CHAPTER 46
We quickly settled into our new routine: Siggy with some serious language study, including one-to-one lessons from Dad. Benni dumped in a nearby nursery group, where he obviously thrived, Mum back to the hospital. And I needed to organise our police state paperwork.
For relaxation I took Siggy around Oslo. A depressing experience; partly because it was the gloomy season, not as yet lit up by snow, partly because of the occupation. The wheels of commerce appeared to have seized up, for example, no further progress with our new city hall, almost ready for use when I’d left in 1940. Its twin red-brown blocks had been unfavourably compared to chunks of goat’s cheese. If we had to endure this waterfront eyesore, at least it should be put it to some use.
While waiting for my promised contacts to reveal themselves, I decided to see what my old mates had been up to. Some had vanished into the war machine, either abroad or with the resistance. But I managed to contact two who were still around: Lars, four years ago a garage mechanic, and Øyvind, a student.
So when Mum took Siggy off for some girlie chat, I arranged to meet them at Lars’ place near Majorstua, a convenient ten minute walk away. Where I found another old lag: the delicious Gudrun. Now, they informed me, Mrs. Lars.
“The man who said he’d never get hitched,” I joked. “Can’t trust you for a second.”
“Not the only marriage victim, from what I hear,” replied Lars.
I was saved the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of two tearaways: Audun, aged three, and Kirsten, two; both with their mother’s blonde hair, rather than Dad’s brown. They said dutiful hellos to the boring adult, then escaped back to their playroom.
At which point the doorbell rang. Øyvind. Much the same old Øyvind, short, studious, bespectacled, except that he was now beginning to lose his hair.
With the drinks sorted out, we got down to catching up on four years personal history. Mine first. Escape to England; time in the RAF; parachuting into Germany. All this was straightforward and produced satisfactory gasps from my audience. Then it got tricky. Willi Weiss was completely off limits. I also skated quickly over Gauleiter Frunze’s role. Which, in turn, meant I had difficulty explaining why I was married to one of the enemy. As old buddies, they did not press me too hard; were prepared to let me off lightly. But I realised that my new life in Norway would have to be wrapped in a cocoon of half-truths and evasions.
Next up was Lars, who explained that he and Gudrun were married soon after they discovered she was expecting Audun. In those days, even liberal Norway frowned on cohabiting. Gudrun seemed content to see out the war as a mother, while Lars still found enough work to keep his family from starvation.
“Can’t imagine the motor trade is up to much,” I said, remembering Germany’s lack of transport.
“No. But it ticks over. And there’s other stuff, as long as you’re not too fussy.”
“Such as?”
“Building barracks. And maintenance. Oslo’s an armed camp, someone has to do the donkey work.”
“Best bet’s being a student,” said Øyvind.
“You were that four years ago,” I said. “How long can you keep it up?”
“Until this lot leaves. Anyway, becoming a doctor always takes ages.”
“You! A doctor!” Unbelievable. “I take it you mean a non-medical type doctor. A professor.”
“Certainly not. I’ve dedicating my life to healing.”
“But you faint at the sight of blood. Hate hypodermics.”
“I’m a reformed man.”
“As for a bedside manner... you’re far too honest. You’d tell a patient straight out he was a goner. Wouldn’t let him down lightly with some suggestion of hope.”
“And you hate people,” interjected Lars.
“Well... it’s true, I’m not really a people person,” he said, rubbing his glasses. The conversation was getting him steamed up. “But I love test tubes. Lots of doctors work in labs.”
“From what I hear test tubes are pretty far down the line. Before reaching those exalted heights, you’ll have to do some pretty messy doctoring. And you’re the least messy person I know.”
“I’m prepared to do it,” he replied. “And after that, there’s a huge choice. I wouldn’t be a surgeon of course, covered in blood and gore. Or a proctologist, with his arm up people’s bums: a life spent in shit – literally. No, I’m thinking of some sort of research job. Psychiatry, perhaps. At the moment I’m doing a work practice stint, which has some behavioural interests...”
“Sinsen lasarett?” said Lars.
“Sinsen lasarett,” agreed Øyvind. They’d obviously been discussing it.
“By a fluke of fate, we’ve both been working at the same place,” explained Lars. “I’m fixing some dodgy electrics...”
“And for me it’s part of the course work,” added Øyvind. “We’re going up there tomorrow. Like to come?”
“The three of us. Just like old times,” said Lars.
“Isn’t a lasarett a sort of quarantine place?” I asked uneasily.
Øyvind nodded. “A hospital for contagious diseases.”
They started giggling. Finally Lars put me out of my misery. “It’s not dangerous. Not unless you’re into buggery.”
“Sinsen lasarett is the Wehrmacht’s clap clinic,” explained Øyvind. “The master race has been dipping its wick in some pretty lethal untermensch. Mostly on the eastern front. They end up here. In Sinsen.”
“Come along. You can practise your German,” added Lars. Rather nastily, I thought.
At the moment I was at a loose end, so next day we caught a tram to Sinsen. End of the line in the northern suburbs. Where we found a huge, new, three-storey building. Sinsen school. Now commandeered by the Wehrmacht for important war work. Venereal disease therapy.
Lars and Øyvind showed their passes to a guard. I waved one of my Frunze documents, produced for our journey. Lots of eagles clutching swastikas, heavy official stamps, scrawled signatures. Impressive. But not like anything the guard had seen before. He looked at it dubiously. To help him along, I hissed in my best Gestapo German, “Special inspection for the reichskommissar.”
The guard turned pale, leapt to his feet and Heil-Hitlered.
Once inside, the three of us agreed to part company for our different tasks. I wandered down a corridor, on spec. Noticed an open cupboard, full of white coats. No one in sight, so I grabbed one and put it on. Continued on my way. A nervous soldier scuttled by, avoiding eye contact. Apart from him, little activity.
Then, on my right, I came to a large classroom – now, I supposed a hospital ward. Full of Wehrmacht uniforms. Lolling in armchairs. Reading magazines. Large windows that made an Oslo autumn seem almost summerlike. All very civilised.
As I entered, everyone sat up. At attention. Unsure what to do.
“At ease,” I said. “All progressing well?” I realised I was chancing my arm, but what the hell! It’s amazing what a white coat and confident manner can do. Five months at the Gasthof zum Löwen had honed my language skills to the point that I could easily pass as a German.
I went in, selected a likely looking lad, and asked, “How about you, sergeant? Treatment producing results?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know what it is, sir, but I just don’t seem to heal.”
The room murmured agreement. By the sound of it, a very sick bunch. Who looked in the rudest of health. I remembered collecting my papers from Frunze’s HQ, where only the gauleiter had all his limbs. His staff were missing arms, legs, eyes – perhaps even more personal items of anatomy. These guys were missing nothing. At least, nothing visible.
“So where did you get yours, sergeant?” I persisted.
“Leningrad front, sir. It was terrible. They say the hookers are worth three divisions to the Ivans.”
“It was the cold wot done it,” added a weedy private. “Only way to stop frostbite knocking off your prick was by tucking it up a nice warm Russki.”
“Such heroism should get us Iron Crosses,” said a wag on the right. “But nothing. You see before you, sir, the forgotten army.”
“The most infectious girls get medals,” added a large private with a shaved head. “Heroines of the Soviet Union. There’s competition for the nastiest bugs and then passing them on to us. It ain’t fair.”
“Is there any cure, doctor?” asked another voice. “No one seems to know?”
My unexpected promotion to ‘doctor’ – and why not? I looked like one – tempted me down a wild path of invention. Why not play along with this ‘nastiest bugs’ theme?
Assuming my most serious medical manner, I replied, “I’ll be honest with you, gentlemen. Shortly before the war Stalin commissioned a new medical facility for bacteriological warfare. Somewhere in Siberia. Omsk, we think. Or it may have been Tomsk. Tasked with developing a new strain of super syphilis. In the event of invasion, soviet girls would be inoculated with this strain, then left to wreak havoc as the enemy lines rolled over them.”
“Is that what we’ve got?” A panicky voice. “Super syph?”
Theatrical pause, to let this thought stew. Then I replied, “That’s the problem. We don’t know. We’re working on it. That’s why you’re all here. Even ordinary syphilis is quite an intractable disease...”
“Intract... what...?”
“He means they can’t do nuffink about it, you iggorant pig!”
“That’s not correct,” I said. “We may not be able to cure this super strain, but we can certainly ameliorate the effects.”
“Amelio... what...?”
“The professor means they can delay how long it takes before your prick to drop off,” explained the sergeant.
“Nothing drops off,” I said, gratified by my further promotion to professor. “But you’re right, sergeant, in the uncertain timescale of the symptoms. Sometimes these manifest themselves within weeks. At other times they may take years.”
Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach, but this is only partly true. Equally important is morale. And nothing saps morale more than doubt. I had difficulty maintaining my professorial stance. Not grinning.
“They say syph can addle your brain!” A howl of anguish from the little private who used Russki ladies to ward off frostbite.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” I replied. “That only happens during the final stages. Not for at least five years.”
This last comment left them stunned, so I decided it was time to exit stage left. If a real doctor turned up I’d be in trouble.
To discourage blabbing, I said, “Gentlemen, your bravery moves me deeply. I’m here for a top secret survey. So mum’s the word. I’ll be recommending that your treatment continues as before. We’re constantly researching. Doing all we can. So chin up.”
I retraced my steps down the still empty corridor, dumped the white coat, and exited the lazarett to another smart “Heil!” from the guard.
As the tram took me back into town, I reflected on a good morning’s work. Always worth spreading doom and gloom amongst the enemy. Whatever evil plan the reichskommissar might be hatching, the fighting troops of the Sinsen lazarett would not be amongst those making the ultimate sacrifice.
CHAPTER 47
I arrived back to hear there had been a phone message. Dad had taken it and made a promise on my behalf. I was to be at the Monolith in Frogner Park: tomorrow, 10am. Last time I’d seen the Vigeland complex it had been a chaotic building site. The monolith only a promise. Although Vigeland himself had died the previous year, his grand idea was one of the few enterprises that had not been killed off by the war. It would be interesting to see how it was progressing.
Next day was drizzly, raw, a hint that winter was around the corner. I wrapped up well and was into the greenery of Frogner park within minutes. Gustav Vigeland’s sculpture extravaganza was at the far end, visible from quite a distance because of the scaffolding round the monolith. Close up, one could see that the monolith was still minus any surrounding figures. These, and other monster humans, were scattered around the park with no obvious plan.
Waiting for someone to turn up, I circled the monolith, trying to make out details in the writhing bodies. The sculptor was obviously trying to tell me something. But what? All I could see was a giant phallic symbol; maybe I was still under the influence of Sinsen lasarett.
“You must be Per...” said a voice in my ear.
I gave a start, so immersed in trying to decipher modern art I hadn’t noticed my new companion.
“What do you think of all this?” he asked, as we resumed our walk.
I shrugged. “We’ll have a better idea when it’s all finished.”
“Too Germanic for my taste,” he said. “Big. Heavy. Rather Wagnerian.”
I was grateful for this opinion because it solved one riddle. Willy Brandt had promised me a contact from the resistance, while Frunze was lining up someone from the opposite camp. I had no idea which party I was due to meet, but this comment could not have come from a Frunze man. In fact, he looked typically Norwegian, dressed in what the English call plus-fours – when I tell people we call them ‘knickers’, it sends them into hysterics.
“You obviously know who I am,” I said, “and you are...?”
“After the war, perhaps...” with a little smile. “For now we have to be careful.” He was probably a little older than me, a couple of inches shorter, and spoke with an educated Østland accent: anywhere within a hundred miles of Oslo. He had wavy brown hair, a warm jacket on top, and, as I said... ‘knickers’.
“As we’re here,” he continued, “you can call me Vigeland. Not a name you’re likely to forget. Nothing personal, you understand, but you’re an unknown quantity. Willy Brandt seemed to like you; and your folks check out OK. But then you turn up with a German bride and a letter of recommendation from a gauleiter. Two good marks, two minuses. Had you been all pluses, I’d still have insisted on a cover name.”
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
Vigeland spread his hands. “All I’ve been told is that you might – just might – be able to get an inside track on our reichskommissar. And that would be worth its weight in gold.”
“Gauleiter Frunze, the fellow who let me come back to Norway, thinks it might work,” I said. “Personally, I reckon it’s non-starter. But who am I to argue. It’s got me home again.”
“With a German wife.”
“That was part of the deal.”
Vigeland gave me a sharp look, then burst into laughter. “Now I’ve heard everything. They pick a fräulein off the shelf and say you can scarper as long as you make it your honeymoon. Though why they should want that, heaven only knows.”
“She was a frau – a widow, not a fräulein,” I said stiffly, regretting I’d sounded so ungallant. “And we’ve been working together for five months, so know each other pretty well. Although Frunze’s suggestion – demand – came as a complete surprise, neither of us agreed to it under duress.”
“OK, OK, let’s forget the personal bit and talk about the reichskommissar,” said Vigeland. “After all these years he’s still something of a mystery, so any new angle on him would be welcome.”
“Not a nice man, from what I hear.”
“You don’t expect ‘niceness’ from Adolf’s personal henchman,” replied Vigeland. “But – and I’m amazed to hear myself saying this – we could do a lot worse. He’s a ruthless Nazi, of course, any Home Front sabotage guarantees executions in return. But he takes his job seriously: making Norway a fit member of the greater Reich. An economist by trade, he actually wants to improve things – even though we don’t agree on the way he’s going about it.”
“Willy Brandt painted a picture of an alcoholic who spends his time bedding the ladies,” I said.
“No end of rumours,” agreed Vi
geland. “But because Terboven keeps very much to himself, facts are hard to come by. Brandt loves a good story and this sounds typically Willy. The truth seems to be that the reichskommissar is never seen actually under the weather, even though he can sink a dram with the best of them. As for lady friends, there have been a couple of juicy stories: a Finnish opera singer whose name no one can pronounce. And our own Sonja Wigert...”
“The actress?”
“Yep. Now living in Sweden, but briefly part of the Terboven circle. That’s about it. Anyone expecting harems in the snow will be disappointed. In fact, the reichskommissar seems to be something of a puritan. Up with the lark. In his office till the wee hours. Protestant work ethic. That’s when he’s not away inspecting his fiefdom. Says he’s seen more of Norway than any of our kings or politicians. Yet he’s never bothered to learn a word of Norwegian.”
“Sounds a charming fellow, “I said sarcastically. “What do you want me to do if the miracle occurs and I get a summons?”
“Ring this number.” Vigeland showed me a piece of paper. “No, don’t take it! Memorise! If you need to contact us, your name will be... why not make it another famous artist – Munch. You’re now Edvard Munch. If, for any reason you’re compromised – unlikely, but we like to plan for everything, then you’ll revert to your own name.”
“Munch – good, Jespersen – bad,” I said.
“Exactly.” Vigeland shook my hand. “Good luck. I hope this does lead to something. Especially now that Falkenhorst has gone.”
“What!”
“Yes, we get the latest news from London. Von Falkenhorst, the Wehrmacht commander in Norway, has been sacked.”
“Replaced by?”
“General Rendulic, previously in charge of the northern front. He now gets the whole of Norway.”
“Which leaves Terboven where?”
“As dictator. Falkenhorst was not only in charge of the German fighting troops over here, he was also a moderating influence. Rendulic is unlikely to stand up to Terboven.”
“Sounds ominous.”
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