Then, miracle of miracles, the crossing into Denmark. Still Nazi territory, of course; still the suspicious scrutiny of our documents. But a different atmosphere.
And, after four years, a chance to speak my own language again. Because Norwegian and Danish are so similar we can communicate easily, each using his own. In written form they’re almost identical, but we say the Danes talk with potatoes in their throats. Only kidding, of course; we love them dearly. Hearing them now reminded me of our beloved King Haakon, originally a Danish prince, who even after forty years in Norway never quite got the hang of our version.
This Danish stage of our journey also took time, due not to bomb damage, but geography. East of the Jutland peninsula, the country is a series of islands. And trains don’t like getting their wheels wet. When we finally made it to Copenhagen I decided to give us a couple of days to recover. I was being a little ungenerous in accusing Gauleiter Frunze of leaving me only a few coins out of my five months’ wages. We could actually well afford a short break.
CHAPTER 40
Once rested, we were keen to be on our way again. There was a fair amount of illicit traffic across Øresund, but not much above-the-board travel like ours. How Frunze had managed to get us a transit through neutral Sweden I’ve no idea. Gauleiters must have had plenty of influence.
First we took a short train ride to Shakespeare land: Hamlet’s castle at Elsinore, known to the Danes as Helsingør. The castle is called Kronborg and juts so proudly out into the straits that sentimental Danes sing about it. With tears in their eyes, they know they’re home from fields afar, when they have ‘Kronborg to starboard again’.
We left with Kronborg to port; and in a few minutes were transported to another world. A world without war. Sweden.
To be honest, we Norwegians were none too keen on the Swedes. Some of this ill feeling went back to 1905, when the break-up of the Norway-Sweden union almost led to fisticuffs. Another reason was the disparity in wealth; poor-as-church-mouse Norway resenting its rich neighbour. But the main cause for friction was Sweden’s perceived friendliness with Germany. We recognised that Sweden had a problem in 1940: if they upset Hitler too much, they might be invaded, like Denmark and Norway. But we felt they had taken appeasement too far, especially up north, around Narvik, where German troops had ignored Swedish neutrality.
By 1944 Sweden no longer needed to appease Germany and we were warmly welcomed. We also happened to be in a pro Norwegian part of the country. Göteborgs Handels och Sjöfartstidningen (Gothenburgs Commerce and Marine News), almost alone amongst Swedish newspapers, had been anti-Nazi from the start. So when we hopped on the train to Gothenburg, we knew we’d be with friends.
We arrived in Gothenburg as it was getting dark. A bland statement like that means nothing today, but for us, from blacked-out Europe, it was a revelation. Lights! City lights! It had been four years since Siggy and I had seen such a sight. For Benni, it was a first. The three of us were like kids.
We were told the Saltsjö hotel was a ten minute walk from the station, the other side of the Hamn canal and park. It took us a good deal longer because Siggy and Benni couldn’t resist window shopping. Even I, a dedicated non-shopper, found myself weakening.
We checked into the Saltsjö, a cosy little place within our budget. Just as well it wasn’t expensive because this was where I’d been told to stay, to await my meeting with the mysterious Willy Brandt.
Siggy was bouncing gently on the bed, testing the springs, luxuriating in luxury. “What if we forget Frunze?” she said. “Just stay here. For ever and ever.” I had of course told her about the gauleiter’s instructions.
“Nice idea,” I said, joining her in the bouncing game.
We both knew we couldn’t stay, but there was no harm in dreaming.
“Let’s enjoy this while we can,” I said. “Take Benni out on the town. Go to a restaurant. No rationing here, so we can eat ourselves silly.”
CHAPTER 41
We were granted three days of unbridled hedonism. No responsibilities. Nothing to do except stroll through the lovely – and peaceful – city of Gothenburg. Puff our way to the top of Skansen for the view, wander through the park, indulge in endless window-shopping in the old town. It was the shoulder season between summer and winter, temperatures still sensible, and apart from a couple of sharp showers, dry. An ideal time to be out and about. To all outward appearances we were a typical Swedish family.
At breakfast on the fourth day the concierge handed me a note:
‘Munkhallen café 12.30. Haga district, below Skansen Kronen. Come alone.’ It was unsigned.
I left Siggy and Benni with some cash for lunch, set off for my tryst with Mr. Brandt, and found Munkhallen café easily enough: outside was a large wooden figure of a monk.
Almost as soon as I stepped inside I was greeted by a man with a broad, friendly face; a few years older than me, at a guess.
“Per Jespersen, I presume.” He shook my hand. “I’m Willy Brandt. Saw you coming through the window. I’ve got a table over there in the corner.” He spoke in faultless Oslo-Norwegian. First time in four years I’d heard it. Just like home.
“Sorry I took so long getting here,” he said, as we sat down. “I live and work in Stockholm. No point me hanging around here until I heard you’d arrived.”
“I was beginning to enjoy myself,” I replied.
“Bet you were. Apologies for disturbing your idyll. But these days we’re not allowed to enjoy ourselves. There’s work to do. Like returning to Norway and ingratiating yourself with our beloved Reichskommissar.” The last words dripping with sarcasm.
The waitress arrived. We both ordered soup of the day with a hunk of bread.
When she had gone, I said, “Getting anywhere near Terboven is a lost cause, surely?”
“Problematic, certainly. But worth a try. Especially as your gauleiter has apparently put in a good word for you. I hope this works, because Terboven’s becoming quite a worry. I’d love to do something myself, but I’m too well known. Wouldn’t last ten minutes over there.”
“I’m told they threw you out of Germany in Thirty-Three?”
“Jumped before I was pushed. Finished up in Oslo. Then just stayed. For seven years. Got myself a nice orderly Norwegian life, when suddenly, in April nineteen forty, there they were again. Had to escape for the second time. Now I’m a sort of expatriate Norwegian expert. Crossing the border is pretty easy, so I sit in Stockholm digesting all the stories that come my way. From Germans as well as Norwegians.”
“What are your conclusions?”
“That you can’t make any. It’s a real mess. Three outfits, all pretending to run the country, all squabbling with each other.
“Top of the pile in theory is the Quisling National Government. With Quisling himself in the royal palace, a sort of Viking Louis the Fourteenth; king and government, all rolled into one. But no one takes the slightest notice of King Vidkun. Not the Germans, and certainly not the Norwegians.
“Then there’s the Wehrmacht garrison. Nearly four hundred thousand men; everything from battle-hardened mountain troops to geriatrics who shouldn’t really be in uniform, under the command of General Nikolaus von Falkenhorst, a non-Nazi of the old school. Falkenhorst is rated a good guy, who keeps his unruly elements under control. In fact, most of his men want nothing more than a quiet life – anything rather than a draft to the eastern front, where life expectancy is measured in days.
“However, word has it that Falkenhorst’s days are numbered. He’s too nice. And you can’t keep all those troops idle, when the Reich is collapsing around your ears.
“Finally, there’s the smallest contingent of all: a mere six thousand men. Gestapo. SS. These are the people that run Norway. Under the command of Reichskommissar Josef Terboven. Who answers only to the Führer himself. Terboven doesn’t give a shit about Quisling, Falkenhorst, or anyone else.
“If Falkenhorst goes, we lose a major restraining influence, and Terboven would al
most certainly be able to recruit some of the garrison to any crazy cause of his. Not many, but enough to cause a heap of trouble, because these would be the fanatics; the best trained, with the best arms. Terboven could be lethal.”
“And this is the guy you want me to snuggle up to?” I said.
Brandt grinned. “They told me you like a challenge.”
“Any clues how I might do it?”
“You might like to file away some of his weaknesses. For example, he can be quite a piss artist. A couple of years ago he hosted a high-level Nazi delegation: Reinhard Heydrich amongst others. At a party in their honour Terboven got so paralytic even Heydrich was disgusted.
“He can also be a ladies’ man. Wife stayed in Germany, never been to Norway. Leaving Josef free to play the field. Not that he lets his hair down that often, but we did manage to sneak one of our spies into his bed. Resulting pillow talk enabled us to roll up their Stockholm spy network. Quite a coup.”
“If you think I’m going to ask Siggy to sacrifice herself...”
Brandt held up a hand. “No, no. Just mentioned it because it might be useful. Your best chance will be the gauleiter connection. If you turn up with a glowing reference from Frunze, Terboven might just buy it. We reckon that Frunze, like Falkenhorst, is on the side of sanity, but the Reichskommissar might not know. Or care.”
“Cosying up to Terboven won’t make me popular with the natives,” I said.
“No. And that’s your big personal problem,” said Brandt. “The lady spy I mentioned is finding this out the hard way. Because this is a trade built on lies. Single agent? Double agent? No one knows. So you end up with no friends. If you go ahead with this, it’s the cross you’ll have to bear.”
An unsettling thought. But as the Terboven plan seemed unlikely to happen, I pushed it to the back of my mind.
“You’ll have no money worries, though,” continued Brandt. “Scandinavians in America bankrolled our lady spy, and are more than happy to do the same for you. The mid-west seems to be inhabited entirely by Larssons and Eriksens, all eager to help the cause of freedom. I’ll let you have a stash of cash before you leave. And you’ll have access to more funds in Oslo.”
“When do we go?”
“How about tomorrow? You’ve had your bit of fun. Time to move on.”
“I’d like my parents to have some warning...”
“Ah, yes. Your parents. One of our men has already been in contact. Prepared them for some news. Nothing concrete, as yet, just hint-hint, nudge-nudge. But they’ll have read the runes. Won’t be too shocked when we tell them to expect you within the next few days.
“We gather that your old room is empty and waiting. Unlike the bombed-out Reich, Oslo is virtually undamaged. With many of the young men, like you, fighting abroad, there’s little pressure on accommodation.”
“Do my parents know I’ve a small army in tow?” I asked.
“They will. How you handle that is up to you. I’m only here to help you on your way, not hold your hand when you get there.”
“OK. How do we cross the border?”
“We’ve decided the best way is to do it legally. But low key. Slipping across unseen is not difficult these days, but if you’re to have any sort of credibility with the Reichskommissar you’ll need the proper stamps in your documents. On the other hand we don’t want to trumpet your arrival too loudly.
“I suggest you take Swedish railways to the end of the line at Strömstad. Overnight there, to give yourselves plenty of time for the next part: in the morning a cab to the border at Svinesund, maybe ten kilometres, so just a few minutes.
“Once in Norway, it’s only about seven kilometres into Halden, the nearest town. You may have to walk it, but you’re all young and fit. A nice stroll. From Halden there’s a good train service to Oslo. Even in wartime, you should be able to do Strömstad to your parents’ place in the day.”
Brandt started rummaging in a bag, and came up with a thick envelope.
“Might as well conclude our business now,” he said. “I’ve got a pile of cash – mostly Norwegian – to see you through the first few days. Also details of your bank account in Oslo. Don’t go mad, of course, the Larssons and Eriksens of Minnesota don’t have bottomless pockets. But you should have enough for any reasonable needs. Remember, the purpose of all this is to try and neutralise Terboven.”
Brandt extracted a few banknotes from the envelope and handed me one.
“Try and avoid accepting any of these,” he said. “They don’t amuse the Gestapo.”
I was looking at a two kroner note, dated 1940, serial number A.0340085. So far, so ordinary. But at the bottom someone had written in pencil: ‘Down with the Nazis’. And on the back: ‘Long live the king, crown prince and Norway’s independence’.
“See what you mean,” I said. “I’ll try not to needle Terboven with any of these. But I might keep them as souvenirs.”
“Hmm. But be careful.” Brandt obviously didn’t think much of the souvenir idea.
We finished our meal. And a cup of coffee – genuine coffee! Brandt got up, shook my hand, and said, “Good luck. Remember you’ll have plenty of back-up in Oslo. For security reasons you won’t know their real names, but if you want anything, just let them know. It’ll be fun to meet up again when this is all over. I’m Willy Brandt; not my real name, but I rather like it, so I might keep it.”
I walked out of the Munkhallen café quite a rich man. A rich man with a job to do.
CHAPTER 42
That night the three of us splashed out on a gourmet dinner at a little restaurant I’d discovered around the corner from our hotel. Norway might not be in quite such dire straits as Germany, but life there would certainly be Spartan, our next decent meal probably years away.
As the wine flowed, Siggy began to open up about her fears. The short time she’d spent alone with Benni, while I was being briefed by Willi Brandt, had made her realise she was now in a country where she could not communicate. Norway would be the same. I’d been so engrossed with our other problems this was something I’d not considered.
Before English became a world language, making yourself understood in foreign parts was a major industry. There were phrase books teaching you to say that your ‘postilion had been struck by lightning’, or that the ‘pen of your aunt was in the garden’. Vital phrases for any grand tour. Today every German and Scandinavian speaks English like a native – often better. But 1944 was a different world.
Siggy’s predicament hadn’t registered, because I was still in my linguistic comfort zone: from German, through Danish to Swedish. For us Danish was easy to read but harder to understand, whereas Swedish was the other way round: easy to understand, less so to read. But neither was much of a problem.
Sitting there, in our brief time capsule of paradise, I realised my new wife would need as much attention as my main job, which was how to stop Reichskommissar Terboven going berserk.
Brandt’s suggestion that we overnight at the last Swedish town before the border meant we could indulge ourselves with a leisurely departure from Gothenburg. We caught a mid-morning train north, a painfully slow journey, partly due to having to change from electric to steam at Uddevalla.
Originally a main line had been planned all the way from Gothenburg to Oslo, but the end of the union with Sweden in 1905 scuppered that. Swedish Railways now ended with a whimper at the small seaside resort of Strömstad. Where we put up for the night at some eminently forgettable hotel.
My hazy memories of Strömstad may have had something to do with the fact I was now getting scared, having second thoughts about agreeing to Frunze’s crazy scheme. Logic told me that staying in Germany would have been equally fraught, but I’d been living the past few months in a protective bubble, away from some of the nastier manifestations of war. I now told myself to face the facts: apocalypse Europe was going to be dramatic wherever you were. In Norway I would at least be on home territory.
Next day I discovered that Wil
ly Brandt had been overly casual about our crossing into Norway. I hailed a taxi outside our hotel and asked him to take us to the border. The driver was large, jolly and well fed – you could afford to be all that if you were Swedish. He volunteered the name Hjalmar and asked if that’s what we really wanted: the border.
“There’s water in the way,” he explained. “Should have been a bridge, of course. At Svinesund. Building started five years ago, but work’s stopped for the duration.”
“We’re trying to get to Halden,” I said.
“Obviously. Nowhere else to go. But you’ll need the right papers.”
“We’ve got them. I hope.”
“You have!” That surprised him. “Most of the traffic is unofficial. And in this direction: to sunny Sweden. But if you insist...” He shrugged. “That’s your funeral.”
“How do we cross if there’s no bridge?” I asked. I thought this was going to be much easier.
“I’ve got a mate over the other side. Border guard. I can give him a buzz. Tell him we’re coming. Ask permission to ferry you across Iddefjord. This takes you closer to Halden; save you a long walk. But it’ll cost...”
Irritated, I said, “Look, I’ve just spent years as a foreign worker in Germany. We’ve had enough. I want home.”
“They’re letting foreign workers go? Just when they need them most? Now I’ve heard everything.”
“Do you want this fare or not? And I’m not paying a silly money.”
“OK. Take it easy. It’s just that this is rather unusual. ‘Course I’ll take you. But I guarantee nothing. They’re a funny lot over there.”
I agreed a price, which in truth made barely a dent in my pile of cash, then Hjalmar went in to phone his friend over the border. The days were now getting chilly, so I piled the three of us into the taxi and explained the situation to Siggy as we waited.
“All fixed,” said Hjalmar briskly, as he returned. “Klaus will be waiting for us at the other side.”
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