Chapman came face-to-face with the war of occupation for the first time. In France, he had mixed with a handful of tarts, collaborators, and black marketers, but he had little contact with other French citizens. In London, his conversations outside the security service had been few and strictly supervised. Now he observed Nazi rule at unpleasantly close proximity.
The invasion of Norway, in April 1940, had been swift and devastating. The nation was decapitated, and King Haakon fled into exile in London. The Norwegian Nazis, led by Vidkun Quisling, assumed office as a puppet government under German rule. Hitler had simple ambitions for Norway: to defend it against the expected British counterinvasion, to bleed the country white, and to convert it to Nazism. The Norwegian people, however, declined to be bullied into fascism. Pressure and threats gave way to outright coercion. In the spring of 1942, Goebbels declared of the recalcitrant Norwegians: “If they will not16 learn to love us, they shall at least learn to fear us.” Many had learned to fear the Nazis in the ensuing Gestapo-led terror, but more had learned to hate them. A few collaborated, as a few always will; the more extreme or ambitious joined the Norwegian Nazi Party, or volunteered for the Viking Regiment—the Norwegian legion deployed by Hitler on the eastern front. Quisling, vague, inefficient, and fanatical, won the rare distinction of being so closely associated with a single characteristic—treachery—that a noun was created in his name. At the opposite moral pole, an active Norwegian resistance movement organized protests, strikes, sabotage, and even assassinations.
Between the extremes of collaboration and resistance, the majority of Norwegians maintained a sullen, insolent loathing for the German occupiers. As a mark of opposition, many wore paper clips in their lapels. The paper clip was a Norwegian invention; the little twist of metal became a symbol of unity, a society binding together against oppression. Their anger blew cold in a series of small rebellions and acts of incivility. Waiters in restaurants would always serve their countrymen first; Norwegians would cross the street to avoid eye contact with a German and speak only in Norwegian; on buses, no one would sit beside a German, even when the vehicle was jam-packed, a form of passive disobedience so infuriating to the occupiers that it became illegal to stand on a bus if a seat was available. Collaborators were shunned by former friends, neighbors, and family. They were seldom openly rebuked, but they were socially ostracized. The resistance groups called this the “Ice Front,” Norwegian society’s collective cold shoulder intended to freeze out the enemy.
The Germans and their Norwegian collaborators sought refuge from the hostility in a handful of places where they could socialize, such as the Ritz Hotel and a large restaurant renamed the Löwenbräu, which admitted only Germans and collaborators. But even here, Chapman recalled, sealed off from the rest of Norway, “it was an uneasy feeling.”17 Norwegians assumed that Chapman was German and avoided him. They answered in monosyllables, or eyed him with ill-veiled contempt from behind what he called a “wall of hatred.”18 He had experienced none of this antagonism in France. A naturally sociable man, Chapman was learning what it feels like to be loathed.
Chapman’s discomfort was compounded by the sensation that his German handlers also regarded him with some distrust. The grinning Johnny Holst accompanied him everywhere, friendly but vigilant. The German officials who came and went at the Forbunds Hotel “appeared somewhat suspicious19 and were not communicative.” His disingenuous questions about intelligence operations met with silence. Von Gröning had promised him “complete freedom.”20 Both knew that Chapman’s freedom was far from complete. The Abwehr officials he met never gave their names. Not once did he cross the threshold of Abwehr headquarters, a large block of flats at Klingenberggate. Von Gröning instructed him to relax and “not to work.”21 He had assumed this was a reward, but gradually the realization dawned that this enforced leisure was a security precaution, a way of keeping him at arm’s length.
He was told to carry a pistol, to report if he felt he was being followed, and to ensure that he was never photographed. British agents were doubtless watching him, von Gröning warned, and might even target him. But the Germans were also watching him. And so were the Norwegians.
Chapman had been in Oslo a few days when Praetorius, the man he knew as Walter Thomas, finally arrived, dirty and disheveled after a three-day train journey via Sweden, and more than usually grumpy. Praetorius, newly married to Friederike, his childhood sweetheart, had been undergoing training in Berlin for officers intended for the eastern front. He was furious at being ordered to babysit Chapman instead. Unlike von Gröning, who had been only too delighted to escape the carnage, Praetorius saw himself as knightly warrior in the old tradition. An ardent Nazi and anti-Communist, he was itching, he said, to do “battle against the Reds”22 and was determined to win himself an Iron Cross. (Chapman concluded that Thomas had a “hero complex.”23) Alternately spouting Nazi propaganda and practicing his English country dancing steps, Praetorius was once again a constant presence—eccentric, humorless, and profoundly aggravating. After just a few days, Chapman begged von Gröning to make him go away, but the spymaster, who found Praetorius no less annoying, said he had no choice: Berlin had specifically ordered that the young Nazi should be present at the debriefing and act as Chapman’s “companion.” Unbeknownst to either of them, Praetorius was compiling his own report.
After two solid weeks of interrogation, von Gröning boarded the plane to Berlin with the final version of Chapman’s story, neatly typed up by Molli Stirl, in his briefcase. Chapman could finally relax, unaware that his fate was being furiously debated at Abwehr headquarters in Berlin, where one faction of the German secret service wanted him rewarded, and another wanted him eliminated. The argument can be partially reconstructed from postwar interrogations of Abwehr personnel. Von Gröning, naturally, led the supporters’ club, pointing out that Chapman had performed “the only successful sabotage24 ever carried out” by the sabotage branch of the Paris Abwehr. His most vigorous opponent was the officer newly appointed to head the Paris station, von Eschwege, who insisted that Fritz was either “controlled by the British”25 or a fraud. Far from carrying out a successful mission, he claimed, “when [Chapman] went to England he did nothing, and lied about his activities.”
The argument was complicated by an internal turf war and a personality clash. According to an Abwehr officer present during the debate, von Eschwege “apparently had the idea, which is not unknown to any of us, that nothing which had been done before was any good.” Von Gröning, on the other hand, was described as “one of those ‘don’t-tell-me-what-to-do-I-know’ types.” The dispute raged for five days until, finally, judgment was passed, presumably by Canaris himself. The Abwehr needed a success story; there was nothing to prove that Chapman was double-dealing, and there was plenty of evidence, including English newspaper reports, to back up his account. He had shown exemplary bravery in the service of Germany and should be rewarded, congratulated, pampered, and closely watched.
Von Gröning returned to Oslo “beaming with pleasure.”26 The Abwehr, he announced, had decided to award Chapman the sum of 110,000 reichsmarks: 100,000 for his “good work in England,”27 and an additional 10,000 for the plot to sabotage the City of Lancaster. This was some 27 percent less than the 150,000 reichsmarks he had been promised in the original contract, but it was still a large sum, and an accurate reflection of circumstances; the Abwehr was only about 73 percent sure Chapman was telling the truth. Like any experienced contract criminal, Chapman asked to be paid “in notes,”28 but von Gröning said that the money would be held for him “in credit” at the Oslo Abwehr headquarters, where Chapman could “draw on it when necessary.” He did not need to add that this way Chapman would be less tempted to abscond with the cash. He would also receive a monthly wage of 400 kroner. Chapman signed a receipt, which was countersigned by von Gröning—now not only his spymaster, but also his private banker.
The scene that followed marked perhaps the oddest moment in the entire saga
. According to Chapman, von Gröning then rose “solemnly”29 to his feet and handed him a small leather case. Inside, on a red, white, and black ribbon, was an Iron Cross—das Eiserne Kreuz, the highest symbol of bravery. First awarded in 1813 to Prussian troops during the Napoleonic Wars, the Iron Cross was revived by the kaiser in the First World War, and by the Second World War had become a central element of Nazi iconography, the stark symbol of Aryan courage. Hitler himself proudly displayed the Iron Cross he was awarded as a corporal in 1914. Göring won two, one in each war. The mystique of the cross was such that postcards of the most famous recipients were printed and avidly collected by children and adults alike. The medal, von Gröning said, was in recognition of Chapman’s “outstanding zeal and success.” No other British citizen has ever received the Iron Cross.
Chapman was astonished and privately amused by this extraordinary presentation. He reflected wryly to himself: “If I stay with this mob long enough, I might end up a Reichsmarschall…”
As the Nazi occupation weighed ever more heavily on Norway, Chapman, under orders to enjoy himself, lived a lotus life: “You are free30 to explore the countryside,” von Gröning told him. “Go yachting31 and bathing.” Chapman did what he was told. During the day, he was left to explore his new home, always with Johnny Holst or Walter Praetorius in tow. At night, they would go drinking at the Löwenbräu or the Ritz. It was hinted that his next mission might involve a sea crossing, and so Holst “was put at his disposal to teach him yachting, whenever he needed him.” Holst was a wireless instructor, yet he was available to go sailing or drinking at a moment’s notice, “postponing classes whenever he felt so inclined.” Chapman’s new companion was a strange man, cultured and refined in many ways, but a slob in others. He spoke Danish and Norwegian, loved music and the sea. When very drunk (which he was much of the time), he could be belligerent and morose; when merely tipsy (which he was the rest of the time), he was sentimental and lachrymose. He suffered from acute delirium tremens, and his hands shook violently. Holst was having an affair with another of the Abwehr secretaries, a German woman named Irene Merkl who had been a fifth columnist in Norway before the invasion. “If the British ever come to Norway, she would be shot,” Holst would remark with pride.
Von Gröning, aware of Chapman’s propensity for boredom, told him to “brush up on his Morse,” and so he was escorted one morning to the wireless training school, lodged in a large Oslo town house, the upstairs rooms of which had been divided into cubicles, each with a locked door. Trainee spies were brought in at different times, and locked in, to ensure they never spotted one another. Chapman’s telegraphy was tested, and declared to be good, though “rusty.” He was then “hustled” out. Plainly, he could not be trusted to be left alone with a radio.
Life in Oslo drifted pleasantly by. Chapman, it seemed, was not expected to learn, or do, anything very much. A photographer named Rotkagel, the former manager of a Leica factory, was detailed to teach him photography, and he was issued with his own camera and film. Chapman found it strange to be “regarded as an expert” from time to time, he was consulted on matters of sabotage, “asked to give advice as a result of his exploits,” and presented to visiting German dignitaries by a proud von Gröning as “the man who has already been over there for us.”
One day, Chapman half jokingly declared to von Gröning that he wanted “to buy a boat.” Instead of dismissing the idea, the German promptly produced a wad of cash. From Evanson’s boatyard, with Holst’s help and advice, he purchased a Swedish yawl, an elegant little sailing vessel with a small cabin ideal for navigating through the fjords. As the days passed, the surveillance regime seemed to relax; Holst and Thomas no longer dogged his every step. He was even allowed to sail alone, with consequences that were almost disastrous when he put out into the Oslo fjord against Holst’s advice and lost his sails in a storm. He was towed back to harbor, but instead of being mocked for his foolishness, this escape only seemed to “enhance his stock”32 among the Germans.
Chapman was fêted, a free captive, rich and idle; he should have been happy. But the Ice Front had chilled him. The wintry stares of the Norwegians, the sense of unreality, compounded by his own double-dealing, had wrought a change. In Nantes, he had been content to take advantage of the situation; but now, living a life of fake bonhomie and stolen luxury with his German companions, he found himself affected by the oppressive contempt of the Norwegians, a “truly brave,33 patriotic people.”
The Ritz Hotel, a classical-fronted, cream-colored building with wrought-iron balconies in the exclusive Skillebekk neighborhood, had once been the preserve of Oslo’s wealthy; now it was the chosen retreat of a different elite composed of occupiers and collaborators. Every evening, officers of the SS, the Gestapo, and the Abwehr mingled with recruits to the Viking Regiment and members of the Quisling government.
One evening in late April, Chapman was drinking at the mahogany bar of the Ritz when he spotted two young women at a corner table, laughing together. When one of them took out a cigarette, Chapman sauntered over and offered a light. “Bitteschön.”34 The girl shook her head, shot a glance of acid disdain, and lit her own cigarette. Chapman noticed that up close she was “most attractive,”35 with delicate features and large eyes with almost colorless pupils. Undaunted, Chapman drew up a chair. He was French, he lied, a journalist writing an article for a Paris newspaper. He bought more drinks; he made the girls laugh. Holst joined the group and began chatting to the other girl, whose name was Mary Larsen, in Norwegian, while Chapman set about charming her blond friend in French and English. Finally, she conceded that her name was Dagmar. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the ice began to thaw. Chapman invited her to dinner. She refused point-blank. Chapman persisted. Finally, she relented.
Only much later did Chapman pause to wonder why a beautiful girl who hated Germans should choose to drink in the city’s most notorious Nazi hangout.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Girl at the Ritz
DAGMAR MOHNE HANSEN Lahlum was born in Eidsvoll, a small, rural town in southeastern Norway, where the Norwegian constitution was signed in 1814. The daughter of a shoemaker, Dagmar was anything but straitlaced, and from an early age she was regarded by local gossips as altogether too pretty and opinionated for their respectable town. The neighbors muttered that she had fancy airs and would come to no good. Dagmar loathed living in Eidsvoll, claiming, with some justification, that nothing interesting had happened there since 1814. She would pore over magazines sent to her by an aunt in Oslo and try to reproduce the latest fashions with her needle and thread, while dreaming of escape. “She was young,1 she wanted to explore the world, to learn English, and dance,” a relative recalled.
Shortly before the war, at the age of seventeen, Dagmar packed up her few belongings, headed for the city, and found work as a receptionist in a hotel in the capital. She enrolled in evening modeling classes and learned to sashay and swivel her hips. She had watched, appalled and a little excited, as the solid ranks of invading German troops marched down Karl Johans Gate, but at first the occupation hardly touched her. At night, in her tiny flat at Frydenlundsgate, she read books about art and poetry, and painted elaborate clothing designs. “She wanted to improve2 herself.” She, like Chapman, “wanted adventure.”3
Her first she quickly regretted. She met a much older man named Johanssen who seemed worldly and sophisticated and married him with a 20,000 kroner dowry from her father. Johanssen expected Dagmar to cook and clean like an obedient hausfrau, which was not what Dagmar had in mind at all. She left him and demanded her dowry back; Johanssen refused. On the night she met Chapman, Dagmar was celebrating her twenty-first birthday with her best friend, Mary, and toasting the start of her divorce proceedings.
Dagmar would be the grand passion of Chapman’s war, but few love affairs can have started more inauspiciously. She thought Chapman was an enemy invader, though she conceded he was charming. With her Craven A cigarettes, long ebony holder, high heels, and f
ashionably risqué dresses, he imagined she was just a good-time girl. Both were utterly mistaken. For Dagmar Lahlum, model and dressmaker, was also secretly working as an agent for Milorg, the spreading Norwegian resistance network. Though neither knew it, Eddie Chapman and his “beautiful and adorable”4 new lover were fighting on the same side.
Chapman quickly became infatuated. He adjusted his lie, dropped the pretense of being a French journalist, and claimed to be a German, born and raised in the United States. He wined and dined Dagmar with every luxury that occupied Oslo could supply. No longer did she sew her own clothes, for he bought her anything she desired. He took her sailing on the fjords; they swam naked in the icy water, and made love in the woods. As always, Chapman’s love and loyalty moved on the shifting tide of his moods. He was loyal to Britain, but happy to be courted by the Nazis; he was loyal to his MI5 spymasters, but considered his truest friend to be von Gröning, the man he was betraying; he was still betrothed to Freda, but besotted with Dagmar. Von Gröning observed the blooming love affair with shrewd approval. A spy in love was a spy who might be manipulated, and Dagmar—of whom they had no suspicion—might be a most useful bargaining chip. It was precisely the same calculation MI5 had made over Freda.
Though Dagmar seemed to be in love, Chapman sensed tension and a little fear in her, something private and alert. She plainly disbelieved his claim to be German-American, and often asked how he had developed such a strange accent. She refused to accompany him to restaurants used by Norwegians. In the street, her fellow countrymen would stare at them, a Norwegian girl holding hands with a German, and she would blush deeply. The gossips noted sourly how Dagmar smoked black-market American cigarettes and sported an expensive new wardrobe. “Because she had nice clothes5 everyone assumed she was Nazi. It was the rule: if you had money, you must be collaborating.” Chapman saw how her compatriots subtly slighted Dagmar; he sensed her hurt and embarrassment, and bristled on her behalf. One night, in the Löwenbräu, a legionnaire from the Viking Regiment made a barbed remark about Dagmar within earshot. The next moment, the Norwegian was flat on his back, with Chapman beating the glue out of him for this “fancied slight.”6 Johnny Holst had to drag him off. From her comments, it was obvious that Dagmar was “anti-Quisling,”7 but he knew that behind her back the Norwegians called her a “Nazi’s tart.”8 Trapped in his tangle of lies, Chapman longed to tell her the truth, but he held back, knowing the truth could kill them both.
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