THE LAST WEISS
Page 9
“Heinrich?”
“Heinrich Himmler...”
“You don’t mean the Heinrich Himmler. Head of the SS?”
“Is there another?” Irma’s brown eyes were all innocence.
“I thought Himmler’s thing was chickens. Not rabbits.” In a former life the Reichsführer had famously been a chicken farmer.
“That as well. But Richard tells me Heinrich had a huge rabbit breeding program to supply fur for Luftwaffe flying jackets. All those camps...” for a moment Irma was flustered, embarrassed. “...those camps, where the SS keep our undesirables, also have rabbit farms. Hutches all over the place. Animals in the lap of luxury. Humans, pretty bloody awful. Richard’s words.”
“Why have they gone cool on the idea? Don’t they want to eat them?”
Irma shrugged. “No idea. Apparently, the fur business didn’t work out. And no one seems to have thought of them as food. Sounds weird, but Richard thinks he might be able to transfer a few hundred rabbits from some of the nearby camps.”
Irma finished her fag and we got back to work. The old routine. But not for long.
Next day, while I was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, Siggy suddenly said, apropos of nothing, “Frau Sperrle...”
“Yes?”
“She said Benni would be welcome up at her farm?”
“Not only said. Insisted. Told me not to bother to come back unless I had your little boy with me.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Benni lately,” she continued. “It’s his sixth birthday soon...”
“Congratulations!”
“Commiserations, more like. Six is the age the Party starts taking an interest. Still too young for proper Hitler Youth, but he should go to a sort of school... where they’ll fill him with wild ideas.” She sniffed, close to tears. “All this... all this nonsense can’t go on much longer. Can it?”
I shrugged helplessly.
“I’d like to get him away from town for a while, probably only put off the evil hour, but every day helps. And the Party has a lot on its mind. I think Gustav Wallisch is a kind man behind that robotic facade and might turn a blind eye.”
“What about Willi? Your Block Leader? Would he go along with this collective amnesia?”
“I don’t know...” The tears were now flowing. “Probably not. But this is no life for a little lad. Haunting the gasthof with nothing to do. I’d like to get him out into the fresh air. Even if it’s only for a few days.”
“When do you want me to take him?”
“Sooner the better. First thing tomorrow. He won’t be able to cycle all that way, so you’ll have to take the horse and cart.”
CHAPTER 18
We started after breakfast. Just Benni and I. And the old nag with the lopsided ears. The weather had turned colder, windier and wetter. Waterproof weather.
Not the sort of weather that made happy horses. Miserable at the best of times, ours stopped dead at the top of the hill. On my previous ride we had jogged along the level, on a road above the valley. Now we had to descend to the valley floor, which meant negotiating the steep cobbled hill that led down through the old town gate. Slippery. Treacherous.
I helped Benni off the cart and the two of us started coaxing the animal down. Like a skiing exercise. A controlled slide. Eventually, we made it safely to the bottom, re-loaded with humans, and we were off.
I hadn’t seen much of Benni since that dramatic first encounter – been too busy and preoccupied with my own problems to pay him much attention. And Benni seemed happy to remain in the shadows. Heaven knows what he did with himself all day. The town seemed strangely childless, with few friends of his own age.
“I expect your mother told you; we’re off to visit Auntie Hilde,” I began.
“She’s not my auntie.”
Unused to handling young children, I’d fallen for the old cliché of calling any female friend of the family ‘auntie’. And been firmly put in my place by the six-year-old.
“No, but she knew your dad,” I replied. “I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Has she got animals?” he asked.
“A few. Some chickens. And a cow.”
“Can I go hunting?”
I couldn’t think of a snappy reply to that, so Benni explained: “I’d like some horns and things...” he made an antler-gesture over the top of his head… “Like on the wall at home.”
I remembered the parade of hunting trophies on the gasthof wall.
Germans were now so busy shooting humans they had no time for potting at game, but a reply on those lines would have been tactless. So I mumbled something inoffensive.
We continued on our companionable way, often in silence, sometimes commenting on a passing point of interest. Benni was a self-contained little fellow, not given to aimless chit-chat. And my experience of handling young children was zero. Nevertheless, I think we both enjoyed the ride, in spite of the weather. It was something different. A break with routine.
The old horse refused to be hurried, so the journey took the best part of the morning. Frau Sperrle was sitting on a bench outside her front door, waiting to greet us. As we approached, she got up, shook her umbrella – the rain had eased off – and waddled over to where I had stopped our transport.
“I expected you earlier. Siggy phoned when you left.”
“He...” I pointed to the horse, “...is getting on a bit.”
“I know the feeling,” she replied. “Anyway, you’re here now. So... this must be young Werner’s boy.” And enveloped him in a huge hug.
I’m writing this, decades later, when hugs and kisses, even between comparative strangers, is the norm. But in the 1940s such tactile signs of affection were almost unheard of. I would have expected a polite handshake.
Benni, to his credit, took it like a man. Stoically. Then asked, “Can I see the animals?”
“Of course. Why don’t you go off and explore. See what you can find. I’m not very good on my pins. Per and I will stay here and have a natter. Just don’t go near the river. Your mother would never forgive me if you fell in.”
Invite a six-year-old to explore and you’ll never get a refusal. So Benni disappeared. And Frau Sperrle led me indoors for a cup of her secret nectar: real coffee.
“I gather Richard Frunze paid you a state visit,” she remarked, pouring the coffee, which had been simmering in anticipation of our arrival.
I nodded. “Quite a do. We’re still recovering.”
“An unusual man, Richard. A good National Socialist. Not many of them around”
“He seems genuinely popular,” I ventured.
She nodded. “We’re lucky to have him running our patch. There are only forty-odd gauleiters in the whole country and most are swines. Don’t know how Richard has managed to keep a head on his shoulders, never mind his position.”
“He’s very good with people. I watched him at work. He gave a fantastic pep-talk. And a pep-song. Almost made people believe Germany can still win the war.”
“A politician. And a populist. Everyone loves him. Especially the ladies. He’s our local Julius Caesar, ripe for assassination by jealous rivals, but too popular at present to get rid of. The Party can’t afford to ditch one of its few assets.”
“What about Gustav Wallisch?” I asked. “Can’t make him out.”
“Nobody can. Our ‘eminence grise’. Our fixer. Efficient. But you don’t often hear people say anything against him. Which again is unusual. Trouble is, if the chips are down, no one knows which way Gustav will jump.”
“Which leaves the last of our Party trio,” I said, “Willi Weiss.”
Frau Sperrle nodded. “The most junior, so also the one nearest to us common folk. And the most dangerous.”
“Why do you say that? I thought he more or less did what his older brother Gregor wanted?”
“Don’t know where you got that idea from. Willi’s a little man with a big chip on his shoulder. Holding down a pathetic job. He’s unpredictable. Treat him
like unstable explosive.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I replied. “Now, to more mundane matters: what about Benni? Do you want to keep him here for a while?”
“Depends on Benni. See what he makes of his run-around today. Siggy said she’d love him to stay.”
“I can’t hang around too long, I’m afraid. Not if I’m going to get back before dark. I could stay the night, I suppose...”
“Let’s have some lunch, shall we. Always best to make such decisions on a full stomach. I’ve prepared something rather special. One of my old hens stopped laying, so... she may be rather tough, but...”
“You don’t mean chicken?”
Frau Sperrle beamed. “With home-made sauce and fresh vegetables.”
It’s hard to overstate just what a luxury this was during the war. We now live in a world where chickens are bred by the million – cheapest item on the menu. But in 1944, Hilde Sperrle could hardly have given us a more succulent and dramatic offering.
I found Benni patting Daisy the cow and brought him back to the house for lunch. Which he eyed with suspicion.
“What’s this?” he asked. It looked as though he was about to say ‘it’s horrid’, but thought better of it.
“It’s chicken,” I replied, brightly.
He shook his head. “Just seen chickens... outside.”
I could have explained that Auntie Hilde had taken one of those chickens, wrung its neck, torn off the feathers, scraped out the innards, then cut the remains into small pieces. But I figured that would not have encouraged Benni to eat. So I just said, “Try it, that’s a good boy. It’s very nice.”
He seemed to agree. Eventually. Wartime children were not as fussy as later generations.
By the time we’d finished it was well into the afternoon. Decision time.
“Well Benni,” I said, “like to stay here on the farm for a few days?” Calling it a ‘farm’ was gilding the lily, but I had some selling to do.
“Can I feed the hens?”
“Of course,” replied Frau Sperrle. “You can help me with lots of things. I’m getting rather old and could do with a man about the house.”
We took Benni’s nod as an affirmative, so I went out to collect a small bag Siggy had packed for him: toothbrush, change of clothes; enough for a few days. Hilde showed him up to his room, which must have been like a palace compared with the gasthof, where he shared with Siggy. Probably the only reason Frau Sperrle’s house was not chock-a-bloc with bombed-out refugees was its remoteness.
I sneaked out before Benni could change his mind and fetched the horse, who’d had a rare old day chomping away at the lush grass – far better feed than he was used to, and headed back to town. We arrived just as the mediaeval gate clock was sounding seven. The figures below pirouetted in attendance. All was well with the world. Except for some nastiness out there called a war.
CHAPTER 19
June 6th 1944 is a big day in the history books. D-Day. The Normandy landings. But in our little town it was rabbit day. The day Gauleiter Frunze made good on his promise.
There was, I seem to recall, mention of a small enemy action against some installations in France. The Führer had come on air welcoming this chance to throw the allies back into the sea. It was obviously small-scale stuff. Obviously.
We concentrated on what was really important. Rabbits. Around midday a one-armed SS officer turned up in a lorry, saying he was from a place called Belsen. A concentration camp. He wanted to know where they could dump their load.
When Siggy and I looked at this ‘load’, we were aghast – what looked like millions of white furry objects crammed into a few rickety hutches. We had talked blithely about rabbits without giving the logistics much thought. The gasthof had a small paddock at the back, but nowhere near big enough take this horde, never mind feed them.
Gregor was summoned from his lunchtime stint at the family table and quickly showed that he, at least, had made some plans.
“Back in your lorry,” he told the SS man, “down the hill to the main road, then left turn, up the valley until you can’t go any further.”
“Frau Sperrle’s place?” I asked.
“Of course. Nowhere else is big enough to take all this.”
“She’ll never cope...”
“No, but you will. Take the bike along, so you can get back. I’ll phone Hilde that you’re on your way.”
I threw the bike on top of the rabbits and squeezed into the front seat between the one-armed SS man and an elderly, grim-faced driver. Twenty minutes later, after a wordless journey, we pulled up in front of an anxious looking Frau Sperrle. And an expectant little boy.
“Put them in that field,” said Frau Sperrle, pointing.
We all looked at one another.
The SS man touched the empty sleeve with his good arm and said, “Eastern front.” Spirit might have been willing, but the flesh was not merely weak, it was missing.
Another long pause.
Finally, the driver said, “Bugger this for a lark,” and, with extreme bad grace, started to help me unload.
We found the only way to do this was to first remove the rabbits, after which we could handle the hutches. The rabbits were large, white, very furry and, as we soon discovered, very tame. No intention of running away. So I handed the bundles of fur down to Frau Sperrle and Benni, for whom this was a new and wonderful world. They, in turn, dumped them on the forecourt, which was soon alive with happily hopping white blobs.
The driver and I manhandled the hutches to the designated field, a tiring job, as they were heavy and unwieldy. It didn’t help that the driver was in poor physical shape. As each hutch arrived, Benni and Frau Sperrle filled it with rabbits, who immediately started nibbling the grass.
Hutch transfer complete, we took stock: rather a lot of rabbits and not many hutches – third world rabbit conditions.
“Are they as crowded here as... where did you say you came from?” I asked the SS man.
“Belsen. No, they were pretty well off back at the camp. Limited space in the lorry, so we were told to pile in the bunnies and take just a few hutches.”
“You asked for them, so your problem,” said the driver nastily.
“Kurt’s upset. He’s a rabbit man. Sorry to see them go,” explained the SS man.
“Damned right,” said the driver. “Much nicer than people. Rabbits don’t answer back. Don’t whinge. Behave themselves.”
“Must be off,” said the SS man. “Quite a drive back to Belsen. Best of luck.” A sloppy Hitler salute with the good left arm, then the SS man got in beside the driver, who was already revving the engine.
Frau Sperrle and I looked at each other, wondering what we had let ourselves in for. But this was only the start. Half an hour later, another lorry rolled up. This time the officer was older, but had all his limbs. The driver, again ancient, looked to be in a better mood.
“Buchenwald load,” announced the SS man, jumping down from the lorry. “I see you know what to do, so let’s get started.”
With three pairs of hands, all willing, and our two rabbit experts now fully trained, we got through the transfer in record time.
“Looks like it’s snowed,” commented the SS man, eyeing the dense rabbit population in Frau Sperrle’s field.
“Are you sorry to see them go?” I asked, remembering the reaction of the previous driver.
“Hell, no! It was a stupid idea from the start. Fur for flying jackets! I ask you! Just don’t tell the boss I said so. It was his pet scheme.”
“We aim to eat them,” I said.
The SS man looked dubious. “That means killing them.”
“Really? We aimed to gobble them up live.”
He didn’t react to my sarcasm, merely replied, “This lot scream when you kill them.”
“Scream? Never heard that before.”
“That’s because they’re special rabbits. Angoras. Don’t like being topped. So they scream. Like people. Our camp’s a tough place
, but the lads get more upset when these little fellows have to be put down than... well... people.”
“Thanks for the tip.” An inane response, but I simply didn’t know what to say.
“You OK?” The SS man was looking at me, concerned.
Didn’t like to admit it, but I was feeling a bit queasy. Guards who preferred rabbits to humans. Unsettling values.
I wasn’t allowed to dwell on it, because no sooner had the Buchenwald team disappeared than Sachsenhausen arrived. Same drill. Same result. Now multiplied by three. Frau Sperrle’s field looked as though a blizzard had hit it.
Benni was in heaven, playing with his new-found furry friends. We adults just looked at each other in despair.
“What now?” I asked.
“Gregor. He’ll know what to do,” replied Frau Sperrle. “I’ll get him on the blower.”
While she went in to phone, I wandered around, trying to work up a plan on my own account.
Number one: there were far too many animals for hutches. We’d need a lot more accommodation.
Number two: in the long run even the three large fields of the Sperrle estate would not be enough for this lot. Nibble, nibble, nibble... in a few months – weeks? – we’d be down to bare earth. Only solution was to farm out many of them. In a hurry.
Because, number three: rabbits reproduce. That, after all, was the object of the exercise. Before long the field wouldn’t just be looking like a winter sports ski run, the ‘snow’ cover would be metres deep.
And number four: thinking of reproduction, how did we tell boys from girls? The ones we kept here could, perhaps, be just lumped together; say half a dozen in each hutch, leave them to it. The laws of chance would probably get us a fair number of babies. But such a non-system wouldn’t work for any we farmed out. Then we’d need to ensure their adopted parents had one of each. We’d have to sex them. I could see the coming days filled with my face up rabbit bums.
Frau Sperrle returned from what had clearly been a lengthy phone call to Gregor with the message that I was to stay overnight. By morning he’d have a plan of action. Meanwhile, all we had to do was ensure the rabbits had enough water. And get a good night’s sleep ourselves.