“They’ve taken, what is it... twelve years... to discover that?”
“It seems orders to go easy on reprisals come from the very top. From Himmler. And the Führer himself.”
“So Terboven is now more hawkish than either Himmler or Hitler?”
“Seems so. Another pointer is what’s happening up north. Terboven’s scorched earth policy is now in full swing; even though the Red Army has lost interest and no longer advancing. The Wehrmacht high command was always against it. In spite of this, he’s ordered everything burnt. And his word is law.”
“Looks like Frunze was right,” I said. “If Himmler and Hitler are doves compared with our reichskommissar, we could be in real trouble.”
“Except for one thing. Terboven is absolutely loyal to the Führer. Does what he’s told, regardless of his own views.”
“Until one day... when Hitler is no longer with us...”
“Exactly. Then he’ll be off the leash. Can do what he really wants.”
“A nasty prospect. And not much we can do about it.”
“We could try some insurance,” said Siggy. “In the form of Sturmbannführer Zoller...”
“That noxious twerp...”
“I know you don’t like him...”
“I hate him! Ogling you like that...”
“I can’t control what goes on in his head, of course, but Zoller is actually rather old-fashioned. Enjoys a flirt, but would never go beyond that...”
“Never say never: Said so yourself.”
“That’s what I think, anyway. And as I get bigger that’ll put him off even more. If German ladies are off limits, pregnant German ladies will be even more so.”
“Assuming you’re right,” I said grudgingly, “what’s the point in being nice to Zoller?”
“Because, like Terboven, he has taken the SS personal oath to the Führer himself. When Adolf dies, all bets are off. Oaths null and void. Everyone can then do what they really want.”
“So while we have Terboven down as a suicider, you think Zoller...?” I began to see what Siggy was driving at.
“I happen to know Zoller has a wife and two small children back in Germany. Living in Sankt Andreasberg. A small place in the Harz mountains, well away from the bombings, he told me. I fancy Herr Zoller might feel like seeing them again.”
“Unlike Terboven?”
“Who hasn’t seen his wife all the years he’s been here. Seems to miss his small daughter, but not her.”
“You’re right, of course,” I had to admit. “May not come to anything, but there’s no harm in clutching at straws.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Siggy, snuggling up. “Enough of this boring chat.”
So we indulged ourselves in something rather more pleasurable than politics.
CHAPTER 55
Christmas 1944 was not one to bring goodwill to all men. Especially not to those experiencing the death throes of the Third Reich. So it was all the more surprising that Terboven didn’t seem to notice the wolves gathering to finish him off. He was tireless with his speeches; and his doling out of gifts to the troops. His morale-boosting talks always included phrases like ‘just one more effort to secure final victory’. Even though final defeat was staring him in the face.
There were, of course, more sticks than carrots; in particular a law against ‘Zersetzung der Wehrkraft’, or ‘Weakening of Defences’. By this they meant defeatist talk, which could get you shot. Even being cheeky could land you in Grini, the notorious concentration camp just outside Oslo. Words as well as actions were dangerous.
The lead up to the so-called festive season was hectic for both Gerda Hettich and Siggy. There were preparations for the SS bumper Xmas feast at the Colosseum cinema, closely followed by another party for the Reichskommissariat in the University Aula, the grand hall, where, in peacetime, winners of the Nobel Peace Prize were honoured.
As a member of the Reichskommissariat, would Siggy be invited to this last bash? I was determined to stay away, even if invited – which was unlikely. My association with Norway’s enemies was already too close for comfort. So Siggy had a quiet word with Gerda, who arranged that we would both be allowed home for Christmas. In the season of official jollification Gerda reckoned she could cope with what little work that might crop up.
Although Siggy was frantically busy, I was not. I’d had time to ponder the merits of ‘Operation Zoller’, our plan to discover more about the sturmbannführer and if possible guide him towards survival rather than suicide. In spite of my antipathy towards him, I had to admit it was worth a try. The first step was to get him on speaking terms with me.
We spotted Zoller at lunch a couple of days later. Siggy went up and asked if we could join him. He leapt to his feet and extended a fulsome invitation. It did no harm that his colleagues were watching with undisguised envy. As a pretty young lady in a roomful of sex-starved men, Siggy could do no wrong.
My wife made the introductions, which meant Zoller could no longer ignore me. To his credit, he didn’t try. Well brought up. We started with small talk: weather; level of work, that sort of thing. Siggy and I were like a well-trained relay team. As the focus of Zoller’s attention, she made the initial running, but gradually, in the inside lane, I gathered speed to pick up the baton.
I blessed my five months at the Gasthof zum Löwen, where the local lingo had become second nature. Zoller’s speech was not that different from what I’d become used to. If he’d come from Bavaria or, heaven forbid, Austria, it would have been more awkward. As it was, I was soon chatting away in his linguistic comfort zone.
We discovered that his wife had long blonde hair and was called Mitzi. His children were Fritz, aged nine, who wanted to be a champion skier. And Maria just seven, who didn’t yet know what she wanted. Talking of families, Siggy then admitted to her condition, a fact not generally known and not yet obvious. Excellent, my love! Pile on the domestic detail.
“You said you come from the Harz?” asked Siggy, turning the focus back on him.
“Yes, my folks run a spa in Sankt Andreasberg. Eight hundred metres up in the mountains,” he replied, wistfully. “Great walking in summer; skiing in winter.”
“Do you really get enough snow at that altitude?” I asked, partly to keep him talking about home, partly because I was interested. 800 metres up was fine for Norway, but didn’t seem enough for a place a thousand kilometres further south.
“We’re not as snow sure as the Alps,” he replied. “Or here. That I’ll admit. But most winters are pretty good. And if there’s a thaw, our clients take to the waters. In our spa. We can’t lose.” He smiled at the thought.
“Tried our skiing?” I asked.
“Not as much as I’d like. But I’ve been up to Nordmark, I believe you call it, a few times. Almost as good as home.”
Describing our skiing as ‘almost as good as home’ was clearly meant as a joke. Zoller was showing humorous tendencies. I might even begin to like the man.
“I expect you’re longing to get back,” I ventured.
He nodded, guardedly.
“After the final victory, of course,” I added.
He gave me a long hard look. But couldn’t fault such impeccable sentiment.
“Time to go, I’m afraid,” said Siggy, getting up. “Or I’ll be in trouble with Fräulien Hettich. But I do hope we can have another natter some time.”
Interview terminated at exactly the right moment. Leaving Zoller salivating for his next encounter. Again, I was amazed at my wife’s deft touch.
When I later complimented her on this she replied, “The slow cooker principle. Set the heat to low, then let him simmer. More efficient – and safer – than overdoing it. He’ll spend the next week brooding on what we’ve said.”
CHAPTER 56
We were granted a three-day leave pass on Christmas Eve, House Manager Reimer having reluctantly agreed to find someone else to cover the red-eye ‘immer dienst’ shift. I would be spared the sight of a la
rge police chief at his midnight feast.
We turned up at Erling Skjalgssonsgate just before midday, to find Juletide preparations in full swing. Dad had bought a small Christmas tree, probably not that difficult seeing that Norway consists almost entirely of christmas trees; about the only item that didn’t need rationing.
Mum was busy decorating the tree, the main problem being the candles. In those days we didn’t use lights, but old-fashioned wax candles, which had to be set as near vertical as possible prior to lighting: an impossible task.
For Siggy the big event was being reunited with Benni, who poured out his adventures with his little friends at Ullevål hospital. His vocabulary had been invaded by Norwegian words, making the story rather difficult to follow, but no matter, Siggy’s son was obviously enjoying himself. No war in the world of the toddler. Maybe we should let children run things.
Mum had worked miracles to make this as near a normal ‘Juleaften’ as possible. Christmas Eve was always the focus of our celebrations and she had managed to produce a couple of nice fat ‘rype’ – mountain game birds – for the main course; garnished with a variety of veg and sauces. Followed by little marzipan animals, which found especial favour with Benni.
After that, Mum lit the candles, we linked hands and sang carols round the Christmas tree. Benni, wide-eyed, joined in with his high treble. At one point it all became too much for Siggy, who dissolved in tears and had to take time out on the sofa. Amazingly, the candles remained more or less upright and we avoided setting the whole place alight. I could never understand why Oslo didn’t go up in flames on ‘Juleaften’.
The main celebrations over, we settled down in reflective mood, with – unusually for the Jespersen household – plenty of alcohol. Wine, followed by aquavit. This helped overcome our local Tower of Babel, Siggy’s crash course in Norwegian having, of course, come to an abrupt halt.
“To the last Christmas under the Nazis,” said Dad, raising his glass.
“You really think so?” asked Mum.
“My tip is April,” I said. “Can’t last much longer than that.”
“It’s got to be over by the twenty-eighth of May,” said Siggy.
Questioning looks from both parents.
“That’s when I’m due,” she explained. “And I promised Per our child would be born in a free country.”
Laughter all round. It was a good evening. An evening of relaxation before the last lap. Which, Siggy assured us, could not last beyond the month of May.
CHAPTER 57
On Christmas Day it was back to business. Using my Edvard Munch persona I phoned Gustav Vigeland with the suggestion that a meeting might be useful. Nothing specific, just a chance to catch up. Vigeland agreed midday at the usual place. Most of Oslo, in recovery mode from the night before, seemed to be taking the air – air that was minus ten degrees Celsius, according to our balcony thermometer. Fluffy clouds sailing by on an easterly wind. Crisp and bracing.
There was quite a crowd taking their exercise round the scaffolded Vigeland Monolith. I spotted my own Vigeland, today warmly clad, and fell into step beside him, describing my session with the reichskommissar.
“There are plenty of these bath tub rumours,” he confirmed. “Some say he plays in the water with toy ducks.”
“Not on my watch, he didn’t. Sorry to spoil your fun.”
“But your comments about Sweden are interesting,” he continued. “Because we’ve been wondering why his reactions have been so half-hearted recently. In the early days he didn’t hesitate to wield the big stick. Any attack by Milorg would be followed by mass arrests and executions (‘Milorg’ was short for the Home Front’s ‘Military Organisation’).
“That made us very careful. We had to weigh possible successes against resultant civilian casualties. Then last summer we got a big airdrop of arms from the RAF. Up in Nordmarka, which is now almost like a bit of free Norway...”
“...An SS man at Skaugum says he goes skiing in Nordmarka,” I interjected.
“Maybe so,” replied Vigeland. “But they keep to the tracks close to Frognersaeteren; don’t like venturing into the unknown. For us it’s different. Although Nordmarka is on our doorstep, it’s a big area; easy for the lads to disappear in. We’ve been using it as a training area for quite a while. Now, with all this new equipment, we’re able to mount some pretty big operations. So far we’ve held back for fear of reprisals, but if Terboven continues his present policy we might be able to step up our activities.”
“Dangerous,” I replied. “What the reichskommissar is able to do depends on the whim of the Führer, which is totally unpredictable. Should he have a change of heart and decide shooting civilians did pay, there’d be no restraints on Terboven. All hell could break loose. So be careful.”
We continued our circulation of the Monolith while Vigeland considered this. Finally he said, “We can’t stop our activities on the off-chance Hitler might change his mind. We’ve got some pretty dramatic stuff in the pipeline. So any info from your end will be more than welcome.”
“In that case you might ask your man at Skaugum farm – Ragnar’s the name, I believe – to be a bit more forthcoming.”
“Ragnar’s a sour-puss at the best of times. Also, he doesn’t trust you. I don’t trust you. Dammit, I’ll be glad when we can start behaving like normal human beings again!”
“The new year is only days away,” I said. “We’re bound to see the back of them in forty-five.”
“Yup. No question.” Like me, Vigeland was determined to look on the bright side.
“I’m back at Skaugum tomorrow,” I said. “Where we’ll say good riddance to nineteen forty-four.”
As we went our separate ways, Vigeland saluted the thought. Little did we know that the old year had one last trick to play. On New Year’s Eve, the RAF paid us a visit. At the invitation, we later learnt, of the Norwegian resistance, who had asked for help in releasing some of their men from Gestapo torture in Viktoria Terrasse.
The prospects for the raid must have looked good. Bomber command had made a lot of progress since my time, when the best we could do was send in the pathfinders, then saturate the whole area with high explosive and incendiary. Now there were dedicated Mosquito squadrons, which went in low and fast, with impressive levels of accuracy. Springing condemned resistance fighters from jail had become their speciality. Amiens in France and Aarhus in Denmark had both been judged successes, albeit with casualties amongst the resistance inmates.
But the Oslo raid went horribly wrong, the bombs missing their targets and instead hitting civilians. This included the total destruction of a tram trundling up Drammensveien; the same route we had taken the day my father had pointed out Nazi hot-spots to us new arrivals. Seventy-seven innocent Norwegians died.
The tragedy made a deep impression on us. Largely because it was the only time Oslo suffered material damage during the war. Unlike the rest of Europe. I couldn’t help reflecting that seventy-seven deaths during the London Blitz would have been reckoned a good night. To say nothing of just about anywhere in Germany; like Hamburg, where umpteen thousands were burnt to a cinder in a few hours.
Compared with most other countries Norway had so far got off lightly. I could only hope Terboven wouldn’t get a chance to change all that.
CHAPTER 58
Vigeland’s promise of more Milorg surprises came to fruition early in the new year, with the assassination of Norwegian police chief, Karl Marthinsen. A prominent Quisling and key link man between the collaborators and Gestapo, Marthinsen died under a hail of bullets as he was leaving his home in Blindernveien.
The reaction was immediate and dramatic. Neither Siggy nor I were sufficiently senior or trustworthy to be involved, but we viewed the stampede from a safe distance, as the Nazi leadership converged on Skaugum: Obergruppenführer Wilhelm Rediess, overall chief of SS forces in Norway; Heinrich Fehlis, in charge of security; Gestapo boss Hellmuth Reinhard; and Judge Hans Latza, the man who arranged death senten
ces. Amongst others.
Terboven was beside himself, demanding 10,000 executions. Dismayed at such a draconian response, his colleagues talked down the figure to ‘only’ thirty-four. So keen was the reichskommissar to set an example that the names of those executed were announced before they had actually been shot.
The Milorg assassins directly responsible had vanished, so it was left to security chief Fehlis to pick the victims. His bête noire was intellectuals, so four of these were immediately selected for the firing squad: a medical consultant, company director, and two lawyers. The remainder were mostly men suspected of ‘terror’ or sabotage.
The scale of these reprisals, even though far fewer than Terboven had wanted, shook everyone. The timescale had been such that any consultation with higher authority, such as the Führer, would have been impossible. From the Marthinsen murder, through the ‘legal’ process, to carrying out of sentences, all happened in less than twenty-four hours. Terboven showing his true colours.
Long term, the effect was to drastically reduce the Home Front’s scope for action. Periodic sabotage on the Nordland railway might be tolerated, but high profile killings were clearly not worth the consequences.
Short term, Skaugum returned to normal remarkably quickly. Once he had made his point, Terboven got back to the business of running Norway. Cool, calm and efficient.
It was a sign of his composure that just a few days later he took the unusual step of giving an interview to a Swedish newspaper. In fact, the Marthinsen murder was the reason he did so. As I discovered, because for the second time I found myself cast as his unofficial interpreter.
The journalist was Olof Hendriksson from Stockholm’s Aftonbladet. Although speaking excellent German, he had brought along an interpreter, presumably to double-check what was said. So what was my role? As the reichskommissar explained before we started, he wanted me to listen in on any chat between the Swedes. And report anything not intended for his ears. Although this came close to colluding with the enemy, I had little choice. When agreeing to Gauleiter Frunze’s little scheme I had dropped myself into murky waters. My only comfort was that the Swedes would surely see through this subterfuge and mind what they said.
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