“Dearest Mum and Dad,
A quick note to let you know I’ll be staying in Germany a bit longer. I’m fine, so don’t worry. Love to sister Else.
Much love, Per.”
I hoped the reference to my sister would be like a big red warning light, because I didn’t have a sister, never mind one called Else.
I handed the letter to Gregor, who read it carefully.
“That should do,” he said. “You write ‘staying in Germany a bit longer’. How long have you been here?”
“Nearly three years,” I lied.
“Doing something hush-hush, Siggy tells me.”
I nodded. Did he half-believe this nonsense or was he just going along with the charade?
“What brought you here in the first place?” he asked.
“No work in Norway. An army of occupation and a world at war doesn’t leave much scope for the usual ways of making money. The only jobs around seem to be killing people, which I don’t fancy.”
This, of course was a whopper. Until yesterday my job description could have been written: exterminator of Luftwaffe night fighters. But Gregor accepted my explanation with a grunt. And then our meal arrived. Piping hot. For me cordon bleu, whatever the contents.
As we tucked in, I realised my survival in the Siggy household depended on living the web of lies I had woven for myself. Because the reality had been very different...
CHAPTER 3
APRIL 1940 , NORWAY
In later years everyone would remember what they were doing when J.F. Kennedy was assassinated. In Norway everyone remembers what they were doing on 9th April 1940. The day Germany invaded.
I was a student at Oslo University. But it was hard to concentrate on our lectures. Europe had been in ferment for months. Most history books go on about the Munich agreement; the Sudetenland; invasion of Poland. Then the lull: the so-called phoney war. But in our neck of the woods things flared up rather than died down. We got the Winter War. A sideline to the world at large maybe, but not for us.
Many people had been starry-eyed about Russia’s great Communist experiment. Our controversial poet, Nordahl Grieg, had spent two years in the Soviet Union and given it the thumbs up. So when the Red Army surged across the Finnish border in November 1939, there was a feeling of betrayal. We were also scared. This was far too close to home for comfort. Finland became a northern version of the Spanish Civil War, attracting volunteers from far and wide; many of them tramping through Oslo, en route to the fighting.
So it was Russia that worried us. Hitler was a long way away, his ambitions apparently on hold. Of little concern to us. We had been neutral in the Great War and – Stalin willing – would surely remain so in this one.
With hindsight, the Altmark Incident should have made us sit up and take notice, but all we got upset about was that the British had decided to wage war in a Norwegian fjord. We ignored the fact that they had only done so because the Germans were transporting prisoners through our neutral waters.
The first days of April had been full of rumour. Like Churchill’s broadcast from London warning that Britain was about to mine Norwegian waters. Not very friendly, to say the least.
Then, early on the 9th the sirens sounded. A practice or the real thing? No one knew. I was living with my parents on Oslo’s West Side. Close to Frogner park and the famous Vigeland statues, then only in their embryo stages. At about ten o’clock I decided to try and find out what was going on. It was maybe a half-hour walk to the city centre; chilly, the pavements only recently clear of snow. The previous weekend I’d been skiing in Nordmarka, the hills above Oslo: Frognersaeteren to Kikut. A great day out.
I skirted the palace, little knowing that the king was no longer in residence. On, past the National Theatre, to Studenterlunden, the park-like strip where, in summer, children play, while parents enjoy the cafe life; now, in late winter, looking rather forlorn. But full of people, like me milling around trying to make sense of things.
A came across some of my mates: Lars, who’d been to school with me and was now working in a garage; Øyvind, also a student; and little Gudrun with the long blonde hair, whom we all fancied. Together we roamed the streets in search of information.
We noticed some men in uniform. They didn’t understand what we said. So not Norwegian. And they were armed. Nothing too intimidating, just ordinary rifles. They didn’t seem aggressive. Passive, almost. Strange.
It wasn’t until early evening that NRK, Norway’s version of the BBC, suddenly came to life. Quisling announced that he had taken over the government with the help of the Germans. Everyone was to remain calm.
During the next few hours things became a little clearer. But not much. It was still mostly rumour. The king and government had fled. Elverum, a little place up in Østerdal, had been bombed and reduced to matchwood and ashes. A German battleship had been sunk in Oslofjord. Karl and Birger, a couple of my older friends who’d done their military training, announced they were off to fight and disappeared.
Finally, hungry and confused, I returned home, to find my parents in much the same state. No one knew what was going on. The following day, April 10th, was bizarre. Back I went into town, which was still in limbo. Just a few Germans, who seemed as confused as we were. As I’d been studying German, even been to Hamburg a couple of years earlier for the real thing, I went up to a small group of them and asked what they were doing here.
“Protecting Norway.”
“We heard you’ve lost a battleship?”
One of them nodded. “The Blücher. It was awful. I was on it. Just exploded. Burning oil in the water. Don’t know how I made it. Lots of my pals didn’t...”
“Shut the hell up, you cretin! Obey orders or I’ll have your guts for garters!” An officer had overheard the last part of these remarks.
Turning to me, he said, “Sorry about that. We’re not allowed to discuss military matters. Sure you’ll understand. We’re here as friends. To protect you...”
Before any of us could react we were interrupted by music. Loud oom-pa-pa stuff from the bandstand.
The officer smiled. “What did I say? We’re here as friends. Come and enjoy the band.”
This was surreal. We’d all read about the Polish Blitzkrieg. Massed panzers. Warsaw obliterated by bombers. Gestapo razzias. Yet we were apparently being conquered by music. And just a handful of lightly armed Germans.
After the war we realised that the sinking of the German flagship had left their Oslo attack seriously undermanned. And without enough shipping capacity to get immediate reinforcements As the Daily Telegraph man put it, in banner headlines, they held Oslo for two days by a gigantic bluff.
On the third day grey uniforms started appearing in increasing numbers. Although NRK kept plugging the Nazi angle, the grapevine told a different story. Fighting up Gudbrandsdalen. King and government still free. And eventually British support.
The campaign lasted about two months. Defeat in the south, but victory of a sort in the north, where the allies – British, French and Poles, as well as Norwegians – threw the Germans out of Narvik. It didn’t last. When Hitler invaded France and the Low Countries, the allies needed their troops for more important work nearer home. Bereft of support, our northern army had to surrender. King and government were loaded onto HMS Devonshire for exile in Britain.
I only learnt the full story much later. At the time, Oslo existed in a daze. Propaganda from our new masters versus the rumour mill. All of it depressing. Our tame fascist, Vidkun Quisling, had a brief moment of glory before being replaced by Hitler’s personal henchman, Josef Terboven, who started as he meant to continue. With a concentration camp at Grini. And executions of those natives who got too uppity. Protection gave way to persecution. Probably not as bad in Norway as in the lands of the Untermensch – we were, after all, supposed to be fellow Aryans – but bad enough for all that.
As things settled down, those in regular jobs kept going as before. Life didn’t stop simply because Ge
rmany now ran the show. As for myself, I finished the university term, then just drifted. At first it was the long summer vacation, so drifting was expected. But come autumn, I couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to continue my studies. My heart was no longer in it. So in early September I told my parents I was getting out.
“Where to?” asked Mother.
“Anywhere. England. Can’t stand it here any longer.”
Of all the occupied countries, Norway had the most porous borders. A thousand mile coastline in the west. Similar length border with neutral Sweden to the east. Impossible to police.
Trails to evade German patrols were already well established, so one night I simply walked across the border. Into Sweden. And from there to England, where I found a war machine grinding exceeding slow. I spent weeks – months – in various camps, waiting for I knew not what. I fancied myself as a pilot – most of us did – but the competition was too keen.
“Can you shoot?” they asked.
“I’ve downed a few ‘rype’,” I replied.
“‘Rype’?”
“Birds. I believe you call them ptarmigan.”
“Excellent,” came the reply. “In that case you can learn how to shoot Germans. Much the same, except no feathers.”
Which is how I came to be over the Third Reich, wearing an Air Gunner’s brevet.
CHAPTER 4
MAY 1944 , GERMANY
It was into the second week of May before I got a reply from Norway. I was back at the gasthof, after a tiring day at the family field, when Gregor appeared. Even though he was walking with more difficulty than usual, he was all smiles.
“My friend in Norway has done his stuff at last.” He waved a piece of paper and sat down heavily. “Sorry it took so long. Think I’ll join you for a drink.” He waved at Irma, who immediately produced his glass of Piesporter Goldtröpfchen.
I was already halfway through my first stein. Although there was no formal agreement, I was receiving board and lodging in return for my labours. Perhaps it was time to start negotiations for a small wage.
“My friend had a most interesting time with your parents,” said Gregor.
For a moment I was taken aback. My folks would never collaborate with the enemy. Then I realised the reason: me.
“You never told me you live in the same street as Quisling,” continued Gregor jovially. “In Erling Skjalgssonsgate.”
I nodded, bemused. “It didn’t seem important. Anyway, he’s no longer there. Moved out to Gimle: big place on Bygdøy.”
“I know, but my friend couldn’t resist having a look. Number twenty-six, it was. One-time home of the great man.”
‘Great’ was the last adjective I’d use. Quisling was not only our most famous traitor, but also a fantasist: a nutter. An academic genius, he scored the highest marks ever recorded in his military academy exams. But in every other respect he was a disaster.
“My friend asked your people if they’d ever chatted to him. Might have been interesting. But no. They said Quisling kept very much to himself.”
Hardly surprising. Vidkun was not into small talk. Which hadn’t stopped him marrying. Twice. I use that word loosely. They say he never actually married Maria, the second one. Neither of his so-called wives gave him any children; scurrilous rumour blamed impotence.
But such negative thoughts could not be for publication. There seemed to be some mileage in pretending to be a Quisling fan, so searching for something positive, I said, “He did good work in Russia. Sorting out the refugee problem.”
“Indeed. A great man. But we can’t spend the evening discussing Quisling.” Again Gregor waved his bit of paper. “I have good news. My contact in Oslo got everything he needed. And found your parents delightful. Your mother...” He was lost for words.
Mother could charm the pants off anyone if she chose. And there was no better cause than protecting her little boy – me. Even if this meant sucking up to the enemy.
“By the way,” said Gregor, “she apologised for your sister not being there. But Else sends you her love.”
So mother had played her part to perfection. Even sending love and kisses from a non-existent sister.
“Does this mean we can now get things on a more formal footing?” I asked.
“I hope so. Foreign workers are usually employed in factories and war production. But we also need to eat. Food is just as important as guns and tanks.”
“Doesn’t the state allocate people to agriculture as well?”
“It used to. But recently they’ve been pinching farm workers and sending them to the arms factories. Kids of fourteen are being press-ganged into Hitler youth work. Young Helmut used to help Siggy with the spring planting – what you’ve just been doing, but he disappeared in January: just sixteen years old. Then we lost Franz – he’s sixty-something but still very active. No one seems to know where he’s finished up. We need someone like you rather badly.”
“You said it’s your brother Willi who decides?”
“Willi is our first port of call – he’s the Block Leader. But the person who makes the decisions is his boss, the Local Group Leader. He usually follows Willi’s advice, so hopefully there’ll be no problem.”
“It would be nice to be treated as a normal worker,” I mused wistfully. “Then I could pay Siggy for my keep.”
“We’ll see,” said Gregor. “Leave it to me.”
Which I had to. No choice.
CHAPTER 5
In the couple of weeks it had taken them to check me out, I had settled into a weird new lifestyle. During the day I planted potatoes. At first. Then it was on to beetroot, onions and carrots. Almost as soon as I returned to the gasthof, it was time for the evening treadmill, when I was transformed into waiter and barman. By the time the last guests had left, usually around midnight, I was zombied out. Siggy had rigged up a bed of sorts in the attic, where I collapsed into unconsciousness.
I was apprenticed to Irma from the pharmacy, who in the late afternoon shut up her shop across the square and came over to run the gasthof front of house. Not much respite for her either. Siggy completed our trio of workaholics; boss of the whole show, chief cook, general factotum, and mother to a six-year-old. The only one to take it easy was Felix the butcher, who was supposed to help out in the gasthof kitchen, but only did so when he felt like it; to the intense irritation of the rest of us.
Irma had a weakness for tobacco and would often sneak out for a quick fag. This was rarely possible during the main rush, so her nicotine relaxation tended to be at the beginning and end of our stints. She quickly took me under her wing, a stroke of luck as I needed to know what sort of a mess I had landed myself in. I quizzed her shamelessly.
Irma was very much a glass-half-full person, always bubbly and cheerful; an astonishing performance, seeing that by mid-1944 the glass of Nazi Germany was running on near empty. Most people were either miserable as sin, or in a hyper state of gallows euphoria, determined to enjoy every minute before apocalypse.
Irma’s sunny disposition rubbed off on our clientele, who returned her good humour with bottom pinching and lewd asides. Which she took as compliments. I sailed discreetly in her wake, grateful to benefit from the glow she created.
One day I asked her how she managed to be so upbeat.
“I’m lucky,” she replied, “I’ve still got a man.”
“Oh?” I’d seen no Mr. Irma.
“He was shot down in nineteen-forty. Taken prisoner. First in England; then they sent him to America. Less crowded there. Sometimes he sends me letters. Through the Red Cross. Can’t say much of course, but at least he’s alive. And safe. So one day I should get him back.”
“Unlike Siggy?”
“Poor Siggy. Getting that dreaded telegram is always awful, but the way it happened to her was... well, especially awful. It was the day Hitler entered Paris in triumph. Papers were full of it. When the war started lots of people were against it, but the fall of France seemed to prove them wrong. The Führer con
firmed as a military genius. Everyone shouting and happy. Now that we’d conquered much of Europe, surely that was the end of it. No more killing. Siggy was mad with joy, because the fighting had stopped. So Werner had to be OK. Except he wasn’t. He’d fallen just days before the armistice. The news had taken a few days to filter through. So while Germany was celebrating, Siggy was sobbing her heart out. And trying to tell Benni he wouldn’t be seeing his dad again.”
“So with Siggy’s husband dead, Benni is the last of the Weisses?” I asked, remembering her furious comment at the scene of the accident.
“Of the younger generation, yes. Unless Willi mends his ways and gets married. Which is about as likely as landing a man on the moon.”
“Willi and Gregor brothers,” I mused. “They don’t look much alike.”
“They’re different in every way. I’ve heard it said that Grandma Weiss might have been a little too free with her favours. But I don’t believe that.”
“So Gregor is Siggy’s father-in-law? Werner’s father?”
Irma nodded.
“What happened to his wife, Werner’s mother?”
“Died in the flu epidemic. Which killed more people than the last war. Werner was just a few months old. Gregor’s had a tough time.”
“He’s obviously a bit lame as well.”
“That was Verdun. A French shell. He always says he was grateful for that shell, because it got him back home in one piece. Apart from his right foot. Most of his comrades were blown to bits.”
“But Willi escaped the last war?”
“Too young. There’s five years between the brothers. Willi’s salad days were the early twenties. A shambolic time. Kaiser gone. Brawling in the streets. Anarchy. Suited Willi fine. Young men love a bit of action and Willi got plenty of that, without too much danger. He’d have been hopeless in a real war, because he’s all froth. A wimp. But give him some Commie heads to bash and he was in his element. Threw in his lot with the National Socialists right at the start. Long before most of the big names. Very proud of that. Ask to see his Party card and you’ll have a friend for life.”
THE LAST WEISS Page 4