THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  “There is one other factor,” I said. “Something my wife only let slip at the end of the interview. Hadn’t even told me. She thinks she’s expecting.”

  We’d been stepping out briskly in the cold air, but this stopped Vigeland dead in his tracks.

  “Good God! You mean pregnant?”

  “I believe that’s the word.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Well, thank you...”

  “No, no... I mean...” We resumed our circuit of the monolith, now at power-walk pace. Vigeland seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “I’m pleased for you of course, but that’s not the point...”

  “No?”

  “I’m thinking more of the possibilities this opens up.”

  “Siggy said it wouldn’t make any difference. Told Terboven as much. Didn’t want to lose this job.”

  “But don’t you see...” Vigeland was more animated than I’d ever seen him. “This makes all the difference. When they’re not executing people, the Germans are hopeless romantics. Blub at just about anything. Nothing more certain to open the floodgates than a pregnant frau.”

  “The reichskommissar did seem to wobble slightly when she broke the news,” I admitted.

  “Of course. She’ll have the whole of Skaugum at her mercy. A brilliant gambit, Jespersen... don’t know how you did it...”

  “...The usual way...”

  “You’ve got the Ace of Spades in your armoury. Make it count...”

  “Well, I don’t know...”

  “I do. Don’t hang back. They say all’s fair in love and war. And you’ve combined the two. Love and war. Brilliant.”

  With a wave, he was gone. Grin on his face, and what looked like steam rising from his snowy footsteps.

  CHAPTER 51

  I returned to find that Siggy, Mum and Benni had gone off to Ullevål hospital, where Siggy was tested and forecast a delivery date of 28th May. We could only hope that Norway would be rid of interlopers by then.

  It was early to bed, because next day we were due on parade at 8am, by the Storting’s snowy lion. I wanted to start off on the right foot, so we left in plenty of time. After an emotional farewell with Benni. Emotional on Siggy’s part, that is; Benni took it all in his stride.

  We packed a few belongings into a suitcase, took the tram, and arrived well ahead of time. Our transport to Skaugum had the usual Wehrmacht crosses on the side, a potent symbol of what I would be letting myself in for. In Germany I had, in effect, been a prisoner, albeit with a fair degree of freedom. Now I found myself sitting in an enemy vehicle. In my own country. A most unpleasant sensation.

  We headed out along Drammensveien, past Fornebu airport and into the country. Further than I’d expected. We were nearer Drammen than Oslo by the time we swung off the main road, finally coming to a halt in front of an imposing gateway. Two high pillars, each with its own street light, guarded the entrance. On either side, iron railings ran into the distance; effective intruder deterrents.

  An SS guard emerged from a colonnaded gatehouse, just inside the property, and opened up. Glanced at our papers and had a few words with the driver. We then continued to the main house, into an L-shaped courtyard, with the main entrance in the longer arm of the L to our right.

  As we drew up, another SS man emerged to greet us. The SS or SchutzStaffel (Protection Units) had originally been formed to protect the Party and its leaders. Their remit had somehow widened to include arrest and torture, also as soldiers of the elite Waffen SS. They were the Nazi’s main terror weapon. Many of the SS I met at Skaugum seemed good fellows, whose job was simply to guard the reichskommissar. The great paradox of the Third Reich was that at home they were nice family men; in the office they became mass murderers.

  The SS man took Siggy’s bag and led the way into the house, up the stairs, left turn, along a corridor, finally opening a door at the far end – our bedroom.

  “Get yourselves sorted out,” he said. “Then back downstairs. A briefing from Fräulein Hettich, then lunch.”

  We inspected our home: twin beds, plenty of cupboard space, two easy chairs. Modern and comfortable. I went to the window, which told me we were lodged in the short arm of the L, facing the courtyard; servants quarters, but we could hardly expect the emperor’s suite, with balcony. The good news was that we faced roughly southwest, giving us evening sun, the bad news was that there would probably be plenty of courtyard noise.

  Over the next few days I got the hang of the estate geography. After a fire in the ‘30s, the main house had been rebuilt in clean modern style, with a hint of Art Deco; a long frontage of two storeys, with glorious views out towards the fjord. Spacious grounds. The outbuildings included a covered tennis court; a farm complex, and, well away from the rest of the buildings, a newly constructed bunker.

  Our meagre possessions stowed away, Siggy and I tripped gingerly along the corridor, down the stairs, to...? Skaugum was large, confusing, and full of my enemies. A passing officer, seeing our predicament, came to the rescue. He was fair-haired and slim, both useful Aryan virtues for the SS; also well above the obligatory 5 feet 11 inches, minimum SS height.

  “You must be our new secretary.” He clicked his heels, shook Siggy’s hand, then kissed it.

  “Permit me to introduce myself: Sturmbannführer (Storm Unit leader) Zoller. Good to see some new blood, especially beautiful new blood. All too many people have gone home recently, so you’re sorely needed.”

  “We’re looking for Fräulein Hettich,” said Siggy.

  “It’s almost lunchtime, so she should be finished. Let’s see...” Zoller strode down the corridor.

  “What a charming man,” said Siggy, struggling to keep up.

  “Bloody creep,” I whispered. He had ignored me completely.

  Ahead of us, Zoller had knocked and opened a door. A few words with the person inside and he beckoned us on.

  “Fräulein Hettich is ready for you.” He beamed at Siggy. “I hope we’ll see more of each other.” Another heel-click and he was gone. I remained invisible.

  “Do come in. And take a seat.”

  Distracted by the unctuous Zoller, I was unprepared for the reichskommissar’s chief secretary, whom I’d imagined as middle-aged, with heavy spectacles, pleated skirt, and her hair in a bun. The only thing I’d got right was the pleated skirt. Because Fräulein Hettich was about Siggy’s age – i.e. mid-twenties, dark hair cut short, and no glasses. She also acknowledged my existence with a smile. Things were looking up.

  “Welcome to the office,” she said, with a wave of the hand. It was a fair-sized room, with ledger-filled shelves, filing cabinets, and three tables, each with its own typewriter. Unlike some of the offices I’d seen, this one was almost obsessively tidy. I guessed Hettich could lay her hands on any item she wanted within five seconds.

  “I like to keep things informal between the three of us,” she said. “So, I’m Gerda. And you’re Siggy and Per?”

  We nodded in unison.

  “With the boss it’s different,” she continued. “With him it has to be just so. Remember that and you’ll be fine. I’ve been with him since the beginning – over four years. He’s a good man to work for. As long as you know your stuff and don’t mess about. We’ve lost a fair number of secretaries over the years, for all sorts of reasons. Poor Hannelore has just had to go to hospital. So I’m very glad to see you.”

  “I told the reichskommissar I was a bit rusty,” said Siggy. “Typing isn’t too bad, because I’ve kept that up at the gasthof. But I’m worried about my dictation.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be all right,” replied Gerda. “Typing is the most important, as I do most of the dictation. I’ll give you a quick test after lunch to make sure. The boss has high standards, but will forgive a lot as long as you do your best.”

  “As for you, Per,” she turned to me. “Report to House Manager Reimer. A Hamburg man. I’ll introduce you at lunch. He’s a bit of a fusspot. Rather like the rest of us. Which perhaps is why t
his is such a happy ship. So welcome to Skaugum. I hope you’ll enjoy your work here.

  CHAPTER 52

  WINTER 1944-5, SKAUGUM. NORWAY

  We were lucky that the first few days passed without a major panic. Time to get our bearings. Siggy must have got good marks in Gerda’s test, because she was soon clattering away happily at her typewriter. Pretty boring subjects, she told me. I’d been sceptical about Gerda Hettich’s description of Skaugum as a happy ship, but it was certainly run as a tight ship. Nothing was too small to escape Terboven’s eagle eye: the state of aluminium production at Høyanger; progress – or lack of it – on the Nordland railway; was there enough wine as Christmas gifts for the troops? The reichskommissar was very keen on his men’s welfare.

  House manager Reimer slotted me quickly into the system. He said the reichskommissar was sending as many of the German staff as possible back home, due to the ‘uncertain situation’. Which was one was of putting it. I’d have thought the situation absolutely certain. The Third Reich going down the pan. Fast.

  This haemorrhage of staff meant they were desperate for hired hands. A year ago I doubt whether they’d have let me near Skaugum. Now, married to one of their own and fluent in their language, I was acceptable.

  So I kept the approach road clear with the estate snowplough: there had been a couple of light falls. And helped Turid, the Norwegian housemaid, clean and reset the lounge fireplace. Our soon-to-be-gone masters had fallen in love with the ‘peisestue’, our traditional large open fireplaces, and then taken the one at Skaugum to extremes; with spectacular conflagrations that blackened the whole room. All this required giant logs, too heavy for little Turid to cope with: and large amounts of ash and debris to remove the following day.

  Reimer also arranged for me, as the new boy, to have the red-eye shift necessary to service Terboven’s demand for ‘immer dienst’, twenty-four hour service. This didn’t preclude sleep, it merely meant that if anyone wanted something in the small hours, it was our phone that shrilled. Siggy merely grunted and turned over, but I had to bestir myself.

  Thus I got to know Wilhelm Rediess, the SS police chief, quite well. But only in his pyjama-clad state, wild-haired and pot-bellied. Rediess was a voracious night nibbler: nothing massive, mainly sausages and soup, but I had to go down to the kitchen, if necessary heat it, and then deliver. Rediess was Norway’s Lord High Executioner; at 3am, bleary-eyed, he was not an impressive sight.

  Vigeland had mentioned the possibility of establishing a link with the estate’s Norwegian run farm. So, on the pretext of seeing if they needed any help, I was allowed to pop across the road to investigate. I was met by a dour, bald, middle-aged man, who introduced himself as Ragnar. He eyed me suspiciously, which was hardly surprising: misjudging whether someone was a ‘Jøssing’, our name for a loyal Norwegian, or a collaborator, could have fatal consequences. So Ragnar was giving nothing away. Just told me this was the fallow season for farms. Nothing doing. Come back in the spring, if I was still interested. However, I had at least made contact.

  CHAPTER 53

  At the end of November there was a massive sabotage operation at Aker shipyard. 20,000 tons of shipping sunk; untold kroners worth of damage. This at a time when the sea link back to the Fatherland was already in trouble.

  To me ‘Akers Mekaniske Verksted’ was a desirable property on the monopoly board, equivalent to one of the London stations on the British version. It was as though our ‘Kings Cross’ had been hit. In later years, when the Oslo waterfront had been gentrified, Aker brygge became the place to enjoy beer and prawns. But in 1944 Aker shipyard was a vital part of the Nazi’s northern war effort. And Terboven was furious.

  For most of the staff at Skaugum this eruption was part of the scenery. It happened from time to time. But for Siggy and me it was our baptism of fire. Revolts against Nazi rule always sparked retribution. The bigger the event the greater the reaction. The fate of Gregor Weiss, our beloved bürgermeister, was a stark reminder.

  Although the Aker shipyard sabotage wasn’t in the same league as the 20th July plot, it was nevertheless a big blow to Terboven’s authority. We were due for a whipping. The only question was how many strokes of the lash: how many executions to teach us a lesson?

  So when Gerda Hettich said the boss wanted to see me, I nearly had a fit.

  “Me? Surely not?”

  “Yes you.”

  “He must have said Frau Jesperson, not Herr.”

  “I’m not deaf. Or stupid.” Gerda, normally the most placed of people, was becoming narked. “You’ll find him in his bath. Up the stairs.”

  “The bath!” It was ten o’clock in the morning.

  Realising this strange piece of information really did merit an explanation, she replied, “Before the war the reichskommissar had a serious flying accident. Nearly killed him. He still walks with a limp, and his left elbow often hurts. A good soak in the bath is apparently very soothing. He does a lot of work there.”

  Fearing the worst, I went in search of His Highness’s bathroom. Found it. Knocked on the door.

  “‘Come!”

  As ordered, I entered.

  Norway’s emperor was dimly visible through a haze of steam and tobacco smoke. On the bath shelf behind him lay a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. Spanning the bath in front of him was a wide tray, obviously specially constructed for the purpose; on it lay a pile of notes, a couple of newspapers, and a full ash tray.

  As I came in, the reichskommissar pushed the spectacles back over his forehead and said, “Good morning, Herr Jespersen. Before we start, I’d be obliged if you could freshen up my bath. Water’s getting lukewarm. So let out some water, then refill with hot. With all this tackle...” he indicated the tray... “I can’t reach the taps.”

  Again, I did as ordered. Noticed he was uncircumcised; no hidden Jewish history with Herr Terboven.

  “My doctor recommends hot water treatment,” he explained. “Old war wound.”

  He had indeed served in the first war. Won an iron cross. But his wound had not been caused by enemy fire; he had been fooling around in a plane in peacetime.

  When the bath temperature had been raised to somewhere near scalding, he said, “Now to business: I believe you also speak Swedish?”

  “Er... yes. Swedish is pretty close to Norwegian. Quite a few words are different; I know most of them, but can’t guarantee one hundred percent...”

  “No matter. The gist of it is what I need. My interpreters – those that haven’t already hightailed it back to the Reich – are in town. And I’m here. Could have waited, I suppose, but then I remembered you. Could help me finish my notes now?”

  He picked up one of the newspapers and threw it at me, saying, “Yesterday’s edition from Stockholm. Bottom of front page. You probably heard we had a bit of trouble the other day. What are the Swedes saying about it?”

  I grabbed Aftonbladet, a copy damp from immersion in Skaugum’s sauna. The main headline announced the allied capture of Strasbourg: the Reich’s enemies had reached the Rhine; next stop the Fatherland itself.

  At the bottom of the page in smaller type: ‘Explosions rock Oslo’. I glanced quickly through the whole piece, then read it out slowly:

  “Two days ago a series of explosions on the Oslo waterfront were heard – indeed felt – by the whole city. A series of actions by the Norwegian Home Front...”

  Grunts of derision from Terboven. In Scandinavia the resistance was known as the ‘Home Front’; to the Germans they were terrorists.

  I continued: “...actions by the Home Front caused widespread destruction in the Akers and Nylands shipyards. Several vessels were sunk and damage is estimated in the millions. As the war in Europe enters its finals stages such assaults are bound to increase. We can only hope they will not result in the usual senseless reprisals.”

  More grunts from the reichskommissar. Then he said, “Aftonbladet. A reliable rag, I suppose?”

  “The best,” I replied. “Founded
way back. The premier evening newspaper. Said to reflect government views.”

  This last comment was merely a good guess. But it might put more pressure on Terboven.

  As I handed the paper back, he said, “Thank you for your help. I might need you again.” Then, with glasses back on nose, he went back to his notes.

  As I left, he turned round and said, “By the way, Fräulein Hettich is most impressed by your wife. Please tell her so.”

  The reichskommissar was known as a hard taskmaster. But evidently one who also gave credit where it was due.

  CHAPTER 54

  Jespersen pillow talk was probably not typical of newly-weds. Instead of sweet nothings, it was our chance to catch up on the latest military situation. Siggy, as a German secretary, was usually more in the loop than me, so it was with a sense of one-upmanship that I was able to tell her about my bathroom tryst with the reichskommissar.

  “Interesting,” she replied. “Because I’m beginning to get a sense of Sweden’s importance. At the beginning of the war the Swedes were too scared to be much of a nuisance. Now, they’re not only no longer scared, they’re also angry. Watching their Danish and Norwegian cousins endure four years of oppression and executions has really put their backs up.”

  “What can the Swedes do?” I asked.

  “Perhaps come in on the allied side.”

  “Never,” I said, rather too brusquely. This was something I’d not even considered.

  “Never say never. When an animal is wounded the rest of the jungle arrives to finish it off. Even if that doesn’t happen, Sweden could still make life very difficult for us in the final days.”

  “Terboven certainly seemed bothered about what the Swedes might do,” I admitted.

  “Fortunately, he’s being leant on,” said Siggy. “Terboven has always taken a hard line against sabotage, or anything that disturbs his kingdom. But back home some of the top brass are beginning to question this. I’ve seen signals and letters from Berlin warning that shooting people is counterproductive.”