I could find no way out of this conundrum, until mercifully Siggy rode to the rescue, saying, “A lovely suggestion, August. And brave of you to want to break this barrier. But we can’t ask the same of Per’s folks. They’d be seen as traitors. I’m sure you understand. So I have another suggestion...”
Zoller and I both pricked up our ears.
“...We have a friend, Vigeland – that’s his nickname – who’s also one of these... what you called ‘proper Norwegians’. I think he’d enjoy meeting you.”
Zoller pondered the offer. He was not stupid and must have guessed Vigeland was something to do with the Home Front.
“Unofficially, of course,” added Siggy. “Somewhere neutral, where you can discuss things in private.”
Zoller nodded slowly. The war situation had reached the stage were Norway’s warring factions would soon have to start talking to each other. There would be advantages as well as dangers in being amongst the first to do so.
“Very well,” said the sturmbannführer at last. “I’m promising nothing, but let’s see what this Vigeland of yours has to say.”
CHAPTER 61
Chief secretary Gerda Hettich was good in letting Siggy off for the odd day or two to see Benni, who was still staying with my parents. I’d always managed to go with her, although my absences had to be first cleared with House Manager Reimer. The cull of Skaugum’s personnel meant fewer demands on its twenty-four hour service, and I was meticulous in promptly clearing any snowfall. Barring last-minute panics, I was free to go.
We managed to get some free time about five days after the meeting with Zoller, hitching a ride on the shuttle into town. Although Terboven preferred to work from Skaugum, the main Nazi headquarters were in Oslo, so there were frequent transport links between the two. The Oslo end had recently been moved from the parliament building to an office complex in Parkveien, a short walk from our place in Erling Sjalgssonsgate.
Siggy and Benni had the usual emotional reunion, with comments about how much he had grown. Another difference, which I tactfully didn’t mention, was that Benni’s Norwegian was now up and running. Youngsters of his age are language sponges. On the other hand, his mother’s crash course in Norwegian had hit the buffers when we moved to Skaugum.
Although the weather was typical for the time of year, overcast and minus two, Siggy wanted some fresh air and time with her son. Mum, back from hospital early to meet us, protested that Siggy’s condition and treacherous pavements were not an ideal combination. A compromise was reached when Siggy agreed to take a ski stick.
No sooner were the two of them out of the house than I was on the blower to Vigeland. I hadn’t a clue where he spent his days, but was always surprised how quickly I could get hold of him. Less than an hour later, the phone rang with his return call. Seven that evening was the earliest he could manage. And, in view of the late hour and chilly weather, could this meeting be indoors? At our place? Pleased that I had at last apparently earned some trust, I checked with Mum, who naturally agreed. Promising tea and cakes to oil the discussion.
Vigeland appeared on the dot, brushing off snow, which had started to fall in late afternoon. Whereas there had only been the two of us at previous meetings, I suggested we now also include my father, as the voice of experience, and Siggy, who, as Terboven’s secretary, was more in the loop regarding Nazi matters than I was. Mum would be free to amuse Benni. After a moment’s hesitation, Vigeland agreed.
After tea had been poured and cakes selected, I described our meeting with Zoller, his desire to meet some ‘proper Norwegians’, and my reasons for declining to involve the family. Dad did not even comment, an indication he was glad I’d kept them out of it.
“So?” I said, eyeing Vigeland. “Would you be prepared to meet a member of the opposition? ‘Unter vier augen’ (under four eyes) as they say.”
He sipped his tea. Nibbled at a piece of cake. Considered. Close up and in good light, he looked older than I had estimated previously: mid-thirties rather than late twenties. The cares of office, maybe.
“It’s worth a try,” he said at last. “Patton has just reached the Rhine at Koblenz, and in the east, Zhukov is across the Oder. The final squeeze. Germans must be getting desperate. And desperate people do crazy things. Good to hear that Skaugum’s SS appear to be seeing sense.”
“We can only speak for Sturmbannführer Zoller,” I said. “And even he’s an uncertain convert. As for Terboven, he’s becoming more hardline as the military situation gets worse. Weird. If he can use his malign influence to muster some of the troops in Lillehammer, they could hold out in the forests up there for months. Years.”
“OK.” Vigeland seemed to have reached a decision. “Everything in war is risky, but this seems to be worth it. If the sturmbannführer agrees, I’ll meet him at the Skaugum farm. White flag conditions. No funny business.”
“Skaugum farm?” I don’t know why the venue surprised me.
“Seems the obvious place,” replied Vigeland. “Outside the Skaugum security net. But convenient. The sturmbannführer should be able to pop across without anyone noticing. The farm’s run by a loyal Norwegian, so it’s as near neutral territory as we’re likely to get.”
“When can you manage?” I asked.
“Easter’s coming up,” he replied. “So why don’t I take a farm holiday. See how smiling boy Ragnar milks his cows and shears his sheep. From what you’ve been telling me, it’s time we had someone permanently on site at Skaugum. Give me a couple of days to organise things. Then, any time.”
“A couple of days, it is,” I said. “I’ll pass this on to Zoller. And Happy Easter.”
CHAPTER 62
I really should not have wished Vigeland a happy Easter. It was tempting providence. And providence slapped us on the face. In the form of yet another outburst from Terboven.
Mind you, I also blame the Norwegian resistance, who once again blasted the Nordland railway. Their action was perhaps understandable. After years struggling against the odds, with minimal equipment, they were now well trained and armed. Keen to play their part against the enemy. Unfortunately, blowing up bits of railway had little military value at this stage of the game and was sure to provoke the Nazis. Gratuitously stirring up a wasps’ nest.
So fourteen saboteurs, already sitting in German jails, were taken out and shot. Just for starters. Because this time the reichskommissar was determined to set a proper example. This time he would not take the easy option, randomly plucking out victims from anyone who had previously upset him. He would go for the real culprits: members of Milorg, the fighting Home Front.
Everyone knew that Milorg trained and hid out in Nordmarka, the heavily forested hills north of Oslo. Until now the Nazis had funked a confrontation there because of the difficult terrain. An indication, by the way, of the problem Terboven would cause if he managed to organise a last stand in the even more remote forests of central Norway.
Siggy and I sat on the sidelines and watched, as the good and great in Nazi Norway again converged on Skaugum. About a dozen of them, including the usual suspects: Police chief Wilhelm Rediess; security chief Heinrich Fehlis; hanging judge Hans Latza; Heinrich Schnurbusch whose job it was to make sure puppet Quisling toed the line; and economist Carlo Otte.
Disagreements surfaced even before the meeting, Otte at first refusing to attend; because Terboven had promised him time off over Easter. Otte was an unusual Nazi. Young, popular, not afraid to voice an opinion. He was an economist, vital to the reichskommissar’s pet plans for Norway, and therefore allowed more leeway than usual. There was a very public bust-up before Otte was persuaded to come along.
Although the meeting was of course held in private, Siggy soon got the gist of it from chief secretary Hettich and general gossip. Terboven had demanded a massive ‘razzia’, as he called it, in Nordmarka, with thousands of troops. Anyone remotely suspicious to be arrested and all members of Milorg shot.
In the good old days the reichskommissar would n
o doubt have got his way. But days were now far from good. The Nazi experiment was heading for history. And people were reassessing their positions.
Not all, though. Wilhelm Rediess, who had somehow managed to climb the greasy pole to become police chief, was a gross, colourless character. I’ll always associate him with his nocturnal yearning for sausages. Rediess could be relied upon to rubber-stamp any demand from his boss.
But others in the reichskommissar’s entourage were beginning to wobble. Carlo Otte, who had come to the meeting under protest, was appalled at the razzia proposal. As was Heinrich Fehlis, the baby-faced head of security. Although still only in his thirties, Fehlis had been in Oslo since the beginning, was the expert on Nazi party dogma, and Terboven’s most trusted lieutenant. So his opposition was crucial. The meeting broke up in acrimony, the only point of agreement being to refer the reichskommissar’s proposal to Berlin.
Easter 1945 was a tense time in occupied Norway.
CHAPTER 63
As soon as a reasonably full picture of events had emerged, I popped across the road to Skaugum farm, where Ragnar’s greeting was a little less frosty than before. This was probably because Vigeland was already in residence, supporting my credentials as a loyal Norwegian.
The rumour factory was going full blast, so Vigeland knew something was afoot. He welcomed the additional information Siggy had been able to glean, even if this was also incomplete and unreliable.
“The Milorg lads in Nordmarka have been warned they might have a fight on their hands,” he said. “I’ll also make sure this info reaches London.”
The word ‘London’ must have triggered a rather blank look on my part, because Vigeland added, “Our government in exile. Or have you forgotten?”
A deserved reprimand. I’d spent so long in my Nazi bubble – six months in Germany, followed by another five months in Skaugum – that I’d almost forgotten the basics. That we still had democratically elected, legal government. Not in Norway, but in London.
“Easy to forget,” said Vigeland, softening the blow. “With the Germans controlling every aspect of our life. But Milorg operates under instructions from Prime Minister Nygaardsvold. And our commander-in-chief, Crown Prince Olav. Who will soon be back where they belong. Here.”
Vigeland had moved to Skaugum farm for his anticipated meeting with sturmbannführer Zoller. Which was now on hold, the security team their hands full with the current upheaval.
Fortunately, the panic blew over within a couple of days, when Berlin refused to let Terboven have his way. The rebels had won. No razzia in Nordmarka. We all breathed a sigh of relief.
Easter Sunday 1945 fell on 1st April and it was several more days before Skaugum had simmered down sufficiently for the meeting to take place. The delay worked in our favour, because Terboven’s intransigence had underlined, yet again, the fact that anyone aiming to be a survivor would be advised to abandon the sinking ship pretty damned quick.
News from the front confirmed that the Third Reich was foundering. In the west the allies were across the river Weser, bringing them ever closer to a link-up with the Russians; who now had Berlin in their sights. What remained of Germany would soon be cut in half.
When Zoller finally managed to slip across to Skaugum farm for his meeting, it became clear that Vigeland’s wish for it to remain ‘under four eyes’ would not work. Because Zoller’s Norwegian was non-existent and Vigeland’s German vestigial. Of necessity, they called me over as interpreter, a role I was becoming used to.
Although the farm was part of Skaugum royal estate, it had not been incorporated into the Nazi lager, but allowed to run as a separate entity under Ragnar, its Norwegian manager, who led me into the farm’s large and airy lounge.
Where I found the protagonists eyeing each other warily, and wordlessly. Prize fighters waiting for the referee to let them loose. Zoller in grey-green uniform, the distinctive SS insignia – like two lightning streaks – on his lapels. And the four pips of Sturmbannführer rank, equivalent to a major in the British army. Vigeland in civvies, again in knickers now that winter was on the wane.
Zoller was the taller of the two, but only by a couple of inches: straight blonde hair, while Vigeland’s was brown and wavy. The German probably had the edge in age, but, again, the difference was small. Same generation. In normal times the best of drinking buddies.
Ragnar was politely asked to leave, which he did with bad grace. The three of us then shook hands and sat down. Vigeland kicked off by laying down his rules: everything off the record; no come-backs, our purpose to try and find common ground. Zoller nodded, no doubt wondering how an innocuous request to meet some ‘proper Norwegians’ – my family, had escalated into a secret parley with the enemy – a meeting which, if Terboven were to hear of it, would at the very least result in a towering tantrum.
“It’s clear the war will soon be over...” began Vigeland.
Zoller didn’t even blink.
“...So our priority must be a peaceful handover. Which may not be easy. You have a huge army, which could well cause us trouble. And Norwegians have never been so angry. I can almost smell the scent of revenge. Sparks could fly from either side.”
“The Wehrmacht is famous for its discipline,” replied Zoller stiffly, after my translation. “Behaves according to the Geneva Convention. There’ll be no trouble from our side. It’s your terrorist outrages that worry us.”
I was beginning to wish I hadn’t encouraged this get-together. But interpreters have always had to modify intemperate words from their masters, so I thought fast. Claiming the Wehrmacht had observed the Geneva convention was absurd; it had spent the past five years flouting the rules of war. And the word ‘terrorist’ was far too emotive. So in the Norwegian version I had Zoller say:
“The Wehrmacht will maintain discipline. Behave according to the Geneva convention. There’ll be no trouble from our side. As long as your Home Front does the same.”
I’d taken a chance on Zoller not noticing my changes; it looked as though I’d got away with it. Now to concentrate on Vigeland’s reply:
“The Norwegian Home Front is a disciplined fighting force. Which is more than can be said for some of your rogue units. Especially if your reichskommissar gets his hands on them. The rules of war have never bothered Herr Terboven.”
Incendiary stuff, so I treated the reply in German to some fire repellent and told Zoller: “The Norwegian Home Front is a disciplined force. Like the Wehrmacht. What concerns us is the hard line always taken by your reichskommissar. And what he might do with a few disaffected units when peace is declared.”
Vigeland gave me a sharp look – and a half smile – but said nothing. I suspected his knowledge of German was slightly better than absolute zero, but was allowing me some rope.
Zoller came back: “We Germans obey orders. And don’t permit what you call ‘disaffected units’.”
Maybe I should have toned down Vigeland’s words ‘Rogue units’ even more than just ‘disaffected units’, but no matter. The meeting went on in similar vein for a while longer, with no particular conclusions. Which was to be expected. This was merely initial sparring for the contestants to get to know each other.
As we broke up, Vigeland gave me an encouraging pat on the back and said, “Good work,” with a little grin. Zoller was more withdrawn, but that was understandable. Because he had real problems: the collapse of his world, and the imminent capture of his family by enemy troops. In spite of his brave words, I was sure the sturmbannführer now saw the need for some independent action should his boss go off the rails.
CHAPTER 64
SPRING 1945, NORWAY. END GAME
The last month of the war was a curious and unsettling time. Some things didn’t change. Hitler’s birthday on 20th April was celebrated with pomp and circumstance, as though the year was 1935, not ‘45. There was a big shindig in Oslo, where they read out a grovelling telegram from the reichskommissar, who promised “We will all, whatever uniform we wear, def
end with our lives fortress Norway, which will be held until Germany’s final victory ensures freedom and a future for our people. Heil Hitler!”
Totally mad. But lunacy and power is a terrifying combination.
In other ways, change was rapid. Heinrich Fehlis, chief rebel during the ill-tempered Easter meeting that had thwarted Terboven, then compounded his offense by opening a discussion with his opposite number in Sweden, Harry Södermann. Fehlis was investigating the possibility of German forces in Norway being interned in Sweden when the end came. Unsurprisingly, when Terboven heard of this he went ballistic, accusing Fehlis of treason. Then banished him from his inner circle.
Vigeland and I registered this news with quiet satisfaction. As Fehlis was now clearly for peace, Zoller would have an important ally in any action against Terboven.
On the military front Wehrmacht resistance was disintegrating fast. No one could understand why they didn’t conclude the whole horrible business and give up. The Führer himself clearly had a death wish, but it was a mystery why so many of his gang were determined to join him.
We went around in a daze. Limbo-land. Awaiting the final outcome. Siggy had less to do and was often released by chief secretary Hettich. We must have spent almost half the month of April with my parents in Oslo.
April. I’d never had quite poet Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson’s enthusiasm for the month:
‘April is my choice,
For then the old dies out,
And then the new grows stronger.
The summer’s given birth’.
But his words seemed strangely appropriate for that April of 1945. The old was certainly leaving the stage in a stupendous display of fireworks, and summer was already trying to escape the womb of winter. At least in Oslo. The piles of snow fast disappearing. More daylight than darkness. Sunbathing possible in sheltered corners.
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