“Don’t see why not. As long as I get some help with it.”
“Well, I’d better be on my way. More visits to make down the valley,” I said, recovering Siggy’s bike. “A big thanks for the coffee. A major event these days.”
“My regards to Gregor.” Frau Sperrle waved me goodbye. “And remember what I said. If he wants to use my land, you must be the farmhand. You and young Benni.”
CHAPTER 13
I returned to town eager to tell Gregor my news, only to find I’d been trumped by something much more important: THE VISIT.
Gregor. Siggy. Irma. Everyone was in a whirl, planning for the visit, in only two days’ time, of Gauleiter Richard Frunze. As they kept on telling me, Gauleiter Frunze was the region’s top dog. The Party supremo. Selected by the Führer himself.
“The gauleiter in Berlin is none other than Joseph Goebbels. The propaganda chief. The Führer’s number two,” said Gregor. Even he was all a-dither. “Shows how important gauleiters are. We can’t afford to mess up.”
No one seemed to know the reason for the visit. Our town was small and insignificant. It was the first time it had been so honoured. Irma ventured the opinion that Frunze just wanted a change of scene. A break from the bomb-blasted wreckage they called the city and from where Frunze normally ran his empire. To somewhere that might remind him of the glory days, the days when massed swastikas and hysterical crowds had not been interrupted by the drone of enemy bombers.
Gregor’s home town might not have been as famous as those on the Romantische Strasse: Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Dinkelsbühl, and the rest. But he reckoned it could knock all those upstarts into a cocked hat. With a castle that was said to date back to Charlemagne. A clocktower that was older and more intricate than the more famous one in Prague. A town that was already ancient when his family arrived in the 1630s.
Not a single bomb had yet disfigured this mediaeval masterpiece. Astounding considering that both the British and Americans were famous for the incompetence of their aiming. Most of rural Germany had suffered its share of mis-hits. I should know. I’d been part of it. Mind you, the Luftwaffe was no better. If anyone managed to drop their load within five kilometres of the target, they’d be doing well.
But that was history. Our boss, ‘Bomber’ Harris, had put a huge effort into improving accuracy and this was now beginning to pay dividends. The city was a good thirty kilometres away; there were no factories or rail marshalling yards nearby. So barring freak accidents, our town should now be as safe as anywhere in the crumbling Reich. An ideal place for a gauleiter to relax.
Irma’s theory was that Frunze had simply stuck a pin into a map, and fortuitously skewered our town. However it had happened, we were the chosen ones. And we’d better put on a good show.
Swastikas were unearthed from drawers and dusty cupboards. Enough bunting to make Christmas look shabby. I was ordered into the square with a broom and told to sweep it so clean the gauleiter would be able to eat his dinner off the cobbles.
I was well into my task when a young man in grey-green SS uniform drove up in a kübelwagen and parked outside the gasthof. Broom in hand, I asked if I could help.
“I’m Gauleiter Frunze’s personal assistant.” He looked down at me superciliously. I’m not exactly short, but he beat me by a good six inches. In spite of his manner and intimidating uniform, his impression was rather effete.
“You’ll be wanting Frau Weiss,” I said. “She’ll be in the kitchen. Preparing. Shall I show you?”
“No, no. I’ll find my own way. Just keep an eye on the car.”
A few minutes later he reappeared, with Siggy in tow. “You! Over there!”
No one else was in the square, so I presumed he was addressing me. I trotted across, broom over shoulder, as if on parade.
“You’ll need to give us a hand.”
So I stood there, while he and Siggy began delving into a series of crates, stacked in the back of the ‘kübe’. They contained champagne. The agonising decision was which brand to choose. Bollinger or Lanson? Heidsieck or Moet & Chandon? The Gauleiter had been on a visit to Paris. To see some chums. Back via Épernay, where he had liberated some bubbly.
They finally made their selection, leaving muscles – me – to heave the crates out of the car. Then into the kitchen.
“A promising start to the visit,” I said, when I had Siggy to myself again.
“As long as they behave themselves. Drunken guests are the bane of our lives. Not that they get much of a chance these days. But with all this stuff they might try to make up for lost time.”
“That SS guy has a cushy number,” I remarked.
“Junior Assault Leader Bruch. Same rank as an army Lieutenant. Werner was a Lieutenant.”
“He didn’t look much of an Assault Leader to me.”
Siggy snorted. “Just shows how little you know! The ones that seem like sissies are often the worst. Avoid them at all costs. But enough chat. I’ve work to do. So do you. I’m telling everyone to meet up tonight after work, for a council of war. We need to make sure we’ve crossed all the ‘T’s. Dotted all the ‘I’s. Leave nothing to chance. Make sure you’re there.”
CHAPTER 14
It was after midnight – early on the day of the visit, in fact – before Siggy could close the gasthof doors and gather us together. This was later than usual, due to the general buzz of expectation. Excitement – excitement of the pleasant sort – was a rare commodity.
Present were the Weiss brothers, Gregor and Willi, Irma, Siggy, and myself. Felix the butcher hadn’t bothered to turn up – typical. Gustav Wallisch was in the chair.
Wallisch, as the senior Party man, was the most exposed; therefore the one with most reason to be nervous. But he seemed his usual icy self. An automaton.
Gregor, a non-Party man retained as a figurehead Bürgermeister without any real power, would be OK barring total disaster. Irma and Siggy were the worker bees, of little consequence. And I was as near invisible as made no difference.
Of the two Party appointees in our group, Willi Weiss had less to worry about than Wallisch: Willi was merely a Block Leader, probably unknown to demi-Gods like Gauleiter Frunze. Furthermore, Willi had long since lost any ambition he might once have had. Like his brother, he could only be damaged by a complete catastrophe.
But Wallisch could get hurt if Frunze was in any way displeased. As Local Group Leader, he had real power within the Party and would certainly be known to the Gauleiter, maybe even personally. A lot was riding on this visit for our little Clement Attlee lookalike.
Wallisch smoothed an invisible lock of hair back over his bald head, then brought the meeting to order by tapping the table with a spoon. “I’ve inspected the gasthof. The town. The lot. Everything looks as good as we can get it. Well done. Gauleiter Frunze phoned earlier today and said he hoped to arrive about midday. By car of course...”
...By car because there was no railway in our valley. Probably a major reason the town had not been bothered by the bomber boys.
“...Lunch will be a light snack. Nothing special. The gauleiter will then take a short drive up the valley. Again nothing special. Junior Assault Leader Bruch made the point that this will be less an inspection, more a chance for the gauleiter to get some much-needed rest from the cares of office. The real action will start at seven o’clock. Sharp. With a champagne reception. You, Per, will be our wine waiter...”
“Me?” I sat up with a start.
“Yes, I want this whole exercise to be as normal as possible. Back to the good old days. Which means a smart young man serving the drinks. Siggy tells me she can kit you out. Bow tie, that sort of thing.”
Siggy nodded. “No problem.”
Wallisch continued: “From then on timing will depend on how things go. I’ll be the conductor. No baton, just follow my lead. When the gauleiter’s ready, we’ll sit down to dinner. Plenty of wine, of course. And beer. Whatever they want they get. Empty the gasthof’s cellars if necessary. Irma and P
er will do the serving. Food as well as drinks. It’ll be chaotic, but I’m sure you’ll cope.”
Siggy took over to sum up: “The Gauleiter is well known for enjoying the good things in life, so he won’t be returning home tonight. Won’t be in a condition to. So I’ve offered him my room. With the gasthof always full, I’ll have to bed down somewhere else. Probably in the kitchen. Benni usually sleeps with me, but I want him well away from all this, so he’ll have to go up to the attic. With you, Per. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fine by me.” Although the attic was not designed for sleeping, it was quite spacious, with plenty of soft stuff to lay your head on. An adventure for Benni.
“I think that’s all, then.” Wallisch looked around. “Any other business?”
“Yes.” It was Irma, who had so far remained silent. “Seems to me we should be looking at this visit as an opportunity. Not just going through the motions, making sure there’s no cock-up. We should be more ambitious than that.”
“What do you have in mind?” inquired Wallisch.
“I think we all agree that the big problem is going to be food for next winter...”
“We and every other place in the Reich. I hope you’re not suggesting we ask for special treatment?”
“I certainly am!” Irma was in glass-half-full mode. “Why not? Everyone else does. But it’ll have to be done carefully. With finesse. I might be able to squeeze something out of Gauleiter Frunze. So if I have your OK...?”
Wallisch looked bemused. “By all means. What are you hoping for? Steaks? Nice fat pheasants?”
“Rabbits,” I said.
They all turned round and looked at me. As if I’d gone mad.
“Not my idea,” I added hastily. “You’ve probably forgotten you sent me up-valley on a recce. What with all this gauleiter stuff, I haven’t had a chance to report back. I’m doing so now. I had quite a chat with Frau Sperrle...”
“You got as far as Hilde Sperrle?” Gregor sounded surprised.
“I decided to start at the far end and work back,” I replied. “By the way, she sends her regards.”
“Dear old Hilde. Haven’t seen her for years. Remiss of me. How did she seem?”
“A bit arthritic. But feisty. And very keen on rabbits. Seems they breed...”
“...Like rabbits.” Irma finished my sentence. “Yes some people in the valley already have a few. Wouldn’t do any harm to sound out dear Richard...”
“Richard...?” from Wallisch.
“Gauleiter Richard Frunze.” Irma gave a wicked smile. “This time tomorrow, I’ll be on first name terms. And now, if I’m to be at my most alluring, I need my beauty sleep. Goodnight all.”
CHAPTER 15
They posted me at the top of the hill, just outside the old gate, mediaeval wooden gallery on my right. With a bird’s-eye view of the town’s approaches. My orders were to warn them when the gauleiter’s car appeared on the horizon.
At 11.55 I spotted an open tourer in the distance. I ran back to report. At noon precisely the Mercedes drew up outside the Gasthof zum Löwen. The great man’s insignia, Nazi eagle with laurel wreathes and swastika, fluttered proudly from the bonnet. The letters ‘G’ and ‘L’, for Gau Leiter, had been added to the red part of the standard.
A lanky figure I recognised from yesterday as Junior Assault Leader Bruch leapt from the front seat beside the driver. Then opened the nearside back door.
Gauleiter Richard Frunze was impressive, I had to admit. Not as tall as his assistant, that would have been difficult, but well-built, solid; exuding authority. Here was a Nazi who might plausibly promote the absurd idea of a master race. Unlike Goebbels, weedy with a club foot. Or Himmler, a myopic failed chicken farmer. Or Hess, who had always looked half mad and then proved it by flying off on a crazy mission to Scotland. Even the Führer, weird and unprepossessing, was scarcely an advert for Aryanism. Did these guys never look in the mirror? Had they no sense of the ridiculous? Silly questions!
Frunze stepped from his automobile – it was much more than a mere car – to be greeted by Wallisch’s Heil Hitler salute.
Frunze’s reply was to shake his hand, clap him on the shoulder, and say, “Let’s keep this informal, my dear Gustav. A time for rest and relaxation. God knows, we need it.”
Wallisch did as ordered. Relaxed. Smiled. His greeting had erred on the side of caution and was understandable, given that Frunze was dressed to kill in an immaculately pressed sand-brown uniform, complete with the distinctive twin-leaf gauleiter insignia on his lapels. It certainly looked like an official visit.
Frunze then shook hands with other town notables; Bürgermeister Gregor Weiss, looking like a relic from another era, which he was. And Block Leader Willi Weiss, who also received a pat on the shoulder, as befitting a fellow Party man.
Siggy attempted a small curtsy, which didn’t quite come off. While Irma appeared to contemplate a peck on his cheek, but thought better of it. The gauleiter was not in the least offended and smiled warmly. They had set out their markers and the game was on.
I watched this from the shadows, then melted away indoors. The gauleiter’s snack lunch and subsequent little spin in the country were beyond my pay grade. Anyway, I was busy following Siggy’s instructions, preparing for the evening’s bash. Champagne – they had chosen Heidsieck and Lanson – to be cooled to the correct temperature. Champagne flutes to be hunted down from some forgotten recess and cleaned ready for use.
The panic started at around six thirty. I was inspected for my sommelier’s role and passed fit: black tie, white shirt, posh suit from the wardrobe of deceased Werner Weiss; shoes polished to mirror-like perfection.
Siggy was fluttering around the kitchen, a butterfly uncertain where to settle. Felix the butcher, AWOL from our briefing, had now deigned to turn up and was supposed to help – a mixed blessing. Felix’s job, like Irma’s, had been decimated by the war, so he was now supposedly a spare pair of hands at the gasthof. Unlike Irma, he tended to wander around with a vacant expression until told to do something, which he then proceeded to foul up. He was a nice enough fellow in a bland sort of way, late 60s in age, middling height, always dressed in his trademark bow tie. He also managed a modest paunch, a rare sight by then, probably thanks to the perks of his job.
True to form, he was dipping a finger in the steak sauce – just to taste, you understand, when Siggy caught him.
“For goodness sake, Felix!” She smacked him smartly on the wrist. He beamed back, not a bit put out.
“Know what this is?” she asked, pointing at the plate Felix had tested.
“Looks like meat,” I replied.
“It’s Chateaubriand! King of steaks. Haven’t seen a cut of that since thirty-nine. God only knows how the gauleiter laid his hands on stuff like this.”
“France. Like the Champagne,” I replied, suitably impressed. Truth to tell, I’d never heard of Chateaubriand. My father’s teacher’s salary did not extend to such wild culinary delights.
“And to follow, Schwartzwaldertorte (Black Forest Gateau).” Siggy was almost salivating. “Must be a year’s sugar ration for that lot, not that gauleiters seem to have many rationing worries.”
By 18.50, military time, everybody who was anybody was on parade in the gasthof’s main lounge. I now knew a fair number of the guests by sight, having attended to their eating and drinking needs the past few weeks. I assumed they either worked up at the castle, or, in the infamous case of Willi Weiss and his supposedly failed handbrake, in one of the mansions that lined the hill below.
Almost everyone was in uniform. Either Wehrmacht field grey or Nazi party brown. Most sported swastika armbands, but some did not. I’m still confused by the Third Reich’s uniform system, if one can call it that. Not only did this change over the years, but the timescale of these changes was often slow and haphazard. Indeed, some of the top dogs seemed to have their own ideas on what to wear. And got away with it. Encouraged, no doubt, by their Führer, who, unlike most dictators, wa
s always modestly dressed.
Ever since my baptism of fire in 1938, during that Hamburg student visit, I had been swept away by two Nazi masterstrokes: their uniforms and their marching songs. Had I been born in Germany, rather than Norway, I’d have been a Nazi. No question. The buzz, the sense of renewal and fresh hope had been infectious. Even then, of course, anyone with eyes should have seen the evil lurking beneath the surface. But it had been all too easy to banish such misgivings and succumb to Nazi showmanship.
Horst Wessel, a young thug allegedly shot by a communist and therefore canonised by the Nazis, gave his name to the most famous of these marching songs. ‘Die Fahne Hoch...’ (‘Raise the flag...’) Irresistible. You could conquer the world with the Horst Wessel song. They very nearly did.
Uniforms completed the magic. Men – and it was always men – who in civilian life would not have merited a second glance, became gods in uniform. Gods to be feared, because a uniform endowed them with the power of life or death.
Every young boy loves to play pirates, so the Nazis adapted this to adult life, making the ‘Totenkopf’, Death’s Head, the symbol of Himmler’s much-feared Schutzstaffel: the SS. No Totenkopfs in the Gasthof zum Löwen tonight, though, even from SS Junior Assault Leader Bruch, whose lanky figure towered above the rest of us. This was because all hats, including those sporting deaths heads, were removed indoors.
Which reminded me of an embarrassing incident a few months ago back at base. All the military have this fixation with saluting. Salute anything that moves, we were told. If Hollywood is to be believed, the Yanks take this to extremes, but most countries only salute if you have a hat on. Arriving back early one morning, after a stressful trip over Berlin, we found our CO, a Group Captain, waiting to greet us. In my haste to do what I thought was the right thing, I fired off an intended salute, only to trip over my parachute straps and collapse arse over tit on the tarmac.
“Easy does it, sergeant,” said the Groupie, as he picked me up. “No hat, so no need. Jerry didn’t get you. Don’t let me shoot you down.”
THE LAST WEISS Page 7
