We set off, first along the main route north, then a series of by-roads.
“I’ll be glad when all this is over,” said the driver. “Terrible for business. Svinesund bridge was supposed to have opened years ago; with lots of traffic into Norway. Now look at us: Strömstad dead on its feet. Even in summer.”
I was struck by our different priorities. Swedes wanting more prosperity, the rest of us happy to merely stay alive.
The drive ended on the shore of Iddefjord, which here was no more than a river: stubs of roads, with a ferryman’s cottages on either side.
Swedish ferryman emerged. Tall, white haired, but still energetic, he shook my hand and said, “Off you go. I’m just interested in stuff coming this way. Which may be you again in a couple of minutes. Klaus is quite a stickler.”
He waved to the man on the opposite bank, who aimed his chug-chug boat across to us in Sweden. Where he stepped ashore and greeted his Swedish opposite number.
‘Klaus’, as they all called him, was a Wehrmacht Feldwebel (Sergeant), forty-ish, with sharp features and dark hair. He looked us over, then said, in German, “Your papers, please.”
I handed him Gauleiter Frunze’s art work. The sergeant went over it thoroughly, a little grin spreading over his face.
“You certainly have friends in high places,” he said. “Not often I see anything like this. In fact, not often we see anything at all. Most of the traffic is further north, where dodging us is much easier. Swimming is a daft way of crossing a border if you can walk.”
With Sergeant Klaus’ stamp of approval on our papers, I thanked Hjalmar and paid him off.
As we left, Hjalmer shouted, “Good luck. And watch out. Dangerous over there; they drive on the wrong side of the road.”
In those days Sweden was about the only country in continental Europe that drove on the left, as in Britain. Something I’d warned Siggy about when we arrived. We were now returning to driving on the correct side.
“Choice of driving side will be the least of your worries,” said Klaus, as we chugged across. “Don’t know what you’re up to, but things are unravelling fast over here; pays to know friend from foe. Which isn’t easy. Be careful.”
As I thanked him, he added, “I can give you a lift into town, if you like. This is only an ‘on request’ crossing, so I’m going back anyway.”
I accepted gratefully and managed to stuff everyone and everything into Klaus’ Kübelwagen. The drive into Halden took only a few minutes, the great fortress of Fredriksten looming up as we approached.
I pointed out the battlements to Siggy, adding, “Up there died one of Europe’s great warrior kings: Charles the Twelfth. A warfare addict and crazy as they come. Ruined Sweden. So one dark night his own men bumped him off. At least, that’s one theory.”
“Reminds me of someone else,” said Siggy. Then put her hand over her mouth, realising the sergeant was listening in.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Klaus. “Most of us just want to get home again in one piece. But there are still a few nutters around. So mind what you say.”
Sergeant Klaus dropped us off at the station and wished us well. Another good German to add to the credit side of the balance. But I’d already come across enough of the other sort to know that when they were bad, they were very very bad. And my purpose in coming back to Norway was to meet one of the worst. Which promised to be interesting.
CHAPTER 43
The journey from Halden was therapeutic. A cloudy, rather hazy day, with warm autumn colouring. This was not the dramatic mountains and fjords of tourist Norway, but a gently rolling landscape of well-tended fields, patches of forest and pretty wooden houses – mostly painted red or white.
It was wonderful to be home again, albeit not in the best of circumstances. There was still work to be done. But here, at least, there was no obvious war damage. Unlike the gap-toothed bomb sites of blitzed London. Or – far worse – the almost total destruction of most German cities.
I reflected on the extraordinary series of events that had taken me from my RAF billet in Lincolnshire, on what should have been a routine operation to bomb a ball-bearing factory in Schweinfurt, to a rural idyll, buried somewhere in the Third Reich – and now here. On a mission from a friendly Nazi gauleiter – was there such a creature? – to try and stop their top man in Norway doing anything crazy. A hopeless task, if ever there was one.
Not only hopeless, but precarious. I was being asked to perform a political tightrope act, balancing between two warring factions: the occupying Germans and Norwegian home front. A foot in both camps. Without always knowing who was in which. People pretending. Others undecided on which way to jump. A maze of blurred lines.
As these thoughts swirled through my mind, the rocking motion of the train started its work: as it had already done on Siggy and Benni, both fast asleep. It had been an exhausting journey and now it was slump time. I was dimly aware of stopping at Sarpsborg, a sizeable industrial town by our standards, little more than a village anywhere else. Then Moss, famous for its stinking factory. Finally, we drew up at Oslo’s Østbanen, the East Station, in those days one of two termini, but nowadays, with the demise of the old West terminus, known simply as the Central Station.
And there – as I’d been hoping, having phoned from Halden – were my parents, waiting for us. Dad must have played truant from the last couple of school lessons, Mum abandoned the sick of Ullevål hospital to their fate. However they’d fixed it, here they were. Pretty near four years since I’d last seen them. An emotional reunion.
I introduced them to my new family. It couldn’t have been easy for them, their only child returning home with members of the hated German oppressors; however innocent they might be. But both of them did me proud. Dad, being in the language business, spoke the best German and made Siggy especially welcome. Mum added her pennyworth as best she could.
They explained we would be taking a tram across town and ‘we’d talk properly when we arrived home’. I hoped Siggy got the message, that we could pass as ordinary Norwegians as long as no one opened their mouths: German chat in a Norwegian tram, anno 1944, would be embarrassing.
Oslo was heading for winter, the first snow yet to appear, so the city was not looking its best. War and occupation didn’t help. But I didn’t care. I was coming home.
As the little blue tram clunked along, past Parliament, my father suddenly said, “Used to make our laws there, now that’s where they break ‘em.”
Although he was not shouting, some of the nearer passengers must have heard. One old lady smiled to herself and nodded. I just wished he’d shut up, not because I disagreed, but because ‘Low Profile’ had to be my middle name.
But Dad was just getting into his stride. A couple of minutes later, as the tram pulled away from the National Theatre stop and headed up Drammensveien, he pointed to the right and said just one word: “Kongsemneren (Royal Pretender).” Every educated Norwegian would recognise this as the title of an Ibsen play, a tale of mediaeval skulduggery. Our royal palace was now occupied by the current pretender: Quisling.
My father was, I suppose, quite distinguished-looking: tall, slim, still with all his hair, now flecked with grey, and a neatly trimmed goatee beard. People were beginning to enjoy the show, no doubt assuming he was a tour guide for us, some rustic cousins.
I tugged his sleeve, in an attempt to bring the curtain down, but he was determined to have his final act. Pointing now to the left, he said, “Viktoria Terrasse: not the place to get invited. No welcoming tea and cakes there.”
Silly old fool, I thought. Viktoria Terrasse was notorious as Gestapo headquarters. The way he was carrying on we’d all end up there. On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling a little proud of him. Like seditious slogans on banknotes, these were all signs that Norwegians had had enough. Time to kick out the invaders.
CHAPTER 44
OCTOBER/NOVEMBER 1944 , NORWAY
It was lucky for us that Gauleiter Frunze had
decreed a policy of ‘don’t phone us, we’ll phone you.’ Until contacted I merely had to sit tight. Leaving me, for the moment, free to focus on domestic matters.
Ever since I could remember, my parents had lived in Erling Skjalgssonsgate, a comfortable middle-class street in Oslo’s west end. As Gregor had reminded me, at one time we’d been near neighbours of Quisling. Built during the 1800s, this area was close to where the city ended until the turn of the century. Frogner park was a few minutes’ walk away, beyond that the hills and forests of Nordmarka.
I always said we lived on the best side of the street, facing slightly south of east, thus getting the morning sun and keeping it until well into the afternoon. Our apartment was on the 4th floor, with a small balcony, ideal for enjoying a cup of coffee in summer. No lifts, they were almost unheard of, but the climb kept us fit.
I simply went back to my old room, overlooking a courtyard at the back. Now with a brand new wife. It was a squeeze. But cosy. The best we could do for Benni was to rig up a mattress in what was little more than a large broom cupboard. Not only did he not mind, he considered it an adventure. Loved it. Made me realise what a remarkable little lad he was. The attentions of paedophile Willi had apparently made no impression. He had then endured the long and tedious journey from Germany with barely a murmur. Now, thrown into another of life’s deep ends, he was still smiling. Growing up in Nazi-land without a father must toughen you.
Having sorted out the essentials, it was time for a celebration.
In those days families like ours didn’t drink much. Alcohol was for special occasions. Like this. Two bottles of wine were produced from I-know-not-where and we got down to the serious business of catching up. Four years’ worth of catching up.
From the day I’d left in 1940, my years in England with the Air Force. Then that unscheduled descent into the Third Reich. Finally my months with Siggy and the gang. Just one big omission: the fate of Willi Weiss. This was a burden I was determined to keep from Siggy.
Having covered the past in exhaustive detail, eaten a wonderful meal – heaven knows how Mum had beaten the rationing – we eventually called it a day.
“That’s the history bit done; tomorrow we’ll tackle the future,” I said. “Council of war after breakfast.”
“When I’ll be at school,” said Dad.
“And I’ll be at the hospital,” added Mum. “On the early shift so won’t be late. You sleep in and we’ll have our council of war soon as we’re both back.”
As we were about to turn in, Siggy said, “Top of the agenda: I need to learn Norwegian. Fast. By total immersion.” Quick hugs and thanks to my parents and she was off.
To avoid Siggy feeling out of it, I’d spent most of the evening speaking German, adding bits and pieces in Norwegian if Mum got left behind. Tiring for everyone. But Siggy had spotted the problem, and offered the solution. Good girl.
I realised Benni was not the only remarkable one. Here was a young lady brought up on a diet of Nazi poison, never been out of the appalling Third Reich, now dumped in an alien milieu. Quite a challenge. I’d only seen Siggy working herself to death in the gasthof. Now she had time on her hands, which she was obviously determined to use profitably. A new Siggy. I joined her in bed even more certain we’d get through the death of Nazi-ism successfully. And together.
CHAPTER 45
The three of us slept in late, restoring nervous energy. Parents long since gone. We ate a vague breakfast, unpacked what little we had, pottered around. Parents arrived back in time for ‘Middag’, our main meal, but taken a good deal later than the word ‘Midday’ would suggest.
With that out of the way, it was time for our Council of War. The four of us sat round the dining table, Dad with pencil and paper to make notes. Benni had been given some of my old toys and seemed perfectly happy; he’d spent his short life having to amuse himself.
I started off by saying that money would not be a problem. One load off their minds. Teaching and nursing are not professions that make you rich.
“Where’s this new-found wealth coming from?” asked Dad.
“I can only repeat what Willy Brandt told me,” I replied. “Our cash machine is Norwegian Americans who want to help with the war effort. It’s not going to make me a millionaire.”
“What about ration books?” asked Mum, ever practical.
“First job tomorrow,” I replied. “Frunze has given me the necessary paperwork. All I have to do is translate that into what you use here. It’ll probably mean hours waiting in some musty office, but shouldn’t be a problem. I hope.”
“I don’t understand what Frunze is getting out of all this,” said Dad. “Letting you come back, when they clearly have a labour shortage in Germany. Then giving you introductions to both Terboven and Willy Brandt. Met Brandt a couple of times when he was living over here. Nice guy. Upped it to Sweden when the Germans arrived. Just in time, by all accounts. Still has links with our resistance. Sounds like Frunze is playing both sides.”
“I’m sure he is,” I replied. “I saw two very different Gauleiter Frunzes. First time, soon after I arrived, he was the typical Nazi. Standard bearer for new age Germany. And new age Europe. Very bullish, at least on the surface. Champagne flowed like water. There were patriotic songs. That was only a few months ago, long after Stalingrad should have told him the end was nigh.
“Then he changed. After two crucial events. First the Normandy landings in June. This had been so long expected, it shouldn’t really have come as a surprise, even so the actual event certainly had shock value. But the Twentieth of July plot – the attempt on the Führer’s life – came totally out of the blue. And that really rattled them. It was probably Frunze’s Road to Damascus. Finally opened his eyes. He became quite open about it – with people he could trust. The choice was now either suicide or survival. No question which side he was on. Everything he now does is aimed at the afterlife. Life after the death of Nazism. Good reports from people like us could be his salvation.”
“Sounds damned dangerous to me,” said Dad.
“Certainly is,” I agreed. “Since the July plot Hitler’s paranoia has reached epic proportions. We lost our bürgermeister in the killing frenzy, so Frunze is playing with fire. But he has no choice. Now every option is dangerous. To a lesser extent, also for us. We can only do what’s right. And, given the chance, try to stop any bloodbaths.”
“All right, you men, you’ve had your say,” said Mum. “Now let’s discuss what’s really important: Siggy and Benni.”
“Good idea,” said Dad, then turning to Siggy: “Yes, it’ll certainly help if you learn our language. Luckily we have much in common. Had it been Russian... Polish... Finnish... we’d have been in serious trouble. But for you it’s a cinch. Lots of similar words, easy grammar. Just need to pronounce things our way. I’ll give you one-to-one lessons, much as you can take, until you’re punch-drunk. Use my dictionary, try reading the newspapers, listen to the wireless. At first it’ll be gobbledegook, but don’t worry. Keep at it – one day the mists will suddenly clear.”
“And do get out and about,” said Mum. “It should be a few weeks yet before the first snowfalls, then roofs will start avalanching and pavements become icy. But now it’s perfect. Sounds as though you’ve hardly drawn breath these last few years. So relax while you can. Get Per to show you around Oslo.”
“There’s also Benni,” Siggy reminded us.
“There are a couple of nursery groups close by,” replied Mum. “Normally he might be a little old for them, but they’re ideal places to get started. Kids are very adaptable. Just drop Benni in amongst the others. He’ll be fine. I can see he’s an easy child.”
“And the best age for picking up languages,” said Dad. “Something to do with the young brain. Acts like a sponge; no need to bother with grammar or any such nonsense.”
“One more thing to remember,” added Mum. “He’s a refugee; not German. Sorry about this Siggy, but for everyone’s sake we need to play do
wn the German angle.”
Siggy gave a wan smile. “I’ve been something of a refugee in my own country for years. Started when Werner – my husband – was killed. They said he was a hero, dying for the Fatherland, all that stuff; for a while I almost believed it. Certainly wanted to believe it. But as disaster followed disaster, my faith, never very strong, faded away.
“The last straw was when they shot Gregor, my father-in-law. A lovely man, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. So for me this is now a vendetta. I’ll do anything to get rid of these monsters.”
For a moment we sat in silence. I’d never seen Siggy open up like this. In Germany all her energies had gone into keeping the gasthof going, she’d been permanently exhausted. And trapped. No exit from a life spent pouring beer and bread into Nazi bellies. Now she had time, and space; the chrysalis was turning into a butterfly. I hoped my butterfly wouldn’t prove too delicate for the lethal world we inhabited.
“Time for some fresh air,” said Mum, breaking the silence. “Before it gets dark. Just Siggy and me. I expect you men have plenty to talk about.”
When they had gone, Dad said, “Your mother has really taken to Siggy. Me too. A great girl.”
“She’ll need all the help she can get. The next few months won’t be easy. Not for you either. Things could get very nasty all round. Which worries me.”
“So. Stop worrying. We’re old. Past it. The new world belongs to your generation.” Dad spoke as though in his dotage, although barely turned fifty. In his prime.
I was grateful for his support and hoped he could tolerate one more shock. With strict instructions that this was for his ears only, I told him about Willi Weiss, the pudgy low-level Nazi who fancied little boys and had accidentally paid the price. How Hilde Sperrle and I had buried the evidence. Dad needed to know the full story of why I was back in Norway. And why Siggy and Benni had to come too. Now three of us were in on the secret.
THE LAST WEISS Page 17