THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  I nodded him on.

  “Let’s start with Willi Weiss...”

  My heart lurched at hearing the name, but Frunze was off on a different tack.

  “...because Willi and I are almost exact contemporaries. As I discovered on my first visit here. He even joined the Party before I did, which is saying something. Very proud of that, he was...”

  ‘Was’. Frunze had used the past tense: ‘was’. As if he knew Willi was dead. Or maybe it was just an assumption. My conscience was giving me the jips again. Apparently for no good reason, because the gauleiter had barely drawn breath.

  “...But Willi was not lucky. Probably didn’t have it in him either. If you want to get anywhere, you need both luck and that personal extra to give you the edge. Best example I can think of is Reinhard Heydrich. Younger than me, and very late joining the Party: not until nineteen thirty-one. But by forty-one he was running Bohemia and Moravia. From nothing to ruler of a country in ten years.”

  “A year later he was dead,” I said.

  “Heydrich made many enemies. Meteors like him often burn up. But he showed what can be done by a young man during a revolution, and the rise of our Party was a revolution.

  “I can’t match Heydrich, of course. But I had my share of luck; and took my chances. Starting in twenty-six, when I went down to Bavaria, for no better reason than I had nothing else to do and was fascinated by this guy Hitler. He’d just come out of Landsberg jail and was trying to reorganise the Party: less extreme, more law-abiding. Lots of problems, one being they were almost unknown outside Bavaria. The Führer was on the lookout for people to spread the word up north. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  “To begin with I was just a hanger-on. But the Führer seemed to like me. And I... perhaps the best way to describe it is... I became entranced. The man was a phenomenon. Unlike any other politician.

  “Before long he was organising the Party into ‘Gau’s – districts.

  “He sent Goebbels to Berlin. Terboven got Essen. And I came here.

  “It was a fantastic time. In five years the Party went from nothing to the biggest in the republic. We seemed to have elections every few months, so it was damned hard work. But rewarding. We were on a permanent high.

  “By Thirty Two we were beginning to get frustrated. That old ditherer, President Hindenburg, refused to give Hitler the top job, even though we’d become by far the largest party. Then we had an election that didn’t go quite as well as before: slightly off the boil. Had we blown it? Fortunately we’d done well enough and in the end Hindenburg couldn’t deny us. January Nineteen Thirty Three: Hitler finally made it to Chancellor.

  “That’s when the real work started. To make this nation work again. Proud to be German. After the shambles of the Weimar republic. Yes, there were some tough decisions, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, as they say. Like the purge of Ernst Röhm and his gang, the so-called night of the long knives. A load of thugs, so they had to go.

  “After that there was no stopping us. We were idealists, fed up with the ‘Them and Us’ of the past. Not only nationalists, but, above all, socialists. A better deal for the little man.

  First, we got everyone back to work. Building the world’s best roads, the autobahns. What have those cocky Americans got? Some half-decent roads around Hollywood, the rest of the country little more than farm tracks. And here in the Reich? Five thousand kilometres of super-highway. Nothing like it anywhere else. To drive on them...? Well, standing outside you’ll have seen my kübelwagen; the military version of Ferdinand Porsche’s little miracle; the Volkswagen – the People’s Car. When this is over, every factory worker and farmhand will be pottering around in his air-cooled VW.

  “But creating jobs was only the start. The Party also recognised that people have bodies and souls, so in came KDF. Keeping fit, while having fun. The nation had never been healthier...”

  Here I must interrupt the gauleiter’s paean of praise to the Nazi Party with a footnote to explain his reference to ‘KDF’. Short for Kraft durch Freude (Strength through Joy), this was a state-run leisure enterprise, encompassing everything from theatricals and holiday camps to cruises. Back to Richard Frunze...

  “...KDF became the world’s biggest tourist company, with its own fleet of ships. I was lucky enough to see this for myself on the superb Wilhelm Gustloff. When I say ‘lucky enough’ I mean exactly that, because I got no special treatment, unlike British and American ocean liners, with their rigid class divisions, the Wilhelm Gustloff is a single class ship; every cabin the same. Even for those you had to draw lots. I took my family and had a whale of a time.

  This was our brave new world, so why not export it? Not the first time for such an idea. The Romans did it. But we’re North Europeans, so a better comparison might be Charlemagne. Crowned emperor in Aachen cathedral, Charles the Great’s aim was a European super-state. It never really got off the ground, but the dream lingered on. To be resurrected by the Führer.

  “Ours could have worked, too. So where did we go wrong? I blame Mussolini. His March on Rome in Twenty-Two was an example to others, like Hitler, still trying to make their mark. So the Führer looked up to him. As a role model. At first, anyway. Big mistake. The puffed-up Italian turned out to be a buffoon; even worse, his people were no longer the tough Roman legionaries of his imagination. All they wanted was to sit in the sun with Mama and the bambini...”

  I felt like pointing out that sitting in the sun with Mama and the bambini might be a rather sensible ambition. Better than slaughtering your neighbours. But I kept my counsel. No doubt the gauleiter would get to the point eventually. Meanwhile he was enjoying giving me his Nazi version of history. And we were getting through the gasthof’s wine cellar at formidable rate. Again, back to Richard Frunze...

  “...Result was we had to rescue our pathetic southern ally. Time and again. In Albania, Greece, North Africa. What the hell we were doing in god-forsaken places like Tobruk and Alamein I’ll never know. If we’d had all those divisions for Barbarossa... Doesn’t bear thinking about.

  “Mind you, Barbarossa was a foul-up in its own right. Started too late in the year, again because we had to go on a rescue mission, this time in Yugoslavia. Then no one seemed to realise it can snow in Russia; might get a little chilly. So our troops reached Moscow in November wearing nothing but swimming trunks – I exaggerate maybe, but not much. Had no one heard of Napoleon?

  “Even then, we could have made a go of it had there been anything approaching a plan. Do you know what made the biggest impression on our boys in Russia? It was the space, the emptiness. Here, in civilised Europe, you can’t go more than a few kilometres before tripping over some sort of human habitation, and you’re never far from hills, even mountains. But the Soviet bloody Union is a zillion kilometres of nothing. Unless you count birch trees. And most of the time, nothing higher in elevation than a pimple. I was chatting to a major, the other day – been at the siege of Leningrad, spent his time throwing shit into the city, hoping they’d give up. His frontline had been near the Catherine palace, in what they called the Leningrad hills. Hills! The major said those hills were about the height of this gasthof table.

  So off marches the Wehrmacht, into this bloody great empty space, with no idea where they’re supposed to stop. Vladivostok perhaps? What we should have had was an end-plan. Based on rivers. Russia has big rivers. Forget Moscow. As Napoleon discovered to his cost, Moscow’s just a mirage. Instead, advance only as far as your selected rivers, then dig in behind them. No one can touch you, not without massive casualties. I’d have chosen the Dnieper to Volkhov line, to link up with our Finnish allies; more ambitious and you might have gone as far as the river Don. Either would have given us enough extra living space for generations. But what do we do? We go blasting off to fucking Stalingrad! Jesus wept!”

  I’d never heard the gauleiter swear before, nor seen him drink so much. But even in his cups, he talked a lot of sense – if y
ou were set on conquering Europe. Had he been the Führer, we might have been in real trouble.

  He poured some more wine; gathered himself. Shook his head and said, “When you’ve spent every waking hour for twenty years building utopia, then... it’s difficult to admit it’s all been in vain. Even wrong.

  “I’m still a National Socialist. You’ll never find me plotting against my Führer. I’ve sworn him my allegiance and shall keep that promise. But I’m also a realist. The Führer’s a shadow of his former self, slowly dying with the nation he created. It’s what comes after – call it the Fourth Reich – that’s now important.

  “After the Twentieth July plot we had two gauleiter meetings: first in Berlin, second in the Wolf’s Lair on the eastern front. Most of my colleagues were for fighting to the bitter end. Not too surprising, I suppose, as we gauleiters were the ones who really dreamed the dream. But anyone not drugged by fantasy must see that our dream has turned to nightmare. My job is now to thwart these... I call them suiciders; people intent on Germany’s total destruction. Which is where you come in.”

  “Me?” I’d been enjoying my view of Nazi troubles from the sidelines. Any sort of involvement was out of the question. Surely?

  The gauleiter nodded. “Yes you. Whether you’ll be able to do anything is an open question, but we should at least try. It’s too early to say exactly who will do what when the final curtain falls, but we can already make educated guesses. And the chap running your country, Reichskommissar Josef Terboven, has all the signs of a suicider.

  “I always refer to Terboven as a colleague, never a friend. Because he has no friends. I have excellent contacts with various strands of opinion in Norway and they all say the same: the Wehrmacht does its best not to antagonise the natives, then Terboven wrecks it all by some act of needless brutality. The Reichskommissar is loathed not only by Norwegians, but also by most Germans.

  “My big concern is what Terboven might do at the final collapse. There’s wild talk in many quarters now of last stands. Gathering our fanatics in remote corners for fights to the death. Down south the money’s on somewhere in the Alps: Austria or Bavaria. It seems Terboven is thinking along similar lines for Norway. Does the word Hardangervidda mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. It’s a mountain wilderness not too far from Oslo.”

  “Well, the reichskommissar has marked this out as a special security area, from where he could defy the world. There are nearly half a million of our troops in Norway, many are old, others green recruits. And most want nothing more than a return ticket home. But you only need a few battle-hardened battalions to follow Terboven, and well... things could get very nasty indeed.”

  “I still don’t get what you expect me to do about it.”

  “Maybe nothing. But you’d be another cog in the machine of reason. Depending on what happens, you might be in a position to help. I’ll provide the necessary documents; and contacts amongst Germans up there who think as I do. As long as you don’t do anything too idiotic – like trying to assassinate the Reichscommissar, you should have few problems. You could be a bridge between them and us.”

  I was silent, trying to work out the implications. But Frunze wasn’t finished.

  “There’s one more thing,” he continued. “I’d like you to take Frau Weiss and Benni.”

  To say I was stunned would be an understatement. It’d be difficult enough turning up out of the blue on my own. Add a German Frau and her child, well... much as I loved Siggy, that was out of the question. I was about to explode in a torrent of objections, when Frunze held up his hand.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “Decision overload. You’ll need to sleep on it. But you should remember a few facts. Frau Weiss’s father-in-law has just been executed for treason. In such cases the Gestapo often extend their activities to the families. So far this hasn’t happened.

  “Then there’s the Willi Weiss enigma. Which continues to bug Local Group Leader Wallisch, who’s a dogged sort of fellow. How can anyone disappear without trace? If Wallisch’s investigations were to be crowned with success – if he managed to solve the Willi Weiss mystery... I leave you to work out the consequences. Not only for your lover, but also for Benni: the last of the Weisses. I’m concerned with damage limitation. To protect what’s left of my country. So I want these two out of the way. You happen to be a means of achieving this.”

  Gauleiter Richard Frunze got to his feet, pretty steadily, all things considered. Picked up two empty glasses and three empty bottles. Plonked them on the bar.

  On his way up the stairs he waved. “‘Night, Per. Sleep tight. Know I shall. Although I may not be much good for Irma. Talk again in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Gauleiter Frunze may have slept well, but I didn’t. Siggy was dead to the world when I crept into the attic, so I slipped in carefully beside her. And put my head dutifully on the pillow. No result. My brain continued to whirl.

  First question: what did Frunze actually know about the disappearance of Willi Weiss? Answer, nothing. All guesswork. Had to be. Only two people knew the true fate of the Block Leader: Hilde Sperrle and myself. No secret was safe from the Gestapo once they put their minds to it, but even my paranoia had to admit this was an unlikely scenario. Willi was long gone; the Gestapo had far more tempting targets.

  What about little Benni? Was he a danger? How could he be, seeing he knew nothing. He might say something about Willi coming up to the farm, but we’d already admitted as much. Willi had come and gone. Confirmed by Fräulein Schwarz.

  Second question: might super-sleuth Wallisch discover the truth? He was certainly unhappy about the fibs we’d fed him, but what could he actually do? Nothing. I’d taken great pains to make sure Willi was buried as far into the forest as possible. That was months ago. Autumn was upon us and leaves would soon blanket the forest floor: even a national effort, costing millions, would have a problem finding him. No. We were OK.

  We might be safe from any Willi Weiss fallout, but Frunze had pointed out another danger. Siggy and Benni were kith and kin of an executed enemy of the state. Not important ones, it’s true, but with the Gestapo you never knew. One of the most unnerving things about the Third Reich, especially as it broke down, was the sheer uncertainty. The goons were trigger-happy, hanging-happy. People were being shot by mistake. Hanged because they happened to have the same name as the intended victim. Innocence was no guarantee of safety.

  Turning all this over in my mind, I had to admit Frunze was right. It would be safer if Siggy and Benni disappeared. With the necessary documents there was no reason why we shouldn’t all get to Norway. But I dreaded the thought of turning up in Oslo with two Germans in tow. How the hell was I to explain them away? Collaborators were hated even more than the Germans.

  There was yet another problem. My story for turning up out of the blue had been that I was going home after my top secret workplace had been bombed out. Never was a less likely tale told. It had been accepted simply because it suited them. Because they desperately needed another pair of hands.

  In Norway this piece of fiction wouldn’t last two seconds. My parents, all my friends, would know I’d spent those years in the Air Force, not working in some mythical German super-lab. The truth would be bound to come out.

  If Siggy were to come with me, I couldn’t have this big lie hanging over us. So I dug her in the ribs and said, “Siggy... a question.”

  “Not now,” she groaned, half waking.

  “Yes, now,” I insisted. “Won’t take more than two seconds.”

  She turned over, in protest. Assuming this meant she was more or less compos mentis, I continued: “Remember I said I’d been a foreign worker? Couldn’t say what because it was secret...”

  “Load of bullshit...” she mumbled.

  “Oh?”

  “You were a terror-flieger.”

  “You knew?”

  “We all did... not complete idiots. A heavy raid had gone overhead that night. Pretty obv
ious you’d come down somewhere up the valley.”

  “And you didn’t mind?”

  “Mind? This is a nasty, bloody war. We can’t afford to mind. Irma’s man was a terror flieger; you were a terror flieger. Now, for God’s sake let me get back to sleep.”

  Which I was more than happy to do. One problem solved. But sleep still eluded me. As the wee hours slipped by, I turned my attention to Frunze’s main suggestion, that I return to Norway, to somehow prevent Terboven going off the deep end. A ridiculous idea. How was a young sergeant air gunner to have any influence over his country’s Nazi supremo?

  A ridiculous idea, but one so tempting I would certainly accept. After being shot down I’d had grandiose escape plans. Hard reality had forced me to give them up. Now Frunze was offering me a reprieve. If the deal included taking Siggy and Benni along, so be it. They’d be good company. I’d sort out any problems at the Oslo end as best I could.

  As I finally drifted off to sleep, a phrase of Frunze’s came back to me: the ‘suiciders’ and ‘survivors’. Hitler was a confirmed ‘suicider’, forever ordering fights to the last man, instead of life-saving withdrawals. The lives of millions depended on how these orders were obeyed. Or disobeyed.

  In late 1944 the distinction was becoming clear. General von Paulus had obeyed Hitler at Stalingrad and lost over a quarter of a million men: a ‘suicider’. General von Choltitz had disobeyed the order to leave Paris “in complete debris” and barely lost a life: a ‘survivor’. Frunze clearly rated Terboven a Paulus. Not a Choltitz. If I could do anything to avert a Norwegian mass suicide, however unlikely that might seem, it was my duty to do so.

  CHAPTER 36

  Siggy kicked me out of bed the usual time next morning. Far too early. If I looked anything like I felt, they’d be calling an ambulance. I staggered down to breakfast: bread and a special treat – an egg from the Sperrle farm.