There was a tremendous amount of work to do. It wasn’t just a question of building vessels but of development and training …
Doenitz had paused at the after rail, but now he turned and started to pace back along the deck. He looked up and saw the figure of Fischer waiting patiently a few yards away. The U-boat Arm needed more men like Fischer, men who served with skill, optimism and enthusiasm.
He beckoned the younger man over and the two of them fell into step. Doenitz said, ‘It has been an interesting day, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Most fascinating. This device will obviously be very useful to us.’
‘We will see. I don’t always believe everything that these things are meant to do. When we’ve had a chance to try it on exercise, then I will believe it!’
‘Will we have a fleet exercise soon?’
‘In the spring, I expect. And then we will be able to display our tactics for the first time. It is very important that we show the High Command the effectiveness of the wolf pack. They must understand that our success depends on numbers.’
Fischer nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, sir. I see. Greater numbers …’ He looked at his new commanding officer with gratitude. ‘Thank you for telling me. It makes me realise how important our training programme will be this winter.’
Doenitz nodded. His policy was always to tell his junior officers as much as possible. Above all else he valued trust and loyalty, and he believed that they grew not from aloofness, but from mutual openness and understanding of each other’s problems. He intended to be fully involved in the day-to-day activities of his men. Whenever possible he would meet boats when they returned from exercise, he would attend debriefings, he would hear about operational problems first-hand. He did not intend to lose touch with his men, ever.
There were certain things they could not be told, of course. It would be wrong to talk about the power struggles between the Navy and the Luftwaffe, which Goering, as Hitler’s favourite, was already winning; it would be wrong too to say how worrying Hitler’s ideas about warfare were. Hitler had made a friendly gesture to Britain it was true, and that was the wisest thing to have done, but Doenitz wondered if Hitler appreciated that a war, if it came, would inevitably be fought against Britain. And the only way to beat Britain was to choke off her supplies, to sink all her merchant shipping, to make her slowly but surely starve.
For that they needed U-boats and lots of them.
Doenitz said, ‘Yes, we have much to do this winter. As soon as the flotilla is up to strength, we will work up our tactics.’ He looked towards Pelzerhaken which was coming up ahead as the Welle made for the shelter of the harbour once more. ‘The wolf pack will revolutionise warfare at sea. Think of the number of ships that can be sunk by a group of U-boats hunting together; it will be three to four times the total that all U-boats could achieve on their own. Also, I believe that such tactics will take our enemies by surprise.’
Fischer frowned. He was wholeheartedly behind his new captain and just as anxious to prove that these new tactics would work. But he, like everyone else, had heard about the new British invention, Asdic, which used sound waves to detect submarines underwater. The British seemed to think their invention would mean the end of the submarine as an offensive weapon. Tentatively he asked, ‘What about Asdic? The British are boasting about it. They seem very confident in it.’
Doenitz stopped and looked at Fischer. ‘But it’s only effective against submerged boats. When we attack, it will be at night on the surface. They will have no defence against that. Of course, after an attack they will come after us and then, once we are dived, they will use it against us. But even so, we only have their word for its effectiveness. It’s like this radar here; I will believe it when I see it!’
The captain started pacing the deck again and Fischer had to stride out to keep up with him. Doenitz said with emphasis, ‘In fact, Asdic has done us a good turn. It has made the British complacent. You know they have fewer submarines than the French? They think submarines will not be important. Well, if war comes, we will prove them wrong.’
‘What about the small DT device the scientist was talking about? Will we be getting some for our boats?’
Doenitz shook his head. ‘Apparently the little man suffers from over-optimism. He was talking about a really small device, but it seems this will not be possible. If we are lucky we will get something that might just fit into a U-boat. Even then I will want its effectiveness proved.’
Doenitz clasped his hands behind his back and wished the Welle would hurry back to her berth. He wanted to return to Kiel as soon as possible. There was so much to do and so little time to do it in.
Fischer went on, ‘And the British – they don’t have the DT device?’
‘No, they don’t.’ Doenitz almost added: at least that’s what we’re told. Schmidt had better be right about that, otherwise – well, the consequences hardly bore thinking about.
‘That’s the main thing anyway,’ Fischer said with a smile. ‘At least we’ll be free to make surprise attacks on the surface.’
‘Yes.’ And if we don’t have that, thought Doenitz, we don’t have anything. If, by any dreadful chance, the little scientist was right, if a device could be made to pick out a submarine on the surface in any weather, on the thickest of nights, then his wolf pack strategy would be in ruins.
His boats and his men would be desperately vulnerable.
Like sitting ducks.
The Hamburg–Berlin express lumbered slowly into Lehrter Bahnhof. The squeal of brakes and the hiss of escaping steam woke David up. He stretched his arms and nudged Hans, still snoring in the seat beside him. ‘We’re here.’
It was late, almost ten o’clock. David couldn’t remember what time the last train to Hennigsdorf left, probably about eleven. He should have plenty of time to get to Stettiner Bahnhof and catch it.
Hans was looking at his watch and cursing. ‘I must rush. My train leaves in half an hour!’
David followed him on to the platform and said, ‘You go ahead. I’m going to see if I can get something to eat.’
Hans laughed. ‘What, more?’ Then waved and strode off.
David went into the station buffet and ordered brat-wurst, sauerkraut, black bread and beer. He was amazed at how hungry he was, even after the substantial dinner he had eaten on the train. One good thing about seasickness – the only good thing – was that you felt marvellous afterwards.
Ellen said he ate too much, and she was right. But there would be nothing hot waiting for him when he got home; Ellen liked to eat early and have the kitchen tidied by the time she went to bed at ten.
She was a good wife, Ellen, but she did like her sleep. David had long since realised that she couldn’t function without at least nine hours a night. He never disturbed her when he came in late and he always woke her in the mornings with a cup of lemon tea. On Sundays he did not wake her at all, and she often slept until ten or eleven. Then he would take Cecile for a walk, and they would have long talks about how trees grew, and why steam drove trains and what made lightning strike church steeples. She was a bright child and David was immensely proud of her. Her science reports were very good and David secretly hoped she might be a physicist or perhaps a biologist. He never said as much to Ellen, who thought science not only dull but extremely unsuitable for a girl.
It was ten-twenty and David hurriedly finished his meal. The last train might well leave before eleven and it would be stupid to miss it.
Outside the station he waited for a bus to Stettiner Bahnhof. But when none had appeared after five minutes he decided to walk. It would do him good. Anyway the station wasn’t far, just ten minutes’ walk along Invaliden-strasse. He relaxed again. There was plenty of time. He needn’t have worried.
Ellen said he didn’t worry enough, and there was some truth in it. Yet he did worry about things that mattered, like Cecile and her education and her happiness. What he couldn’t see any point in fretting about was money or the cos
t of living or politics or any of those things.
When David arrived at Stettiner Bahnhof he discovered he had ten minutes to spare. The last train for Hennigsdorf was due to leave at ten-fifty-five.
He sat on a bench to wait. Somehow he had known he would have plenty of time. He often got a feeling about things. He had a feeling about his shortwave research project. He just knew that somehow, somewhere, it would go ahead. It was just a question of waiting and putting his case before the right people. Whether his talk with Doenitz had helped or not he did not know, but it had certainly stirred things up a bit. Schmidt had been purple with anger. David smiled and thought: Well, it can’t do any harm.
The Hennigsdorf train arrived and he got into an empty compartment. Eventually the train drew out and began its slow journey into the suburbs.
David watched the bright lights of the city pass by and considered his project. The more he thought about it, the more determined he was to get the thing off the ground. They all said the idea was impossible. They said that no valve could ever produce the sort of power he needed. True, nothing existed at the moment – but it could. It would. He would make one.
The train drew into Hennigsdorf and he got out, turning the matter of the valve over in his mind. He went out of the station and automatically turned left towards home. He walked with his head down, deep in thought. At present there were two kinds of valve, the klystron and the magnetron. If he could take the best qualities of both and combine them … keep the magnetron but use a closed resonator …
He was passing a shop and something in the window caught his eye. He looked up. It was a large notice pasted across the window. It said, simply: Jude!
David realised it was old Finstein’s shoe shop. He stood staring at the window for a long time. He knew this happened in the centre of the city, but here, in Hennigsdorf? This place was so quiet, so safe. Everyone knew each other. Damn it, everyone knew old Finstein.
He walked slowly on, thinking of what Hans had said. He couldn’t believe there was really a risk of losing his job. For others, well, he had to admit that it was not a good time to be in business or one of the professions. But the Jews had been through times like this before. As he’d said to Hans, there had been some unpleasantness before the Great War, but it had passed like these things always did. The new laws would make marriages like his and Ellen’s illegal. Well, he repeated to himself, they couldn’t unmarry two people who had been married fifteen years. As for Cecile, nothing would happen to her. She was a second generation Mischlinge, or mixed-blood. She counted as German. Nothing would ever happen to her or to Ellen. And as for making him leave – well, they were doing that to the poor and to the business people but they would never do that to him. They needed him; they knew it and he knew it. There was no more to be said.
He turned into the street where he lived and felt the familiar warmth of anticipation. Whenever he walked up the slight hill under the row of linden trees, he looked forward to the first sight of his small house, so neat and pretty. It gave him a peculiar thrill to think that this was his own small patch.
The house was dark, as he knew it would be, and he opened the door very quietly so as not to wake anybody. He checked that all the doors were locked and then climbed the stairs. He paused on the landing and crept towards the open door of the back bedroom. He looked in and saw Cecile’s dark hair spread across the pillow.
He knelt beside the bed and caressed her hair.
He whispered the words he had always whispered, ever since she was a baby. ‘I love you, meine kleine Rosenknospe, I love you.’
He thought: What a lucky man I am, to have so much – my work, my house, my family. And you, my Liebling, most of all, to have you.
And then he whispered out loud, ‘I will love you and protect you always. Always.’
Chapter 4
THE TOLLING OF a single bell echoed faintly over the city. Vasson thought: Is it really Sunday? He’d quite forgotten.
Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Lord forgive me, for I have sinned …
To hell with it. He hated Sundays.
It was a perfect August day, clear, sunny and not too hot. The sunlight was bright yellow, transforming the drab streets of the dix-huitième into brilliant ribbons of light. Vasson screwed up his eyes and walked slowly across the Place du Têrtre. A couple of artists sat doggedly at their easels, painting yet more bad pictures of the Sacré-Cœur. They were probably English or American like most of the so-called artists in this quarter. Vasson had heard that many were packing their bags and disappearing back to their own countries. Apparently the wealthy American tourists had already left their expensive hotels and crowded aboard the transatlantic liners in Cherbourg.
Let them go, Vasson thought. They’re no loss to anyone. Life in Montmartre would be just the same without them.
He walked gently towards Pigalle – gently because his head ached and his eyes hurt and he had a stinking hangover. He should have stayed in bed.
On the street corners and in the cafés the news-vendors were doing a roaring trade. It seemed that all the residents of Montmartre wanted a newspaper today and when Vasson tried to buy Turf, the only paper he ever bought nowadays, he found it had sold out like all the rest. It was annoying. He was planning to bet on a big race at Longchamps and now he wouldn’t be able to study the form.
The world had gone mad; everyone was behaving like a lot of frightened rabbits. So the Germans were going to swallow up the Poles. So what? Vasson couldn’t see how that affected France. Poland had nothing to do with France. At least it damned well shouldn’t.
He emerged on to the Boulevard Rochechouart and walked the last few yards into Place Pigalle. The club was situated in a tiny street leading off the circus. In the harsh light of day the façade looked drab and slightly seedy, but in darkness, when the name was illuminated in scarlet and the doorway open to reveal the softly lit staircase, the effect was inviting and seductive.
Vasson went down the stairs into the darkness of the club, grateful to rest his eyes from the painful sunlight. The floor had been washed and the chairs were upturned on the tables. He walked round the edge of the room to the bar. Without a word the barman poured him a coffee and pushed it across the counter.
Vasson pulled a chair off the nearest table and sat down wearily. He cast a critical eye around the room. He had the feeling that the previous night’s takings must have been high. The club had been crowded from ten onwards and most of the customers were big spenders. But … He sighed. There was so much room for improvement. The takings could be so much better, maybe even double, if only—
If only—
He knew exactly what made a successful club. He had analysed the ingredients countless times during the last four years.
There was the music. Now that was the one thing this club could boast about. Its music was much classier than you generally heard in the small intimate clubs. Instead of an accordion or solitary piano, there was a three-piece band, with piano, bass and drums. And the band was good. They played a few of the new-style swing numbers for those who wanted a wild dance, but for the rest of the time they stuck to slow romantic stuff. Perfect for getting the customers close to the girls and keen to spend their money.
The décor: now that could be much better. It was very out of date, all red plush and gilt. From the look of it nothing had been changed since 1910. Vasson would have liked to see mirrored walls, chromium furniture and a black linoleum floor, the kind of simple sophistication which was all the rage.
But the main problem was the girls. Some of them were distinctly rough-looking even in the near-total darkness of the club. Only the drunkest or blindest customers managed to find them attractive. They should be replaced, and straight away. It was stupid to economise on the girls’ wages. Much better to pay more and get top class women who would not only attract the money but be highly skilled at extracting it.
He sighed. This club could be one of the best small places around, if not the best.
He downed his coffee and took the cup back to the bar. The barman was washing glasses. Vasson called, ‘Hey, how were the takings last night? They must have been good.’
The barman eyed Vasson impassively. ‘Good enough, I should think.’
‘But I mean, a record or what?’
The barman stared and there was a hint of insolence in his expression. Vasson was irritated; the man was being less than co-operative. He said impatiently, ‘Look, I need the information if I’m to run this place properly. That is what I’m meant to be doing, you know, running the place!’ He knew he sounded peevish, but he couldn’t help himself.
The barman smirked and shrugged his shoulders. Vasson wanted to hit him.
Suddenly there was a voice at Vasson’s shoulder, so close that it made him jump. ‘Yes, you run the club – but it’s me that runs the money. And don’t you forget it.’
Vasson flushed and turned round. It was Birelli. Birelli was small, fat and bad-tempered. He was wearing a flashy suit and expensive gold cufflinks. He looked every inch the proprietor of a small club.
Which was precisely what he was.
Birelli owned three clubs, and this was one of them.
Vasson said nothing. Birelli wanted a reaction and he bloody well wasn’t going to get one.
Birelli took out a cigar and slowly lit it, his beady eyes watching Vasson through the clouds of smoke. Finally he said, ‘While I’m the owner of this place, I will worry about the takings, and no-one else.’ The little man exhaled and the stench of garlic hit Vasson’s nostrils. Instinctively Vasson pulled back, but Birelli moved closer and said with emphasis, ‘You would do better to mind your own business and stick to your job, such as it is. If you go on poking your nose into things that do not concern you, you’ll be amazed at how quickly you’ll be out in the street.’
Vasson shivered. He had the urge to crush the man’s head against the wall. He wanted to chant obscenities at the pompous self-satisfied little pig, then beat him into pulp. And to think he had actually put up with this cheap little crook for more than six months. It was obscene!
Night Sky Page 8
