THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  I was attempting to tuck in, when Frunze appeared. Also looking none too bright. Sat down: glared at his egg. Irma, revoltingly cheerful, served him his acorn coffee.

  “God, what muck!” Frunze spluttered over his drink.

  “Good for hangovers. Drink it up, like a good boy.” Only Irma could get away with speaking to a gauleiter like this.

  “Can’t stay long. Work to do,” he mumbled.

  “Think you’re safe to drive?” she asked. “In that condition?”

  “Good God, woman, there’s war on. Driving... even in my condition, as you put it... is probably the safest thing you can do in the Third bloody Reich.”

  I got the impression Frunze was enjoying this verbal jousting. Bucking him up. Maybe, in the privacy of the gasthof’s bridal suite, he got his kicks from an Irma whipping.

  “Well, Per? Have you decided?” He eyed me balefully.

  I nodded. “Yes. I’ll go.”

  “Go? Go where?” Siggy was suddenly all attention.

  “Sit down...” to the girls. “Both of you.”

  Breakfast at the gasthof was a casual, do-it-yourself affair: ersatz coffee, rye bread, some fatty substance masquerading as margarine. No one needed to serve it. The ladies sat down.

  Frunze gave them the gist of it. What had taken three bottles of wine the previous night he compressed into a couple of minutes.

  When he had finished, they just sat there for a moment, silent.

  Then Siggy said, “What if I refuse? To go.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. Think of your son. The last of the Weisses. What might happen to him if you stay.”

  “Who’ll run the gasthof?

  “How about Irma? She’s already doing half the work here. And there’s not much on at the pharmacy these days.” He looked across at Irma. “OK by you?”

  Irma nodded. “I’ll move into the gasthof. Put a notice on the pharmacy door telling anyone to come over here. But I’ll need help in the kitchen.”

  “Felix is already part-time,” said the gauleiter. “I’ll tell him to make it full-time. Threaten him with a firing squad if he doesn’t pull his finger out. Maybe draft someone in from the city, as well. We’ll manage.”

  “When do we go?” asked Siggy.

  “Soon as possible. Soon as I can get the paperwork arranged. Speer has worked miracles keeping the railways working, so you should get through now. But that can’t last forever.”

  “Anything else we should know?” asked Siggy.

  “Don’t think so...” Frunze was wiping his mouth, getting up... “Oh yes, there was one thing. Nearly forgot. You two must get married.”

  “But...” Siggy shook her head. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

  “No ‘buts’, young lady. I’m giving you an easy way out. Our laws don’t look kindly on German women cohabiting with foreign workers. But I’m prepared to overlook that. Because it’ll make my job easier if I can make out documents to Herr and Frau Jespersen. Norwegian citizens, her nationality acquired through marriage. Travelling with her son Benjamin Weiss.”

  “But I don’t speak a word of...”

  “Doesn’t matter. Learn it.” Frunze was already on his way out. “Don’t care how you do it. Find a pastor, if you like. But get hitched.”

  He embraced Irma. Kissed her. “Without you I don’t know how I’d cope. A haven of peace, away from the madhouse. I’ll be back.”

  Then he bowed to Siggy, kissed her hand and – I swear I didn’t imagine this – clicked his heels. “Good luck, Frau Weiss, or should I say Frau Jespersen. When all this is over, I hope we’ll see you back in the gasthof. Together with the head of the Weiss family. Young Benni. Keeping three centuries of tradition alive.”

  He shook my hand and said, “I’ll fix those documents soon as I can.” Then he got into his kübelwagen and was gone.

  CHAPTER 37

  OCTOBER 1944 , THE JOURNEY

  It was early October before everything was ready. Longer than we’d hoped. Even the authority of a gauleiter couldn’t overcome the creaking joints of the Reich’s admin machine.

  Part of the problem was at our end. Photos had to be taken, processed and sent to the city. Together with the marriage certificate: a shot-gun marriage in the most literal sense. At first the registrar had enjoyed putting difficulties in our way – as officials with a smidgen of power love to do, but a phone call to the gauleiter's office soon had him grovelling.

  We had a civil ceremony in the town hall, with Irma and Felix as witnesses. Even though we would never had contemplated such a step of our own accord, I felt strangely content. Siggy said she felt the same. Rarely can life been cheaper than it was then, at the tail end of the year 1944. Worldwide slaughter on a gargantuan scale. So the phrase ‘til death do us part’, usually glossed over as being vanishingly far into the future, held a special meaning for us. If we were still alive in another twelve months, that would be a bonus.

  I’m putting it like that to try and excuse the fact that I’ve so far said very little about the former Sieglinde Weiss, now my wife.

  Physically she was quite short. As a recruit I’d been told I was 5ft. 11 inches tall, in those quaint British measurements; so I reckon Siggy would have been about 5ft. 3 inches – chunky without being fat, bumps in the right places. She was the sort of girl people wanted to cuddle – at least I did.

  From that day in April, when red-skirt, as I then called her, had mistakenly accused me of nearly killing her little boy, Siggy had been constantly by my side. But our workload had been so intense I never got to know her in the normal way. No holiday dalliance, no snogging in the back row of a cinema. Just a never-ending battle to keep our heads above water. Where, almost without noticing it, we had grown closer. So when the four of us cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate, I could genuinely say I loved her.

  That was the limit of our wedding breakfast, because we had preparations to make, in addition to our normal chores. On my next visit I told Frau Sperrle the situation. She was sorry to lose her helpmate, young Benni, but wished us well.

  “I’m old,” she said. “Doesn’t matter what happens to me. But get the youngsters out of the way.” As the only person to share my Willi Weiss secret – and the full extent of our problem, she knew what she was talking about.

  Old, arthritic and none too fit, Hilde would be unable to handle the rabbit hutches by herself, so we’d told Felix to help out. However, the butcher never did anything unless he felt like it – or someone was standing over him with a gun. Something extra was needed.

  So I called in on the little doll lady, Fräulein Schwarz. Over a refreshing drink of raspberry juice, she quickly agreed to help. Although small and light, not built for heavy physical work, she seemed fit and probably a little younger than Frau Sperrle; between them they should be able to cope.

  Fräulein Schwarz also undertook to keep an eye on Felix. If he showed any signs of backsliding – which was virtually guaranteed, she’d tell Wallisch. Even Felix jumped for the Local Group Leader.

  I was rather proud of Fräulein Schwarz – I never did discover her first name. She was a real success story; at first reclusive, negative, little to occupy her beyond an army of dolls. But she blossomed with responsibility. Rediscovered her schoolmistress past. I was leaving the valley in capable hands.

  Back in town, Siggy had to brief Irma on every aspect of running the gasthof. Irma already knew as much as anyone about front of house, but we had to make sure she had the full picture: kitchen, guest bedrooms, book-keeping – the lot. Irma was a bright lady, so we were confident the Gasthof zum Löwen would retain its good reputation.

  With Local Group Leader Gustav Wallisch we only had to say goodbye. Our departure had been ordered by his boss, so there was little to discuss. Furthermore, Wallisch must have been grateful that he and his lady wife were now safely installed in the gasthof: well away from the city, which was taking a renewed pasting from our bombers as the frontline crept closer.

  Y
es, the frontline... We’d been so immersed in our domestic troubles I’ve not said much about the wider picture. This would become crucial as we left our rural bubble, so a quick resumé:

  By late September 1944, Germany was being throttled from every side. In the west the allies had reached the Rhine; in the east the Red Army was happily raping and slaughtering in the old Prussian homelands. Then both enemy armies paused. In Eisenhower’s case because his supply lines were overstretched; Stalin because he wanted to bring Romania, Yugoslavia and Hungary under communist control, before finishing off Germany.

  The Nazis rook advantage of this respite to scrape the barrel of its human resources. Everything that lived and breathed was dragged in for the Third Reich’s last stand. Into this feverish whirlpool stepped a young couple and a small boy. Trying to make it through to Norway before everything went up in flames.

  CHAPTER 38

  At last, a message from the gauleiter’s office told us all was ready. We had to call in for documents and a briefing en-route to the station. Although I was by now an expert on everything in our valley, from Frau Sperrle’s up to and including our town, I’d seen nothing further west. For five months I’d been marooned in this quiet idyll, away from the general mayhem. That was about to change.

  Without either a rail link or any petrol, the only way to get to the city station was by horse and cart. Irma took the reins behind our dozy nag with the lopsided ears. Siggy and I sat in the back, accompanied by Benni, who had been fetched from Hilde’s the previous night, amid much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

  What baggage to take had led to much discussion. The rail network was close to meltdown, so we could expect a long and tedious trip, best with minimum luggage. On the other hand, winter was fast approaching, drawing us in the other direction. In the end, I filled an old rucksack with our necessities. Benni put a few of his treasures into his dad’s old school satchel, and Siggy and I each carried a small suitcase. Then we dressed up. Wore as much clothing as we could manage. Better to sweat in a mild autumn than freeze later.

  The nearest city suburbs didn’t seem too badly hit – the odd skeleton of a wrecked house, nothing worse. The gauleiter’s headquarters occupied a former stately home, now commandeered for the war effort.

  We clip-clopped up the impressive front drive, like peasants seeking favours from their ruler. As would have been the case before 1870, when the so-called Holy Roman Empire was a mass of minor princely states, all trying to keep up with their princely Joneses neighbours. On our left a naked cherub peed delicately into an ornamental fountain. On our right a stone swan preened itself in another water feature; no real swans, they had long since gone to the dinner table.

  As we reached the mansion, I noticed that the stonework was still pristine: not a scratch visible. Bomber command must have missed it by a mile. Bad show chaps.

  I’d been told to leave the wife and kid outside and see his lordship on my own. I was obviously expected by the uniforms, most with iron crosses and missing limbs. A parking lot for wounded warriors. I was shown into the gauleiter’s office on the ground floor: nice rustic view of the outside, nice photo of Adolf on the inside. Behind a large mahogany desk sat the solid figure of Richard Frunze. The first time I’d seen him on parade, as it were. He told a minion to close the door. When we were alone, he pushed an envelope towards me.

  “Everything you’ll need is in there. Identity cards, travel passes, train tickets. I’ve deducted the cost from your wages at the gasthof. And included some cash for travelling expenses. We’re now quits.”

  Five months I’d worked my fingers to the bone, for what? Three train tickets and a few coins. But I didn’t say a word.

  He continued: “...And permission to enter Sweden...”

  “Sweden?” This was unexpected.

  He nodded. “Getting you on a ship from Denmark to Norway proved to be impossible. Capacity is so limited even troop transfers take forever. You’re at the bottom of the pecking order, so no chance. However, the few kilometres across the straits from Hamlet’s castle in Denmark to neutral Sweden was easy. As long as you have the credentials. Which you have. In that envelope.

  “This is a better route anyway. Imagine the impression you’d create if you turned up in Oslo aboard a German ship; brand you as traitors from the word go. But creeping across the Swedish border – even with our connivance – should give you a better start. Be discreet. Use your initiative.

  “My other reason for routing via Sweden is to arrange for you to have a briefing. Bring you up-to-date on the current situation. Your link man knows as much about Norway as anyone. He’s German, but speaks Norwegian like a native, and now lives in Sweden.

  “He’s an interesting fellow: born Ernst Frahm in Lübeck, he’s gone through a number of aliases, and is now known as Willy Brandt. He’s been told to keep an eye open for your arrival at the Saltsjö hotel in Gothenburg. Make sure you stay there. And don’t leave until you’ve met him.”

  Gauleiter Frunze got up from behind his desk, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Remember why I’m taking all this trouble. Reichskommissar Terboven is showing every sign of becoming a loose cannon. A suicider. Those of us who aim to be survivors want to stop him. A delicate situation, so I’m not giving you the names of anyone in Norway who shares my views. They know you’re coming and will contact you.

  “I’ve already told Terboven you’re on your way. He’s having to make all sorts of belt-tightening cuts in his staff, so should be grateful for some help. Especially someone who’s bilingual, and with a German wife. He’s a buttoned up sort of guy, not a social mixer. But a workaholic. And efficient. Popular with his staff. Not so by most others. Whether he’ll bite and give you a job, I’ve no idea. Wait and see. Play it by ear.

  “I realise there’s nothing to stop you staying in Sweden once you’re there, enjoying the good life while Europe descends into chaos. Even returning to... wherever you came from. But I’m hoping you won’t. I’m hoping a sense of duty... maybe also curiosity will spur you on to do as I ask.”

  Richard Frunze looked me in the eye, shook my hand and said, “Naturally this conversation never took place. I wish you bon voyage. And please come back when this is all over. The Gasthof zum Löwen needs the last of the Weisses.

  CHAPTER 39

  Back outside, I clambered into the cart, Irma swished the reins, and the horse trudged off. The urban scene became increasingly desolate, the odd bomb site giving way to almost complete devastation. In Britain I’d spent a short leave hitting the London nightspots: Mayfair, Piccadilly, Leicester square. Admittedly not the east end, which was said to be worse. But the London I’d seen was still a functioning city, with only a few gaps. Here the damage was of a completely different order. To think that my mates and I had been responsible. Terrifying.

  Finally we drew up outside the station. It was grotesque. Nothing remained of the original structure, except part of the facade, with the word: Hauptbahnhof. In pre-war Germany almost everything was written in an old typeface, so awkward to decipher the Nazis decreed a change to something more legible, but armageddon overtook them before the change could take effect. I still associate this Gothic script with evil, chaos and terror.

  Irma dropped us off in front of this ruin. There were tearful farewells; then our last connection to the world we had known clip-clopped off into the sunset.

  Siggy and I dragged ourselves, our baggage and one little boy apprehensively into what still called itself a Hauptbahnhof: a ‘main station’. The roof, most of the walls, everything associated with the word ‘station’ had gone, but the essentials remained: the platforms and track.

  And these essentials, the allies had discovered, were almost impossible to put out of action for long. After every raid a gang of slave labourers would descend on the damaged track. Within hours it was back in business.

  Railways enjoyed another huge advantage. They were powered by coal: a domestic commodity. The Reich’s war effort was grinding to a halt
largely because their tanks and other vehicles ran on petrol, which came mainly from the Romanian Ploesti oilfields. Or used to. Because these now belonged to Stalin. So the German predicament was terminal.

  But the coal-driven steam engines of their railways soldiered on. As they had since the invention of Germany in 1871. Railways were not only the arteries of this new state, they had enabled it to wage war. In 1914 they had hit Russia at Tannenberg, then quickly transported their armies across the country to deal with France: it had almost worked.

  Autumn 1944 saw the three of us, standing there on a bare platform, looking helpless. I asked a likely looking elderly lady when – and where – the next train to Hamburg would turn up.

  She gave a humourless laugh. “It comes when it comes.” She eyed me as though I were the village idiot, then added, “They’ll tell us.” Apparently the tannoy system still worked.

  And come it did. After God knows how long. I’d given up looking at my watch.

  Travel is tedious to experience, even more tedious in the telling, so I’ll only say we eventually made it to Hamburg: after endless stops and starts across the North German plain, which even in peacetime wins no prizes in a tourist beauty contest.

  Hamburg was a nightmare. The city centre, scene of the horrific fire storm bombing over a year before, was a wasteland. Apparently. So bad it was still a no go area. I couldn’t believe this was the same place I’d watched joyous crowds hail their führer only six years earlier; many of these people now poured into mass graves as incinerated skeletons.

  We had to get off the train somewhere to the south, make our own way through relatively unscathed suburbs, then board another train to continue our journey north. By this time we were exhausted, wished we’d stayed in our little town, whatever the consequences.

  But once on our way again things improved: pleasant, peaceful countryside; no ruined towns.