“Indeed. Norway has not seen any real fighting since the invasion, but that may be about to change. When the Finns surrendered to the Soviets, it left Norwegian Finnmark at the mercy of the Red army. Terboven is up there at the moment, trying to find ways of stemming the flood.”
“Can he succeed?”
“Not if the Soviets get serious. But that seems unlikely. The Red Army has just one target: Berlin. We’re a sideshow. Even so, London reckons Terboven is ordering a retreat to what they call the Lyngen Line, a mere thirty kilometres between neutral Sweden and the sea at Lyngenfjord. Easy to defend. The really bad news is that the Germans are destroying everything as they leave.”
“Scorched earth?”
Vigeland nodded. “Standard desperation ploy. Make sure you leave nothing behind for the enemy.”
“If Terboven can order scorched earth in the north...”
“...He could do the same down here. My thought exactly.” Vigeland waved a good bye. “So, see what you can do, Jespers... I mean Munch.”
The last I saw was a pair of knickers striding briskly towards Majorstua.
CHAPTER 48
I was in limbo. Waiting for the improbable. Some sort of sign from the German side. I had promised Frunze to do what I could. In return, the gauleiter had said he would try and work some magic to get me close to the reichskommissar. So far nothing. Vigeland’s comment that Terboven was up north, trying to avert a military disaster, might account for this silence. Or it might not. Either way, I could do little except hang around and contain my frustration.
My link to the Home Front was now in place, but would only become active if I had something to report. Walkies with Siggy were becoming daily less attractive as the thermometer dropped towards zero: with wind-chill it was already well below. Out of boredom I rang Lars, inviting him and Øyvind over to our place. A debriefing on our Sinsen lasarett visit would be useful.
We agreed an evening after work three days later. Much to the delight of my parents, who knew both of them from our student days.
It was an excuse for a minor celebration, my parents having had a pretty dreary time of it since the war. There were cakes and coffee – again real coffee; in times of coffee-drought I seemed to attract it like a magnet. The boys said polite hellos to Siggy, who joined us round the dining room table. Much of the conversation would pass her by, but it was a good opportunity to soak up the sound of Norwegian. Dad had confided in me that she was a very determined young lady, their lessons going well; she was beginning to get the hang of our pronunciation. Early days, though.
I began by recounting my visit to the lasarett, which Øyvind condemned as ‘damned risky’. He was right, but my life in bomber command – and later – had inured me to a higher level of danger than Øyvind, who had been following the safer path of test tubes. Nevertheless, as a family man, I resolved not to indulge in any more needless jokes with the enemy.
“My visits to Sinsen have been strictly scientific,” said Øyvind. “Sexual diseases in wartime. Might do a PhD on it. Did you know the Nazis have over five hundred brothels for their fighting troops?”
We shook our heads. This vital piece of information had escaped us.
“They say it’s good for morale,” he continued. “And then kid themselves they can keep the places clean. A hopeless task, because the girls aim to be riddled with the filthiest bugs they can find. They’re locals, not Germans, so this is their contribution to the war effort. Battle of the cunt. Very effective.”
Remembering the men I’d met at the lasarett, I said, “I don’t get it. Their willies might be falling off, but that shouldn’t stop them firing a gun. And dying for the greater glory of the Reich.”
“You’re right.” Øyvind took off his glasses and polished them, perplexed. “A possible line of enquiry for my dissertation. Do you mind if I use it?”
“Be my guest,” I replied magnanimously.
I was anxious to change the subject, unlikely though it was to have yet been covered in Siggy’s Norwegian lessons. She was a smart girl and might understand more than she let on. Which would be embarrassing. So I said, “Just met a guy from the Home Front. Who tells me there’s nastiness afoot in the north. Anything more we know?”
“There have been whispers about this at school for days,” replied Dad. “With the Finns out of it, the Reds have started a big push west of Murmansk. The Germans are on the run, burning everything as they leave. Kirkenes already gone. They’re taking all civilians with them, though God only knows where they’ll put them. And with winter coming on...”
“War, war, let’s talk about something more cheerful,” said Mum. “What have you two boys been up to since I last saw you? What is it now? Four years?”
Mum was right, of course. Time to lighten the mood. Pretend times were normal. So Lars and Øyvind brought my parents up to date on their lives. After that it was Siggy’s turn. She was already weaving her magic with the two boys, who had evidently forgotten she was the enemy. They began the usual ribbing of foreigners. Got her to recite all those beginner’s phrases: “Takk for maten”, after each meal: and that old chestnut “Jeg elsker deg” – I love you. Much laughter. Siggy then went on to prove she had advanced way beyond lessons one and two. She was really rather good. Soon Lars and Øyvind were eating out of her hand. Two nations at war? Not in the Jesperson household. Even in deepest 1944.
Hearing the noise, Benni appeared. And proceeded to show us his command of Norwegian. Even better than Siggy’s. From a six-year-old! It was a wonderful evening. Time out from our worries. Recharging our batteries for what lay ahead.
CHAPTER 49
It was well into November, I was beginning to acclimatise to my life of sloth, when the phone rang. 5pm on a dark and snowy afternoon. Dad took the call, then handed over to me, a funny look on his face.
“Per Jesperson?” said a male voice. Not telling me who he was. “Please be at the front door of Storting, tomorrow. Eleven a.m. And bring your wife. That’s important. We need both of you.”
He spoke in German and rang off after I’d acknowledged his message.
We spent the evening discussing what might happen next. Without coming to any conclusion. The Storting building, our Parliament in happier times, was now Terboven’s office, so this was clearly the long-awaited call. Neither of us slept much that night, churning over in our minds what the morrow might bring.
Weatherwise, it brought clearing skies. Snowfalls had so far been light, so the streets were still fairly safe: no danger of rooftop avalanches. We decided to do the journey on foot, to clear our heads. There are many worse places than Oslo on a crisp winter’s morning, with a dusting of snow under foot.
As parliaments go, it’s a modest building. Three storeys, with a circular centre, it dates from the 1860s, when we were still in the union with Sweden. It stands on ‘Lion Hill’, in truth no more than a slight incline, but with the classic view of the city: National Theatre straight ahead; Karl Johan, the main drag, on our right; Royal Palace at the far end of Karl Johan. As my father had pointed out on our arrival, the palace was now occupied by usurper Vidkun Quisling. While Storting was the Nazi nerve centre. Something we intended to change.
For now it still had a swastika flying from its masthead. And a surrounding mass of barbed wire. Wouldn’t do to have the reichskommissar bumped off. We presented ourselves to the waiting SS man, who phoned a colleague to check our credentials. Must have been OK, because he let us into the stockade, past the Storting’s peacetime guard, a stone lion, today sporting a handsome crown of snow. I slipped him a surreptitious whisper that he’d soon see his old owners back. I’m sure there was a muted roar of approval.
At the door another guard inspected our papers, let us in, took our coats. And made sure I wasn’t carrying any assassination items. Siggy got away with a look-over. A phone call established that his master was free to see us, so he led the way to the second floor.
Terboven’s office was the size of a ballroom. Kno
wn as the Eidsvoll gallery, it used to house portraits of our founding fathers: the 112 men who signed Norway’s constitution at Eidsvoll on 17th May 1814.
Now every vestige of Norwegian history had been removed; and replaced by a series of Germanic landscapes in heavy frames. In the centre of one of the long walls was a bust of Hitler; above him an eagle with a swastika in its talons. I had no stone lion to chat to here, but silently vowed I would see that awful Austrian painter fellow removed. And our founding fathers returned to their rightful places.
It was a long walk to Terboven, who sat at his desk at the far end of the room. A big window, looking out towards Karl Johan, was behind him, so that the light shone on us, while he was in shadow. Designed to intimidate. As was his manner, a cursory wave to indicate we could sit. He continued to study some papers. Without looking up.
We sat down. As did our guard, a few feet behind, to make sure we made no mischief. I studied Norway’s Tsar: a slight man, in his forties, with short brown hair, neatly parted down the left side. Steel-rimmed spectacles. Parody of a bank clerk, which he had been in a previous life. Now a despot with life-and-death powers.
He finally deigned to look up. A few seconds of scrutiny. Then back to a folder in front of him.
“Herr and Frau Jespersen,” he began. “I have here a letter of recommendation from my good colleague Gauleiter Frunze. We met twice in the summer and he said the two of you might be of use to me. As it happens, I now have such a situation. One of my secretaries, Fräulein Graf, is not in the best of health; needs an operation. She’s very loyal, says she can carry on, but I won’t have it. I’m sending her home for treatment. Which leaves me with just Fräulein Hettich. Who’s already overworked. In short, I need another secretary.”
The Reichskommissar spoke with a Rhineland accent. And a mouthful of terrible tobacco-stained teeth. He seemed an efficient, let’s-get-on-with-it sort of guy.
Another glance at the folder and he continued: “I see you have secretarial qualifications, Frau Jespersen.”
This was news to me. There was a lot I didn’t know about my wife.
“A bit rusty, I’m afraid,” she replied sweetly. “I married Werner, my first husband, straight out of secretarial school. But since then I’ve been running our gasthof. Which requires all sorts of skills, including secretarial.”
Siggy was selling herself well. With swanky modesty.
“Gauleiter Frunze is full of praise for your gasthof,” said Terboven, with a wolfish grin. “Must pay you a visit after our final victory.”
Their final victory! He must be joking.
“I’m prepared to offer you a position,” he continued. “As a reichskomissariat secretary. Only temporary, of course. And the salary won’t be wonderful. But it’s an arrangement that should suit us both.”
“Where would I be working?”
“A good question. We’re preparing to hand this building, the Storting, back to the Norwegians, to Herr Quisling’s administration. In any case, I’ve never spent much time here. So you might as well start off where we’ll be continuing; at Skaugum.”
“Where...?”
“Ah yes... I’d forgotten you’re new here. Skaugum is where I’ve been living since the beginning. A little way out of town, nice and rural. A place where I can relax, but also do business. It’s also where Fräulein Hettich, my chief secretary lives. You can take over the room of her old number two, Fräulein Graf, who’s already on her way back to the Reich. Fräulein Hettich is my right arm, couldn’t manage without her. She handles anything sensitive and will send overflow work on to you. When I’m not around, take your orders from her.”
“What about my husband?” asked Siggy.
I was wondering the same. A horrible truth was beginning to dawn: that crafty old Richard Frunze had devised his plot around Siggy. Not me. I had imagined myself the knight in shining armour, sent forth to stop Terboven wrecking my country. A ludicrous notion my macho pride had been all too ready to accept. But insert an attractive young lady into the Terboven camp, a German lady moreover, who was clearly a survivor rather than suicider, and our gauleiter’s plan might stand a chance. I just happened to be the convenient means of achieving that end.
“Your husband...” Terboven seemed bemused, as though this was the first he’d heard of me. He ruffled through the file for guidance. “Says here he speaks perfect German. Obviously also Norwegian. Not too many bilinguals around. So, yes, he may live with you at Skaugum. But he’ll have to earn his keep. It’s a big property, which I like to maintain in tip-top order. House Manager Reimer will no doubt be able to use you. Or the Skaugum farm and nursery garden, which is currently let out. We’ll see. I have a motto: ‘Immer dienst’ – always service. Every day of the year; any time of the day or night. So don’t expect to be sitting on your backside. I’ll arrange passes for both of you.”
The reichskommissar closed the folder with a bang. “That’s settled, then. A couple of days to make our arrangements, so let’s say the day after tomorrow: eight a.m. here. I’ll have transport to take you out to Skaugum.”
“One more thing...” said Siggy.
“Oh...?” The reichskommissar looked irritated, having terminated the interview.
“A small matter, but you mentioned the high workload. Which is fine. My husband will bear me out when I say I’m not workshy. All hours God gave at the gasthof...”
“Too much, in my view,” I added, unsure where this was leading. “My wife was often totally bushed. For the first time in years, she’s now had some recovery time.”
“I always give of my best,” she added. “But right now I might need a little leeway. You see, I’m expecting a child.”
Silence. Time stood still. I don’t know who was the most astonished, Terboven or me.
The reichskommissar reopened our file, skipped through it helplessly, and mumbled, “Says nothing about it here.”
“No. Because then I wasn’t,” she replied.
“When is the happy event due?” He sounded far from happy.
“Beginning of June. About. Can’t be sure because I’ve not had any tests yet. Might be a false alarm. But I’m usually pretty regular.”
“Then get it confirmed...” he began grudgingly.
But Siggy sailed on. “...Pregnancy isn’t a disease, so I should be fine. No problems with my first child, Benni. But our bodies go through some pretty dramatic changes, so I didn’t want to keep you in the dark. I believe you have a little girl of your own, Herr Reichskommissar?”
It was brilliantly done. With a dozen words Siggy had reduced Norway’s top ogre to a doting dad.
Terboven picked up a framed photo from his desk and smiled. Actually smiled!
“Yes, little Inge. Nine years old this summer. Haven’t seen her since I arrived. Over four years. I miss her.”
No mention of the wife.
“Will this make any difference?” asked Siggy.
“No, no, ‘course not,” he replied, now putty in her hands. “Just get that test done. We’ll meet again in a couple of days. At Skaugum.”
This time we did leave. Recovered our coats. Stepped out into the crispy snow. I saluted the snow-capped lion and took Siggy’s arm; had to be careful, in her condition.
“Sorry it had to be so sudden,” she said. “I didn’t want to say anything until I’d had it confirmed. But I spied some wriggle room with Terboven. And it seemed too good an opportunity to miss.”
“But you’re pretty sure?”
She nodded. “Late May, early June, by my reckoning.”
“Thought we’d agreed to wait until after the war?”
“June will be after the war. I hope.”
“Pity, in a way,” I said with a grin. “You might have had a royal birth.”
Siggy frowned, baffled by my comment.
“Skaugum, our forthcoming office, is a royal residence.” I explained. “Belongs to Crown Prince Olav. Who might want it back when we’ve kicked out Terboven.”
; “In that case, we’d better enjoy it while we can,” she said.
We stepped out briskly. On a high. In spite of the dark clouds ahead.
CHAPTER 50
Next day was hectic. A lot to organise in a short time. I’d clean forgotten we had Benni to consider. But Siggy had it all worked out. “Your mother will look after him,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Already as good as offered,” she replied. “She’s coming over all broody in her old age. Told me the hospital has an unofficial crèche system, so she can take him to work with her.”
Siggy was right. Mum was not only delighted to adopt Benni for a while. She was also ecstatic at the prospect of grandmotherhood. Occupied Oslo was a dreary place, but now she had a purpose in life. I didn’t like to point out that things could still go horribly wrong.
My first task on returning home was to become Edvard Munch and phone Gustav Vigeland. Managed to arrange a meeting that same afternoon, again by the Monolith. With winter now upon us, my link-man was dressed in a warm jacket, thick trousers and woolly hat.
I described our meeting with the reichskommissar and his offer. Which Vigeland welcomed with quiet satisfaction.
“Apart from a few official functions, the Nazis take care not to mix with us,” he said. “Also the other way round – us with them. We live in the same country, but inhabit two separate worlds. So any new point of contact could prove a valuable source of information. The problem will be getting this information out.”
“Because Skaugum is out in the sticks?”
“It’s not really that far. Only about twenty kilometres out of town. At Asker. In normal times no problem. But getting around anywhere these days isn’t easy. And the royal estate is pretty well guarded.”
“Tricky.”
“Yes. But not impossible. There’s a Skaugum farm, run by Norwegians, who are not permitted into the main house. We might be able to develop a contact there. Failing that, Terboven should surely allow you the odd trip into town. We’ll have to work on it.”
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