THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  Siggy took advantage of this to go on long walks in Frogner Park with Benni. They were an odd couple to listen to: Benni, after six months with my family, now almost fully Norwegian. Siggy still stuck with German. They got on famously, nattering away in a linguistic melange. When Siggy got round to resuming her Norwegian studies, her best teacher might well be her young son.

  Siggy was by now very large. Only a few weeks to go. But taking everything in her stride. Unlike my mother, for whom the first grandchild was a major event. Continually fussing and worrying. You’d think she was the one about to give birth.

  My wife had an unlikely source to thank for her fitness: Josef Terboven. During that last winter of the war everyone went hungry; some actually starved. In Holland things were so bad the allies had to airdrop food. But the reichskommissar’s insistence on running a proper economy ensured that in Norway everyone had enough. Terboven might be fond of shooting Norwegians, but at least he fed them. As the emperor’s table always gets first choice, Skaugum was probably the only three star michelin restaurant in Europe that winter. Nutritional tops for pregnant ladies.

  I wondered about the fate of our old friends at the Gasthof zum Löwen. Had operation rabbit been a success? And Fräulein Schwarze’s berry-gathering blitz? Was dear old Hilde Sperrle still going strong? So many questions. I realised they would probably now have been liberated by the allies. Like August Zoller’s folks in the Harz. While we still awaited our release.

  CHAPTER 65

  The process of our release began on the last day of April, although we didn’t hear about it until the next day. 1st May. When the momentous news was finally broadcast. The Führer was no more. He had committed suicide in his Berlin bunker.

  Siggy and I were taking time off in Oslo, but rushed back to Skaugum as soon as we heard – by public transport, so it took a while. We found Vigeland at the farm, also newly arrived.

  As Vigeland did not have access to Skaugum proper, it was Siggy and I who tramped the corridors to find out what was going on. Nothing, it seemed. The place was quiet as a church crypt. We finally came across Sturmbannführer Zoller, nursing a cup of tea in the restaurant.

  “Any more news?” I asked, as we sat down opposite him.

  Zoller shrugged. “The reichskommissar has been summoned to a meeting with our new führer. In Flensburg. We should know more when he returns.”

  The ‘new führer’. Didn’t sound as though Zoller thought much of his new leader. Or their late führer’s choice, which had shocked them almost as much.

  The succession had, of course, been discussed for years. Quite openly. Every empire has to have a plan B, in case the emperor meets an untimely end. The most assiduous in putting forward his claim had been Fat Hermann, Reichsmarshall Göring. Until a couple of years ago, he would also have been the bookie’s favourite. But his popularity had slipped because of obvious incompetence and physical disintegration: he was a drug addict.

  So other top Nazis had come into the reckoning. In particular Josef Goebbels and Heinrich Himmler. Everyone in the Nazi hierarchy had been jockeying for a special relationship with one, or both, of these two. Vital for your career if the top man vanished. Terboven had nailed his colours to the mast of Propaganda Minister Goebbels.

  Hitler’s announcement, in the last hours of his life, that his successor was to be Dönitz, was greeted with disbelief. The grand admiral had not even been on the list of runners. The party faithful had been hammered twice: first the death of their führer; then an unlikely successor. No wonder Skaugum was stunned.

  After the war, we learnt the reasons for this apparently strange choice. Himmler had been making furtive peace overtures to Sweden, while Göring had been openly touting himself as Hitler’s successor. The Führer viewed both as treasonable and, in one of his last acts, expelled Himmler and Göring from the party. When Goebbels chose to join his master in a suicide pact, it left Grossadmiral Karl Dönitz, by default, to clear up the mess.

  It turned out to be a good choice. For both sides. A career sailor rather than a Party man, Dönitz had made his name as a submarine leader, replacing Raeder as naval chief in 1943. He was efficient and sensible, seeing his main task as saving as many Germans as possible from the Soviets. The Nuremberg war trials only gave him a rap over the knuckles and he died, after a long and obscure retirement, in 1980.

  For us, returning hurriedly to Skaugum in 1945, the future was frightening. Although the Wehrmacht had been defeated on the continent, it still had nearly 400,000 troops in Norway. Many of them experienced and battle-ready. What would Terboven do with them?

  “When do you expect the reichskommissar back?” I asked.

  “Search me.” Zoller seemed to have caught the current Skaugum paralysis.

  “But I do have some good news,” he added. “Just heard that Mitzi and the kids are safe. Sankt Andreasberg has been occupied by the British.”

  “That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Siggy, gushingly.

  “Fritz will soon be in training for that Olympic medal,” I said.

  August Zoller perked up, surprised I had remembered that his nine-year-old wanted to be a champion skier.

  “Bet you’re longing to be with them,” said Siggy, piling on the pressure.

  He nodded.

  “So we’d better get cracking and have another chat with Vigeland,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Important thing now is liaising with the Norwegians. Don’t want a bumpy ride over the final furlong, do we?”

  “Come on. Vigeland is waiting for us.” Siggy took the sturmbannführer’s hand, almost frog-marching him over the road to the farm. Even in her inflated state, my wife could bewitch Zoller. A substitute for the absent Mitzi? Perhaps. I didn’t care. As long as it did the trick, which it plainly did.

  Ragnar greeted us with something resembling a smile; no doubt on account of Siggy. Who this time would join in the discussion. Vigeland went along with this without a murmur, realising that Siggy would be a potent weapon against Zoller. Not only as a fellow German, but also as a lady with whom the SS man was obviously smitten.

  After the usual greetings we sat down. It was time to test Siggy’s ‘slow cooker theory’. See if the sturmbannführer was now sufficiently tenderised.

  Siggy went straight to the meat of it, saying, “I was in the office recently when we had a visit. Or rather two visits. Gauleiter Kaufmann from Hamburg. And Werner Best, SS police chief in Denmark. Both had agreed to defy the Führer’s scorched earth order in their districts. They were up here to try and persuade Terboven to do the same. You can guess what his reply was.”

  Zoller spread his hands and replied, “I’m just security. Here to see no one gets hurt. Keep well clear of policy.”

  “Well, those happy days are over,” said Siggy. “No good sheltering behind your oath to the führer now, because he’s dead. Time to think for yourself.”

  Vigeland was becoming agitated. I realised our rapid-fire exchanges in German had been beyond him. So I translated. No need for any linguistic skullduggery now. I kept it simple.

  “I really don’t know what I can do,” said Zoller, pathetically.

  “What’s your team here?” asked Siggy. “How many guards?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “All well-armed?”

  “Of course. Never could tell with Norwegian terrorists.”

  Ye gods! Still talking of ‘terrorists’! Would he never learn? The word is much the same in all our languages and Vigeland looked to have picked up on it. He was about to react, so I hastily resumed our attack:

  “If twenty-seven men were sufficient to fend off any attack from outside, they’ll be more than enough for the threat we face now, which is from within.”

  The implication was clear. Zoller, still unwilling to forsake the politically secure past for the more murky waters of the future, was about to object, when Siggy put her hand on his. He gulped, but remained silent.

  I continued: “The war is now over. Only
the final details remain. Here in Norway we face a simple choice. Either an orderly handover, like Kaufmann plans for Hamburg, and Obergruppenführer Werner Best for the German forces in Denmark. Or a bloodbath.”

  I translated for Vigeland, who added his pennyworth. “The Norwegian Home Front is well-armed and organised. As you’ve seen. Soon to be reinforced by the full weight of the allied forces. When they’ve finished off Germany – another week or two maybe – they’ll be heading north. To Norway. You don’t stand a chance.”

  After I’d translated this into German, we delivered our final blows.

  Siggy, clasping his hand fiercely in hers: “August: do you want to see your wife again?”

  From me: “And your son on the ski slopes? Perhaps with that Olympic gold medal.”

  Siggy: “Your lovely daughter on her wedding day...?”

  “I don’t know what I can do!” he wailed.

  “You command the men who guard Skaugum?”

  He nodded.

  “Men who all have families they are longing to see again, back in the Fatherland. That’s twenty-seven of the Party elite against one. All you have to do is stop the reichskommissar.”

  Sturmbannführer Zoller sat there. Drumming his fingers on the table. Shaking his head.

  “May not be necessary, of course,” I said. “When he returns, the reichskommissar may be seeing sense. If not, he mustn’t be allowed to gain control of the German forces here. Who are now under the command of General Böhme; his yes-man. If Terboven shows any sign of travelling to Wehrmacht headquarters at Lillehammer, he must be stopped. Far better this is done in-house, by you, rather than having to leave it to the Norwegian Home Front.”

  “I’ll think about what you’ve said,” he replied, refusing to meet our eyes.

  Siggy gave his hand another squeeze. “You do that, August. We’re relying on you.”

  CHAPTER 66

  Terboven didn’t show up again until late on 5th May. Next day, Sunday 6th, he met his colleagues in Oslo to update them on the Flensburg meeting. And the new Nazi government.

  In the afternoon he returned to Skaugum. After nearly a week of enforced idleness, chief secretary Gerda Hettich and Siggy were on full alert to process the outcome of his discussions.

  Keen to be on hand, should there be any developments, I tramped the corridors with an intense expression, files under my arm or cups of coffee in hand, all suggesting urgent business. I was now very much part of the scenery and a bit of play acting can allow familiar figures to get away with murder. No one was going to suddenly stop me and ask, “Where are you taking those drinks?” Or, “Who are those files for?” Everyone was far too immersed in their own affairs.

  It was late in the day, almost supper time, when I came across Siggy, outside her office, looking harassed. Distraught.

  “Thank God!” she exclaimed, seeing me. “Find August. The reichskommissar has just ordered up his private train. To be ready at Østbanen station by ten o’clock tonight.”

  Terboven used to boast that he had seen more of Norway than any other ruler. His favourite means of transport being by train.

  “Do you know his destination?” I asked.

  “Lillehammer.”

  Without a word, I left Siggy standing and strode down the corridor. Now with a purpose. The SS guards had an office, which I had never before had the necessity – or nerve – to enter. The door was ajar, so I knocked, then went in.

  Mercifully, Sturmbannführer Zoller was at his desk; surprised to see me.

  “I’ve been asked to tell you,” I began, not letting on that the request came from Siggy, “that the reichskommissar is leaving for Lillehammer. Ten o’clock tonight. By train.”

  It took a moment for the information to sink in. I was terrified Zoller would conveniently forget our last meeting, that he would duck his responsibilities. But it appeared to be a resolute sturmbannführer who rose from his desk. Marched down the corridor. Knocked on the reichskommissar’s office door.

  “Come!”

  “Sorry to bother you sir,” he said, “but I’m told you’ve asked for your train to be made ready. Destination Lillehammer.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Zoller was standing in the doorway, I guessed deliberately kept open so I’d hear it, when he continued: “I’m afraid I can’t permit that, sir.”

  I froze. Expecting an explosion from Terboven. Instead, he took off his glasses, polished them thoughtfully, replaced them on his nose and replied, quite calmly, “Have you, by any chance, been talking to the Reichsführer?”

  “Indeed, sir. While you were away, I managed to get hold of Reichsführer Himmler...”

  “You did?” Terboven sounded surprised.

  “Yessir. I felt I needed some guidance in these difficult times. You not being here...”

  “And what did Himmler say?”

  “That no one must leave Oslo. Until the situation is clarified.”

  “That’s natural enough,” replied Terboven, testily, “but it can hardly apply to me. As reichskommissar I’m the ultimate authority in Norway. Appointed by the Führer himself.”

  “Yessir. But the Führer is no longer with us. And I take my orders direct from Reichsführer Himmler. Always have done. He told me my duty was quite clear. No one to leave Oslo. Not even you.” Zoller took a gulp, hesitated, then added, “Especially not you. Said the Reichsführer.”

  “Well, well, you have been a clever Sturmbannführer.” Terboven was treating this almost as a joke. Unbelievable. He continued: “We National Socialists have always had one guiding star. Never disobey an order. When the Führer asked me to come up here and run Norway, I obeyed. In spite of my personal preferences. I repeatedly asked for a more challenging appointment. Belgium perhaps. Or the Netherlands. But the Führer wanted me here. And I stayed. So don’t worry, sturmbannführer, I’m not going to start disobeying orders now. Or ask others to do so. If you’ve been told to keep us all here, so be it. But be so good as to tell me as soon as this... this curfew is lifted.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.” Zoller hurriedly closed the door, then stood for a moment, recovering.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve just stopped another war. By the way, how did you get hold of Himmler? Terboven seemed surprised you managed it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Jesus! You mean...?”

  “It wasn’t for want of trying. I’ve spent hours trying to make sense of what’s going on down south. It’s a shambles. Even if I manage to raise Flensburg, it doesn’t really help. All I know is that Himmler is somewhere out there on his own, trying to broker a deal with the Swedes. Uncontactable. But if they do get hold of him, I know his views. He’ll support me.”

  “It was very brave of you for all that. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  He smiled wanly at the compliment. “We always grumbled at the Reich’s command confusion, all those overlapping empires issuing contradictory orders. But now it’s a blessing. You can invent orders without much chance of getting caught.”

  “You’ve done a great job, August. Siggy will be delighted.”

  He departed down the corridor with a wave, blushing.

  CHAPTER 67

  We awoke next day, 6th May, to a changed atmosphere. The immediate danger had been averted, so Vigeland returned to Oslo. Siggy, drained by the previous day’s events, had slept for ten hours and was back to her old self.

  Appearing on parade at the office, she found Gerda Hettich, most unusually, at a loose end. No work had appeared from His Highness.

  Terboven eventually turned up just before nine, much later than normal. Not in the office, but the restaurant, where I was toying with breakfast, also with nothing to do.

  “Ah, Herr Jespersen...” The reichskommissar eyed me, uncertainly. Apart from the two interpreter occasions, he had never spoken to me. I returned his gaze nervously, unable to think of anything sensible to say.

  “A quiet day, it seems,” he remarked,
at last.

  I nodded.

  “A chance for some relaxation.”

  Again I agreed. As one did with Norway’s tsar. Even if he was soon to be the ex-tsar.

  “I enjoy table tennis. Like to give me a game?”

  Once more I agreed. I’d never had such a bizarre offer.

  We went down into the basement, where everything was set up. Knocked up for a couple of minutes. Then he suggested a game. To twenty-one.

  He was pretty good, I had to admit. For a forty-something-year-old geriatric. No evidence of those flying accident injuries I’d heard about: gammy leg and dodgy arm. Even so, I was well in control, leading 19-16, when I remembered something Gerda Hettich had said; the reichskommissar hated losing. Losing at anything.

  So my game suddenly crumbled. The gips, they call it in golf. Pressure of the event. We were level at 20-all, then he won the play-off.

  “Thought you had me there,” he said, as we changed ends.

  “Close, though,” I replied. “Get you next game.”

  We played another three; all narrowly won by the reichskommissar. I wasn’t just being diplomatic. I was also beginning to feel sorry for him. About to lose the war, his job, quite probably his life as well, the least I could do was let him win at table tennis. When we’d finished, he clapped me on the shoulder and wished me well. A thoroughly nice guy. When he wasn’t ordering executions.

  We mooched around until early afternoon, still with nothing to do. Then, around 3 o’clock, Siggy asked me to come to her office. Gerda Hettich had something to say. Unlike Siggy, who had worked with her all these months, I had barely spoken to the chief secretary. She was young; efficient. And had always seemed unemotional. Not today. Gerda had obviously been crying.

  “It’s all over,” she told us, between snuffles.

  “War over?” I asked.

  “No. Not yet. But we no longer have a reichskommissar. Orders from Dönitz. Terboven must go.” She gave a little whimper. “It’s not fair. After all he’s done.”