THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  “No harm in that, I suppose.” Siggy’s thought process was transparent. Now more than ever, it was not what you knew, but whom you knew. If she let the leading Nazi stay in her gasthof, he would be suitably grateful. Good insurance.

  “Can I tell Gustav? He was a little shy of asking you himself.”

  “I’m not sure. How long do I wait to see if Willi turns up again?” Siggy had a dilemma. Although, like the rest of them, she had little love for Willi – he had not been a loveable sort – he was nevertheless a Weiss; a member of the family that had been around, as Gregor pointed out, since the 1630s. Siggy was merely a Weiss by marriage – an interloper. If she started slinging Willi’s effects out of his room, without being sure he would never return, even Gregor, himself no great buddy of his brother, might object.

  “If we can establish Willi has gone for good, will you then promise his room to Wallisch?” What prompted me to say anything so ridiculous, I’ve no idea. If the reason for the Block Leader’s disappearance ever became known, it would be a firing squad for Hilde Sperrle and myself. But this much Siggy agreed to.

  I passed the message on to Local Group Leader Wallisch, then let the matter drop. My Iago-plan of spreading hate and envy was in danger of getting out of hand. Please God, let everyone forget Willi Weiss and concentrate on survival.

  CHAPTER 27

  My prayers seemed to be answered, because the next ten days passed without incident. Naturally, Willi remained disappeared. But no one followed this up with any action. Siggy felt unable to do anything about his room, which remained empty. Wallisch made no further move, apparently content with Siggy’s half-promise the room would be his in due course. How long would he be prepared to wait?

  Otherwise, life continued much as before. Benni stayed up at the farm, a constant help and joy for Frau Sperrle. Three of her rabbits produced offspring, obviously the results of concentration camp liaisons – shouldn’t be long before Fräulein Schwarz’s sexing work began to come online.

  Towards the end of the month, it was decided that Daisy’s time was up. Now as plump as she was ever likely to be, Frau Sperrle could no longer justify her feed. It was Daisy who’d introduced me to Third Reich cuisine, when I’d milked her that first night, so I became absurdly maudlin at the thought. Thousands were dying on world battlefields, yet here was I shedding tears over a cow.

  With petrol almost impossible to come by, the only way of getting Daisy to slaughter was to walk her to Felix. Gregor decided to make the journey worthwhile by also sending a dozen of the fattest Bucks. He felt sufficiently in control of the breeding programme to start a limit cull of surplus males.

  So there I was, homeward-bound in the Weiss cart, flicking the reins rather aimlessly at the nag with the lop-sided ears, in the vain hope he might go a little faster. Beside me lay twelve huge white angora rabbits. Behind, on a rope, came Daisy. A biblical scene. Could have come from the book of Genesis. But this was the mighty Third Reich in 1944.

  Out in the big wide world, what news we were able to glean from the Goebbels propaganda machine was mixed. There was great trumpeting of their war-winning revenge weapon, the V1, or flying bomb, just launched against England. Against that, the flow of allied troops across the English channel had clearly not been stemmed. Italy was also one-way traffic: wrong way for the Reich. On the most important front of all, they could certainly say “Im Osten Nichts Neues” – “In the East Nothing New”, not in the original sense that nothing was happening, but simply that it was business as usual: a catalogue of unmitigated disasters.

  The end-game was fast approaching, with my personal situation still very dodgy. The ghost of Willi, and with it Wallisch’s play for his estate, rumbling ominously out in the wings. Even so, I felt almost content. Absurdly so. Siggy and I had settled into a routine of domestic bliss that was almost like peacetime. Not quite, of course. Everyone was acutely aware of life’s impermanence. Take what pleasures you could, because tomorrow would almost certainly be worse. The calendar flipped over to a new month. July.

  CHAPTER 28

  JULY 1944 , GERMANY

  Lull before the storm is the corniest of clichés, but that’s the only way to describe the first half of July 1944, at least for those of us in our little town, with its mediaeval clock tower and toy figures celebrating each hour. The military situation was worsening by the day, but that was no longer news.

  With hindsight I could recognise two pointers, which might have alerted us to subsequent upheavals. At the time they went almost unnoticed.

  First came another visit from Gauleiter Richard Frunze, this time not a flag-waving extravaganza, but a much more modest affair. Gone was the open-top Mercedes, gauleiter pennant fluttering from the bonnet, and this time no long streak of SS assistant, calling itself Junior Assault Leader Bruch. Just Frunze, solo, driving his own kübelwagen. As one of the top men in the country, he could at least call on the perk of some petrol.

  For one terrifying moment, I thought he had come to charge me with the murder of Block Leader Willi Weiss. A ludicrous notion, I quickly realised, down entirely to a guilty conscience. A gauleiter wouldn’t waste his time on such petty matters. If any Willi trouble was coming my way, it would be from lower down the Party rankings: from Local Group Leader Gustav Wallisch.

  Gauleiter Frunze was merely in need of another spell of rest and recuperation; aided by some therapy from Irma, who was looking her ravishing best. Again she greeted him on arrival, this time successfully planting a peck on his cheek. Our town was becoming quite a little love nest.

  The time for wild champagne parties to cheer up the troops was long past. Was it only six weeks ago I’d listened to the same Richard Frunze promising them a Brandenburg Miracle, à la Frederick the Great, now to be performed by that military genius Adolf Hitler? Then upping the mood still further by belting out his version of a Martin Luther war song?

  Six weeks is an eternity in war and now the landscape had utterly changed. Like all life, war is a series of turning points and 6th June, the Normandy landings, had been just that. “A mighty fortress is our Atlantikwall,” he’d roared. A wall no more. Self-delusion was no longer possible. The Third Reich was finished. The only question now was the manner of its demise.

  If Hitler’s Germany had been dangerous before, it was doubly so now, because the certainty of defeat made everyone frighteningly unpredictable. Was that officer the type to go down with the ship, all guns blazing, taking everyone with him? Or was he prepared to cut a deal? Was he a suicider or survivor? Your fate might depend on the answer.

  Because this gauleiter visit was so low key, I’d been given no specific instructions. So I turned up, as usual, at the family table for my pre-dinner break. But today, no Irma. Instead, Richard Frunze. I was backing away from the great man in confusion, when he beckoned me over.

  “Come on. Take a seat. I could use some company.” Frunze appeared more subdued than before. Hardly surprising. Apart from that, much the same: solid, without being fat; thick brown hair – he could easily donate some of it to Wallisch; grey eyes that might fool you were friendly had they not belonged to a top-flight Nazi.

  I advanced timidly. Sat down.

  “Fancy a beer?” he asked, already started on his.

  I nodded.

  “Hang on, I’ll get it.”

  To my astonishment – and embarrassment, Frunze swept past me to the bar. For a man well into his forties, he moved with unexpected speed and grace.

  “Don’t worry. Frau Weiss has made me honorary barman,” he said, pouring my stein.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Just sat there.

  “I know it’s a bit early, but you look as though you could do with it,” said the gauleiter, placing the glass in front of me.

  “Prosit.” He lifted his glass.

  I replied in kind, wondering whether I should be doing this. Hobnobbing with a gauleiter.

  “Just paid Frau Sperrle a visit,” he continued. Then, “Don’t look so surpr
ised. Remember I’m the rabbit fairy godmother. Wanted to see how my investment was going. Very well, it seems.”

  So it had been nothing to do with Willi. Just as long as we kept the conversation on rabbits. My composure back in place, I said, “Actually, it’s not only at Frau Sperrle’s. We’ve got rabbits all the way up the valley now. There’s a little lady called Fräulein Schwarz, who’s a whizz at sexing. She deserves a medal as well.”

  He nodded. “I heard. Nice to get some good news for a change.”

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, keen to stay on a safe subject, “is why they were prepared to let them go. The rabbits, I mean. In these days of food shortages...”

  “Surprised me too,” agreed the gauleiter. “I had a long chat with Reichsführer Himmler and got the impression he’s just fed up with the whole thing. He started the angora rabbit programme years ago – before the war I think, as a means of getting warm clothing for Luftwaffe crews, but it never really came to anything. When he was put in charge of the labour camps, the rabbits came along, more or less as an afterthought. Then the camp guards became more interested in the animals than the inmates. Hardly surprising, they’re impossibly cute little things – the rabbits, that is, not the inmates.”

  “I saw an example of that on one of the deliveries,” I said. “The load from Belsen, if memory serves. The driver was seriously pissed off at losing his rabbits. So fewer rabbits, better work from the guards?”

  “Seems so.” Frunze took a sip of beer, then, before I could continue safely on rabbits, said, “Also been hearing about the strange case of Willi Weiss.”

  The colour must have drained from my face. I just sat there, silent, dreading the next words.

  “Gustav Wallisch doesn’t seem to have much of a clue. Which is unlike him. Usually very efficient. He seems to think the Block Leader got caught in a city air raid. Killed. Odd thing is, it’s been pretty quiet there recently. So... I don’t know.” He spread his hands.

  Again I could think of nothing to say. Nothing that might not incriminate me.

  Breaking the silence, Frunze said, “I gather the Block Leader paid Frau Sperrle a visit.”

  I nodded.

  “While you were there?”

  Another nod. Pointless to deny it.

  “But he left again?

  “Yes. Almost at once. Just a quick check. Doing his job as Block Leader.”

  “That’s what Frau Sperrle said. Confirmed by Fräulein Schwarz.”

  I tried to hide my astonishment. So our little rabbit sexer had seen a very dead Willi Weiss returning down the valley! Clearly an attempted cover-up between the two ladies.

  “Which leaves us no further forward,” said the gauleiter. “The Block Leader might be anywhere. But that’s no concern of mine. Why do I have Local Group Leaders? To solve local problems like this. Maybe, one day, Wallisch will come up with the answer.”

  I was trying to fathom this abrupt dismissal of a lethal topic, when I heard Frunze continue: “But I’m curious about you... our Norwegian worker... my apologies, your name escapes me.”

  I gulped. “Per Jespersen.” I’d been prepared for a grilling on Willi, but not this. What possible interest could I be to a Nazi gauleiter? Whatever it was, it could hardly be good news.

  “Ah yes. Jespersen. Last seen pretending to be a wine waiter. We agreed on one thing, though: Quisling.”

  “Oh?”

  He smiled. “I said, if you remember, that I didn’t think much of Herr Quisling. When I then added ‘Your man, Quisling’, you almost had a seizure.”

  Frunze didn’t miss much. I nodded. Couldn’t deny it.

  “Don’t worry. It’s hardly a secret that Quisling is not exactly popular with his fellow countrymen. It’s an opinion shared by the Führer.”

  “Really?” Our Norse fascist always gave the impression he was in cahoots with his international colleagues.

  “What matters to the Führer is not so much political outlook – although that’s important, of course,” explained Frunze. “What really counts is leadership. And here it’s no contest. Adolf Hitler came from a humble background, no advantages, and galvanised the Germans. Made National Socialists the biggest party of the Weimar republic. Became loved. Revered. By sheer force of personality. And Quisling? A bourgeois nonentity. Zero personality. When he tried politics he got a mere handful of votes. Came over here once, tried sucking up to the Führer, who saw through him immediately. Useless for anything important. And now? Quisling’s just a convenient puppet. Titular head of a government everyone ignores.”

  Frunze drank deeply from his stein. Relaxed. No hurry.

  “So you see, I know quite a bit about your country,” he continued. “Probably more than most, because I’m an old colleague of Gauleiter Terboven. Reichskommissar for Norway. I believe I mentioned that before?”

  I nodded. This obviously was leading somewhere, but taking a devious route getting there.

  “Terboven runs an interesting country – strategically interesting,” said Frunze. “A place where we maintain a large garrison, which just sits on its backside. Men our fighting generals... Rommel, Kesselring, Guderian and the rest of them... would love to get their hands on.”

  “Why doesn’t that happen?”

  “Because the Führer fears an enemy assault there. Nothing we can do about it. My concern is different. What if Terboven decides to make use of all that manpower at his disposal?”

  Although under an oppressive occupation, little was happening in Norway other than the odd bit of sabotage. And attempts, in the far north, to sink the battleship Tirpitz. So the gauleiter’s ramblings were alarming. What on earth was he driving at?

  “What could he do?” I asked. “Nothing, surely, without direct orders from your Führer.”

  “Of course Terboven won’t do anything at the moment,” replied Frunze. “But situations can change and it’s no bad thing to be prepared. I know your Reichskommissar pretty well and he can be a trifle hot-headed.”

  I was trying to digest these disturbing but delphic utterances when there was another abrupt change of tack.

  “Would you like to return to Norway?” he asked.

  I was dumbfounded. Could only stammer, “I was told that wouldn’t be possible. I did ask. Local Group Leader Wallisch said I was needed here. Wouldn’t issue me with any papers to go home.”

  “Quite right, quite right. But, as I said, things do change. We’ll have to see. Now I have work to do.” Gauleiter Frunze finished his beer and stood up. “Frau Weiss has been kind enough to let me have her room again. Didn’t seem to mind at all. A splendid woman.”

  His smile was all innocence. But we knew his ‘work’ involved nothing more strenuous than some horizontal dictation to the lovely Irma. And I suspected he knew that Siggy’s barely concealed glee at being evicted from her room was because she could then spend the night with me. We thought it prudent not to flaunt our relationship, so I usually ended up back in the attic. But if our esteemed leader forced us to spend the night together, who were we to argue? Orders were orders.

  CHAPTER 29

  The gauleiter visit was merely a small blip in an otherwise uneventful routine. Local Group Leader Wallisch did not press his suit for Willi’s room, and no further mention was made about the Block Leader’s disappearance. We began to hope the whole ghastly episode might be behind us.

  To say our routine was ‘uneventful’ did not mean we were idle. On the contrary. The coming winter loomed and we were chronically short of labour. It was hard work all round.

  After an early breakfast I would usually cycle to Frau Sperrle’s. Move the hutches to fresh feed. Discuss rabbit matters with Benni. Pick some winter feed, which we stored in the barn. Finally, a short coffee-break – acorn ersatz, not real – with Hilde. I would then cycle back with a basketful of eggs. Hens were beginning to rival rabbits.

  Sometimes Siggy would do a swap, so she could keep in touch with her son. This left me free to catch up on gasthof wor
k. Or check on the rabbit situation along the valley. Gregor had made it clear that this fluffy manna from heaven was not just for the benefit of the people looking after them. He asked me to drop in on the angora foster parents and remind them they were merely bunny custodians for the community.

  I struck up a particularly good rapport with Fräulein Schwarz, our little rabbit sexer. She proved to be less reclusive than her reputation suggested, always inviting me in to share a glass of fruit juice, home-made from local hedgerows.

  “Tell the Herr Bürgermeister we should be picking berries,” she insisted. “Full of vitamins. Need that in winter.”

  I passed on the hint, with the result that Gregor added berry picking to our winter survival arsenal.

  Fräulein Schwarz had been a school teacher: the sciences. Which explained her rabbit expertise. She had never married, another victim of the Great War slaughter that had decimated her choice of men. But she remained very sharp. In spite of her diminutive size, I had the feeling she would have terrorised her pupils – no discipline problems in Fräulein Schwarz’s class.

  I looked forward to our meetings in that dark little cottage amongst the trees, even got used to being watched over by her dolls, hundreds of make-believe ears listing in to our conversations.

  One day, I ventured a departing question. “I’m told you saw Block Leader Weiss heading back to town on the day he disappeared?”

  “Certainly did. Local Group Leader Wallisch wasn’t too sure, so I told him.” She looked me straight in the eye as she said it.

  “Good to know some people aren’t afraid of telling the truth,” I said. As a fellow-conspirator, it was my way of thanking her. I’m sure she got the message.

  It was also my job to check up on Felix. Butchering was a dying trade in the Third Reich – butchering of animals, that is. For humans it was open season. Felix had recently received our consignment from the Sperrle enterprise, so Gregor asked me to stop by and make sure he didn’t siphon off too much for himself.