THE LAST WEISS

by Rolf Richardson

  The setting for my second session with the reichskommissar could not have been more different from the first. Instead of a steaming bath, this was a formal interview, conducted in his Skaugum office.

  Josef Terboven was only about 5ft. 6in. and slightly built. Unlike Hermann Göring, who could intimidate by his sheer bulk, to say nothing of glamorous self-designed uniforms, Norway’s reichskommissar had to stamp his authority in more subtle ways. A direct line to the Führer was the first essential and Terboven built on this with an unsettling aloofness. Like most top Nazis, he did not flaunt exotic uniforms, on this occasion just standard Party dress, with a simple iron cross and Reichskommissar badge on the bottom of his left sleeve. The usual steel-rimmed spectacles, trousers pressed to a knife-edge, hair cut and groomed to parade ground standard. As his secretary Gerda Hettich used to say, “You always knew who was the boss.”

  The Swedish contingent consisted of Hendriksson, florid-faced, well-fed, fifty-ish. And his number two, a good twenty years younger, sleek and snooty, with highly-gelled black hair. I never discovered his name. Master and apprentice.

  After the opening courtesies, Terboven went on the attack, saying, “The Swedish press seems to spend most of its time discussing me and my administration. And in such an objective and admirable way I get the impression your currency is the English Pound: and your bible a translation of the Talmud...”

  Hendriksson squirmed and prepared an intervention, but thought better of it. Anyway, Terboven’s sarcastic onslaught was not to be stopped.

  “...So, when people who are plainly murderers, gangsters and saboteurs... men convicted of a dozen crimes, get what they deserve, then quite obviously Norway must be a ‘gallows state’... suffering a ‘bloodbath of revenge’... a country run by a ‘terror regime.’ Or whatever headline happens to take your fancy. Let me be frank. Yesterday we buried this country’s police chief. The man responsible for law and order. Our defence against anarchy.”

  Terboven leant forward and wagged a finger at the Swedes. “What would you have your government do if the same thing happened in your country? A massacre in the centre of Stockholm. A slap on the wrist perhaps? Ask them not to do it again? Well, good luck to you. All I can say is, that’s not how we operate here. Not on my watch. Call me old fashioned, but I happen to believe in making the punishment fit the crime. If a society starts on a program of wanton killing, it must accept the consequences.”

  The Reichskommissar’s tirade eventually burnt itself out, allowing Hendriksson to ask some questions, the most pertinent being what the Germans in Norway would do if their defence of the Fatherland collapsed.

  The Swede was tactful enough to use the word ‘if’. In early 1945 he should really have phrased it “When the defence of the fatherland collapsed.” The answer to this affected every one of us, so I sat up at full attention.

  Terboven, by contrast, sat back, a half smile on his face, and replied, “A hypothetical question. Germany will win the war. Must win the war. Otherwise life will be impossible. Next question, please.”

  Hendrikssons’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. He exchanged a glance with his apprentice. Such deep denial was bizarre. I had hoped for a clue to the way Terboven might jump, but was no further forward. The man remained an enigma.

  The interview rumbled on for another hour, with nothing more of importance to record. After I had escorted the Swedes out, Terboven asked me if they had let slip any nuggets, to which I replied, quite truthfully: “No, Herr Reichskommissar. They seemed somewhat overcome. Said speaking to you was like being hit with a sledgehammer.”

  “Good,” replied Terboven, with a slight smile. “Very good.”

  CHAPTER 59

  Late winter 1945 saw the final pieces of the jigsaw falling into place. Making up the mosaic which would confront us at the war’s grand finale.

  Oslo’s Storting, our parliament, where Siggy and I had met Terboven for the first time, was handed back to the Norwegians. A purely symbolic gesture, as ‘Norwegian’ in this context meant Quisling and his gang, who were recognised by no one bar the Nazis and a few collaborators.

  Of much more importance were changes to the German command structure and troop deployment in Norway. General Lothar Rendulic, who had taken over from von Falkenhurst a few months earlier as chief of the German troops in Norway, went off to the eastern front for some proper soldiering. He was replaced by an Austrian, General Franz Böhme, who promptly moved his headquarters out of Oslo, up-country to Lillehammer. Ostensibly for ‘security reasons’.

  This was worrying. Siggy and I held endless lovers’ conferences in our Skaugum bedroom, the only place we could be certain of privacy. ‘Duvet discussions’, we called them, because even in then, when the rest of the world still shivered under unwieldy blankets, Norwegians enjoyed that essential of married bliss, the duvet.

  Although Siggy never saw top secret material, a mass of low level information passed her way. From which we could piece together what the Germans were up to. Or rather, attempting to get up to. Because they were increasingly hamstrung by a shortage of essentials: not only food, also coal and petrol for transport.

  What they wanted to do was move their northern armies south, to replace men being transferred to the continent and defence of the Fatherland. After its initial foray into Norwegian Finnmark, the Red Army had lost interest, preferring to concentrate on the real issue; taking Berlin. So anywhere north of the arctic circle no longer had any military significance. Siggy told me that Böhme wanted to withdraw all his troops to Narvik. Maybe even as far south as Namsos.

  His problem was getting them there. With a transport system in terminal decline, the only option for many of them was walking. Marching. In the middle of an arctic winter. Guaranteeing an epidemic of blisters and frostbite. Even supposing they could be fed.

  The Nordland railway, which Terboven had spent so much time and energy trying to extend, still only reached as far as Mo i Rana. Even that stretch was constantly being attacked by Milorg’s saboteurs.

  The inevitable results of these actions were further paroxysms of revenge from Skaugum. The pattern was now well established. Every time there was an explosion on the track Terboven would go berserk and demand thousands of heads on the block. His minions and saner heads back in Germany would counsel moderation. And we’d end up with a compromise: ‘only’ a few dozen victims. These rages were traumatic and frightening. An ill omen for the future.

  The appointment of Böhme as Wehrmacht chief didn’t help. Whereas Rendulic had been credited with a modicum of common sense, the new man was seen as a hard liner. A Terboven yes-man.

  Ever since that fateful day in April 1940, Norway had been subjected to a triangular turf war between its masters: between the Nazi party, Wehrmacht and Quislings. The Quislings were little more than puppets, who could twitch and dance, as in a Punch and Judy show, but in reality were no more than wooden figures. The battle proper was between the Party and Military. In theory the Party ran the civil side of things, while the Wehrmacht saw to defence, but lines were often blurred in the Third Reich, so who came out as the winner often came down to personalities. Terboven had spent over four years trying to muscle in on Wehrmacht territory. Without much success. Von Falkenhorst had been strong enough to hold his own. With Falkenhorst gone, replaced by someone more pliable, Terboven was now all powerful.

  I was mulling over these facts, in a sleepless night, when I got to thinking about something Gauleiter Frunze had said. About Terboven setting up what he called his ‘special zone’. On Hardangervidda. Frunze had this down as the scene of Terboven’s last stand. A wild mountain plateau. Ideal. Supposedly.

  The more I thought about Hardangervidda in this role, the less I liked it. I knew the area quite well, having spent a skiing holiday at Kongsbergsaeter, a mountain hut on ‘vidda. It had been a long drive from Oslo, dark when the bus stopped, dumping us at the roadside. We’d been met by a horse-drawn sledge for our luggage. Then it was a moonlight ski run to our de
stination. Miles from anywhere and anything. Fantastic for a holiday. And pretty good for hiding the odd fugitive saboteur from German justice. But hopeless for a large body of men, who could neither be nourished nor hidden in such a place.

  I had reached this conclusion, when the obvious suddenly hit me. Sitting up in bed, I said, “Lillehammer!”

  This half woke Siggy, who grunted, felt for my hand and placed it on her tummy. Which by now was expanding nicely.

  As a first time dad-to-be I was fascinated by the stirring of new life; even Siggy, for whom this was second time around, was entranced by her embryonic kicking. Maybe, in her sleep-befuddled state, she also registered the syllables ‘lille’, Norwegian for ‘little’. I hadn’t the nerve to tell her that this didn’t refer to the little genius she was hatching in her womb, but to a rather ordinary Norwegian town. For a few moments I dutifully played along; clucked encouragingly; agreed that Jespersen junior was in playful mood.

  Then, by now rather more awake, she asked, “Wassa time?”

  I looked at my watch. “Half past midnight.”

  “For God’s sake!” She rolled over. End of romantic interlude.

  I couldn’t let this hang in the air until morning, so made a full confession. “Lillehammer. The town where the Germans are moving their military headquarters. That’s where Terboven will make his last stand. Not Hardangervidda, as Frunze thought.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” Siggy turned back to face me, now fully awake. Interested.

  I explained the drawbacks with Hardangervidda, then added, “But Lillehammer ticks all the boxes. It’s a sizeable town, lots of accommodation, including the military barracks at Jørstadmoen. Ideal for assembling troops, like all those fellows coming down from the north. Lillehammer itself may not be ideal guerrilla territory; it’s something of a farming centre, a little too civilised, but it’s no distance to the next valley, Østerdalen. And that’s perfect.

  At school we learnt all about the Birkebeiner, who brought the two-year-old boy king, Håkon Håkonsen, across the mountains from

  Østerdalen to Lillehammer. Saved Norway. That was... twelfth century, I think. Anyway, a long time ago. I can’t imagine Terboven having much difficulty, the might of the Wehrmacht behind him, doing this in reverse. Once in Østerdalen he’d have mile after mile of forest. Easy to live in. And impossible to find. Tailor-made for a last stand.”

  “All very theoretical,” said Siggy, doubtfully.

  “Of course. Guesswork. Has to be. But Frunze sent us back to Norway precisely because he was worried about Terboven. And now we’ve seen at first-hand what he’s like. Becoming more extreme by the day. If he’d had his way, half of Norway would have faced a firing squad by now. We can’t afford to just hope he’ll come to his senses.”

  “Hmm. Or that his bosses will be able to control him when the big crash comes,” added Siggy. “No, you’re right. We should try something. I think another chat with Sturmbannführer Zoller is called for.”

  I had absolutely no objection to my wife cosying up to her SS admirer. As long as I was there as a chaperone.

  CHAPTER 60

  It was absurdly easy to get chatting to the sturmbannführer. He was a creature of habit, always turning up for lunch on the dot of 12.30. And pathetically grateful for a few seconds with my wife. Although at first he’d riled me, I’d undergone something of a conversion. I now felt almost sorry for him. This was of course ridiculous: one didn’t feel sorry for a member of the notorious SS. But people were beginning to cast off their wartime persona; apart from a few diehards, like Josef Terboven, they were increasingly focussing on the transition to peace. A life without uniforms. And without the guiding light of an ideology. Scary for them.

  Sturmbannführer Zoller was clearly now firmly in the ‘survivor’ camp. Couldn’t wait to get back to his family in St. Andreasberg. Siggy’s ‘slow cooker’ policy meant that lately she had largely left him to stew. We had occasionally made polite smalltalk; discovered his first name was August – that was all. It was now time to apply some more heat.

  “August! Good to see you!” Siggy turned on the charm. Uninvited, we sat down opposite him.

  Zoller blushed. He really was quite a handsome guy. Tall, slim, blonde, mid-thirties. I could just see him as a genial host at the family hotel, or guiding some nervy beginners down a ski slope.

  “I hear the propaganda minister has been at it again,” said Siggy. “Trying to frighten us. The Russkies can’t be as bad as all that.”

  Cunning little Siggy. Since Stalingrad the Goebbles information machine had been charting a crazy zigzag course: one moment claiming unlikely victories, the next warning of the apocalyptic consequences of defeat. Victories, however small, were a thing of the past, so from now on our fare would be undiluted misery.

  Like everyone, Zoller knew that the Russians, far from being ‘not as bad as all that’ – Siggy’s phrase, were in reality even worse than the ghastly pictures painted by Goebbles. The Red Army had already swallowed the whole of East Prussia, once the Teutonic heartlands; and were well into Germany proper. The stories of civilian rape and murder were too many and well-documented not to be true. That the Nazis had brought this on themselves by their brutal behaviour in the occupied countries was no consolation. Those Germans stranded in Norway now had only one thing on their minds: the fate of their families at home.

  Siggy was lucky. Although naturally concerned about the Gasthof zum Löwen and the rest of her town, she no longer had close ties there. Thanks to Gauleiter Frunze, she and Benni were safe in Norway. Safe? She’d do her best to ensure it remained so.

  “My folks live in the Harz,” Zoller reminded us. Adding nervously, “Still a long way from the Eastern front. But I do wish things would get moving in the west.”

  What an admission! I couldn’t resist a half-hidden smirk. Here was a member of the much-feared SS hoping the British and Americans would ‘get moving’. A year, maybe only weeks ago, he would have meant a counter-attack into France. Now the direction was reversed. Now his hopes rested on having civilised westerners rather than descendants of the Mongols as his new masters. As it turned out, the Iron Curtain was destined to go right down the middle of the Harz mountains, leaving St. Andreasberg, by a whisker, in the British sector. But August Zoller was to suffer plenty of angst before that miracle came to pass.

  “Not much we can do about events down south,” said Siggy, bringing us sharply back to the present. “But when the war ends we can expect much settling of accounts. Individual actions will make quite a difference.”

  This was dodgy ground. Nowadays you couldn’t say what you thought. Conversations had to be conducted by innuendo. So the phrase ‘when the war ends’ left open the interpretation of a German victory. Even though everyone knew this was impossible.

  What Siggy was trying to plant in Zoller’s mind was the prospect of retribution for wartime sins. Trial and punishment. The hangman’s noose? A firing squad? More importantly for us, at the same time she dangled before him the almost religious concept of perhaps being able to atone for such sins. By doing the right thing now: during the closing stages of the war. “Individual actions will make quite a difference,” she had said. ‘Will make’ – future tense. Hurry up and bank some credit with the new order, to set against all that red ink in your account.

  The sturmbannführer sat there in a daze. Stopped eating. His fork danced a tattoo on the table. Finally he mumbled, “It’s all very difficult...”

  “All I’m suggesting is some planning,” said Siggy. “In your head. Usual military stuff. Look towards the next campaign.”

  Zoller didn’t reply. Sat there, still drumming his fork. Stony faced. I was beginning to fear Siggy had blown it when he finally said, “Know what... I’ve been cooped up here in Skaugum the past four years. Making sure the boss and his team were safe. Security. Important. Reckon I’ve done a good job.”

  He gave a wan smile. “Must’ve done a good job, because they’re all still alive an
d kicking. But it’s been bloody boring. And frustrating. Lost count of the times I’ve asked for a transfer to the front. Instead, spent my days up here. Back of beyond. Nice scenery, but as I said, bloody boring. So, Per... I was wondering...”

  With a start, I realised he was talking to me. Not Siggy. And it was ‘Per’, not the usual ‘Herr Jespersen’.

  “...Four years in Norway,” he continued, “and I’ve hardly met any Norwegians. Plenty of Quislings, of course, but no proper Norwegians...”

  So even the Germans didn’t rate Quislings a ‘proper Norwegians’!

  “...I’ve met no one like you before. Who’s only in Skaugum because of your wife, and because we’re now so short-staffed. I feel it’s time to broaden my horizons. Get out and about a bit. So would it be possible...” his embarrassment was... well... embarrassing. “...I know your parents live in Oslo. Could I meet them? Unofficially, of course. Just for a chat?”

  I just sat there like a moron. On the one hand this request was proof that our campaign was bearing fruit. That we were beginning to prise Zoller loose from his Nazi moorings. On the other hand, letting him meet my parents was out of the question. During our stay in Gothenburg Willy Brandt had warned of the possible consequences of Gauleiter Frunze’s plan: that however noble our intentions, coming too close to the hated invaders could mean social death. As had happened to the popular Norwegian actress Sonja Wigert, whose brave and successful foray into Terboven’s bed had made her an outcast. It was a risk I was prepared to take for myself. But not for my parents.