem to have taken over. But the Party doesn’t want to rock the boat too much. As long as we, of the old order, don’t make waves. So I continue to run things in a small way. And keep my head down.”
“Hoping that one day, Benni, the last of the Wiesses...? I let the question hang.
“Exactly. Silly of me, really. Doesn’t matter a scrap in the overall scheme of things. But I’m an old fuddy-duddy. And it’d be nice to see young Benni carrying on the family line.”
CHAPTER 8
I tackled Siggy that same night. The last of the drinkers had gone and we were clearing up. Siggy, as always, looked exhausted.
“I have new orders from Gregor,” I began, in an effort to make sure she wouldn’t make any silly objections. “He wants me to help you here in the kitchen. I know you often have Felix the butcher, but he doesn’t seem too reliable.”
“Not a lot between the ears, that’s the trouble with Felix,” replied Siggy. “Means well, but all too often he just gets in the way. I sometimes wonder how he’s spent all these years butchering without cutting off his fingers.”
“Well, I’ll help in any way you want. Your choice. Zu befehl, meine frau! (Your orders, my lady).” I gave a mock salute. Army version, not Nazi.
My feeble attempt at levity left her unamused. Too tired to react, she continued wiping down the draining board.
“There is something you could do,” she replied at last. “I expect you’ve realised we’re home to many of the officers working up at the castle.”
I nodded. In those far-off days, en-suite facilities were rare in even the best hotels, never mind provincial gasthofs like the Löwe. My attic garret was miles from the nearest loo, so I was quite used to meeting pyjama-clad Nazis at dead of night in my search for a quiet pee, or waiting for their lordships to finish their ablutions before being able to shave.
“Millions of people have been bombed out,” explained Siggy, “so there’s a huge demand for accommodation in somewhere that’s safe. Or even still standing. We’ve got some really nice rooms, so guess who’s grabbed them? Yes, the Party. Which means I’ve also got to feed them. That, in turn, means ration books. I spend an absurd amount of time sticking my guest’s marks onto big sheets of paper; then traipsing over to the butcher, baker and candlestick maker, clutching volumes of completed ration books. I wouldn’t trust you to do the cooking, but as a ration book boy... yes. Thanks very much.”
“No problem. I’ll do that and I’ll do anything else you need. Peeling potatoes, washing up... Gregor’s worried about you.”
“I know. But I’ll manage. Have to manage. You’ve already taken a load off my shoulders with Benni. He likes you. He’s only six, not even that, but if you could make him your number two... Take him with you whenever you can... Get him out and about...”
“Will do. He’s a lovely little lad.” I gave Siggy a hug. Without thinking. She didn’t resist.
I went off to bed, my mind in a whirl. What, in heaven’s name, was happening! I was a sergeant in the Royal Norwegian Air Force, dedicated to wiping out the Nazi evil. And here I was, not merely fraternising, but indulging in contact sport. I resolved on some immediate backbone-stiffening.
CHAPTER 9
A couple of days later, Willi Weiss called me over while I was doing my beer rounds.
“The Local Group Leader’s here,” he announced.
“Not now,” I replied. “We’re frantic. Things usually simmer down by about eleven. Will he still be here then?”
“Think so. That’d be better anyway. He’s chatting with colleagues at the moment.”
It was closer to midnight by the time I felt able to ask Irma if she could cope on her own from then on. Hearing the reason, she gave a wry smile and wished me luck. I didn’t like the look of that smile.
I went over to Willi, who got up and led me over to a man sitting by himself in a far corner. Irma had been right to describe Wallisch as not really looking like a leader. Because Weiss’s boss was the spitting image of the man who, a couple of years later, was to suddenly appear on the front pages of British newspapers: the new Labour prime minister, Clement Attlee. Like him, Wallisch was small, slim and prematurely bald, therefore difficult to estimate his age. Probably early forties. He was wearing a light brown uniform, with the lapel markings of Local Group Leader.
Churchill once cattily described Attlee as a modest man, who had much to be modest about. I had a nasty feeling that Wallisch would confound this initial impression of modesty.
“Sit down.” Wallisch indicated the empty seat opposite. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Some of it good, I hope?”
“All of it good. Gregor and Siggy sing your praises. And you’ve already made an impressive contribution to the Reich’s war effort.”
Was Wallisch deliberately trying to needle me?
“Whether we like you or not is beside the point,” he continued. “You may be a saint, for all I care. I’d like to know who you really are.”
“Gregor has a colleague who interviewed my parents in Oslo...” I began, but Wallisch held up his hand.
“Yes, yes... I’ve heard all that. But where did you come from? What were you doing before turning up here? And please... don’t insult me with all that nonsense about being unable to say because it’s a state secret. That may fool Gregor, but not me.”
There was no answer to that, so I remained silent. He twirled a pencil in his hand for a moment, before continuing: “I could of course send you straight off to a camp. Lock you up with the rest of them. But it’s my job to see that the Reich wins this war. At the moment, we’re having some local difficulties. Nothing that can’t be solved with resolute action, of course. The Wehrmacht’s doing its bit, with the Eastern front stabilised, the allies stuck halfway up Italy, and Atlantic wall impregnable. I’m in charge of this sector of the home front; where I need to put you to best use. Which, in my judgement, means keeping you here. As one of our foreign workers. You will help Gregor and Siggy in whatever way they see fit.”
“So I get some sort of ID...?”
“No. You have no status. We’ll give you a ration book, pay a small wage, but beyond that, your only job is to serve the Reich. A word of warning: some idiots think it’s clever to try and escape. Don’t. A few foolish fellows do sometimes try and... this is not generally known, but I’m going to tell you... over forty of them have just been shot. While trying to escape.”
I was appalled. “Forty! surely not?”
Wallisch shrugged. “I believe the figure was forty-seven. Regrettable. Only goes to show what can happen if you spurn our hospitality. I tell you this as a warning. Understand?”
I understood only too well. I left Wallisch in a daze, my plans in tatters.
CHAPTER 10
Over the next few days I settled into my new role as Siggy’s handyman. And Benni’s number two. I cut out the ‘marks’ from the ration books of everyone staying at the gasthof, then arranged them in piles for Benni to glue onto big sheets of paper. Six-year-olds are dab hands at sticking bits of paper onto other bits of paper. They even think it’s fun. Our finished artwork enabled us to eat legally. Stay alive.
This activity hardly taxed my little grey cells, so I was able to give plenty of thought to future plans. If any. Previous notions of sauntering onto a train to Flensburg, strolling across the border to Denmark, then back to join the boys in blue in sunny Lincolnshire, now seemed a trifle optimistic. I had no means of verifying the claim that forty escaping POWs had been shot, but why make up such a story? If true, it would be a gross violation of the Geneva convention; indeed, Wallisch had appeared rather shamefaced about it. After the war I learnt that in fact fifty airmen had been executed on Hitler’s orders after the mass escape from Stalag Luft III. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that trying to esca
pe at this stage of the war simply wasn’t worth the risk.
So should I resign myself to washing up and doing admin work for the enemy? Well, yes. With our victory now more or less assured, it couldn’t be treason to try and keep some of those enemies alive. We were not set on genocide: the elimination of the entire German nation. There had to be life after the inevitable surrender and I was only helping sustain that life. Especially the upcoming generation. The Bennis of the new Germany.
If that was the case, the number one problem in our little town was going to be how to feed ourselves. Rationing was already biting hard. Barring miracles, it was set to become much harder. But we were surrounded by countryside. Was this rural food factory being used to its full potential? Remembering my first hotel in Hitler’s Germany, the old lady with her chickens and Daisy the cow, I guessed not.
From Daisy to the Gasthof zum Löwen had been something like a four-hour walk. At three miles per hour, say twelve miles. On a bike, a little over one hour. Daisy’s farm – if you could call it that – lay at the end of a valley, well away from prying eyes. An underused facility.
Gregor and I had fallen into the habit of taking an early dinner together. In my case, so that I could be ready to work the evening shift. I broached the subject of improving food production.
“We should do something,” he admitted.
“There must be spare land up the valley,” I said cautiously, unwilling to reveal my full knowledge of the terrain. “Private land, maybe, but something we should now be using.”
“The word ‘private’ no longer exists,” replied Gregor, briskly. “What the Party wants, it takes. Obviously, I can’t go. Not mobile enough. So why don’t you have a look-see. Tomorrow morning perhaps. Weather seems set fine.”
THE LAST WEISS Page 5
