by Alan Furst
“Captain DeHaan? Captain?” Mr. Ali, calling from the radio room.
“Yes?”
“BBC, Captain.”
“Yes? Roosevelt speaks?”
“Germany invades Russia.”
22 June, 0410 hours. At sea.
In the cabin, the lamp was on, and Maria Bromen sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing only his denim shirt. “Is done,” she said. He followed her eyes to the night table, and a small mound of blackened flakes in the ashtray. “Very sad,” she said. “After all I did.”
“And the photograph?”
“Yes, that too, because of the stamp.” She almost smiled. “Such a photograph—this crazywoman is angry.” Then she said, “Oh well, goodby. Should be, maybe, a ceremony for such things.”
“Burning a passport?”
“Yes. Maybe the Jewish have it.”
He sat next to her, rested a hand on her ankle.
“So, stateless person,” she said.
“You’ll need a name, a story.”
“The name will be Natalya, I think. Natalya Pavlova, like a ballerina.”
“And we met in Tangier?”
“Thanks God. Husband left, French husband. Good-for-nothing.”
“You’ve made up the story.”
“Oh yes, a long story. I am good at that, my love.”
0715 hours. At sea.
No search planes. Only a flight of returning bombers, coming out of the rising sun—the men on deck shaded their eyes and watched them fly over. At the tail of the formation, a straggler, flying low, smoke trailing from one of its engines, the propeller turning lazily in the wind.
Where were the search planes? By noon they still hadn’t appeared. Maybe the captain of the minesweeper had reported that he sank the Noordendam, to save his own skin, maybe the search planes had other orders, once the invasion started. Or maybe they searched north. Much speculation on the bridge, but nobody showed up. So, DeHaan thought, we might just make it to Liepaja, and began to plan for that. “You better go burn the minefield maps,” he told Ratter. “And get the officers to come to a wardroom meeting. In one hour.”
Where they worked out a story, then went off to tell the crew. “We could be there for a long time,” they said. “So watch what you say.”
1740 hours. Off Liepaja.
They’d crossed the picket line of Russian patrol boats, but were still a long way out when they saw Liepaja. Not the port itself, but a column of brown smoke that climbed high into the air, a well-fed column, thick and sturdy. DeHaan radioed to the port office and a pair of Russian naval tugboats came out and took them under tow, docking the ship at the commercial harbor, on a stone quay lined with grain elevators and an enormous tractor plant. On its roof, soldiers had installed two antiaircraft guns and were busily stacking a wall of sandbags around them. And, passing the military harbor, they saw a small part of the Soviet Baltic Fleet—destroyers, minelayers, tenders, and one light cruiser, with steam up. “See the gun turrets?” Ratter said, standing by DeHaan on the bridge. “Facing inland.”
As the gangway was lowered, the reception committee had already gathered—welcome to Liepaja! Two of them in stiff Russian suits, shirts buttoned at the neck, and three in naval uniform. An efficient committee; they looked down into the holds, checked the bridge and the ship’s papers, had the German prisoners taken away, and made notes as DeHaan told them the story of Noordendam’s capture and escape. “Well done,” one of the naval officers said. “Now let’s go somewhere and have a talk.”
He walked DeHaan down the gangway and along the quay, past a thirty-foot bomb crater, and up to an office in the port building. Not the men in suits, DeHaan thought. And not in a cellar. The office had only a bare desk and two chairs and a framed photograph of Stalin, hung from a nail that had broken the plaster when it was hammered in. “You may smoke if you like.” The officer spoke German, and introduced himself as “Kapitn Leutnant Shalakov.” A lieutenant commander. He was in his forties, with thinning hair, a broad nose—long ago broken, and lively green eyes. A Russian Jew? DeHaan thought he might be. “On the naval staff of the Baltic Fleet,” he added. Which meant, to DeHaan, that he was in the same business as Leiden, and Hallowes.
DeHaan took him up on the invitation to smoke. “Care for one of these?” Shalakov peered at the box, declined—with some courtesy, lit one of his own, and threw the match on the floor.
“I am also a lieutenant commander,” DeHaan said.
Shalakov was not all that surprised.
“In the Royal Dutch Navy.”
“You are out of uniform, sir.” Shalakov’s eyes were amused. “And so’s your ship.” He stood, went to the window, and looked out over the port. “We’ve already had two air raids,” he said. “Early this morning. They hit the air-force base, and the oil tanks at the port.”
“We saw the smoke.”
“How’s your fuel?”
“Not bad.”
“Because we can’t give you any.”
“Are we leaving?”
“Soviet heroes will stand and fight the fascist dogs, of course. Until Thursday, the way it looks now—should take them about four days to break in here. We can’t hold it, we have one division facing Leeb’s Army Group North, so you and your crew may have to do a little fighting, we shall see. But, for the moment, perhaps you’ll tell me what you’ve been up to, sailing around the Baltic dressed as a Spaniard.”
“A mission for the British navy.”
“Our brave allies! We’ve always admired them—since midnight, anyhow. Care to tell me what and where?”
“You will understand, Kapitn Leutnant, that I can’t.”
Shalakov nodded—yes, I do understand. “Very honorable,” he said. “And we’ll grant you that luxury, for the time being. Now, had you shown up yesterday . . . But it isn’t yesterday, it’s today, and today everything is different, today you’re a valued ally, and we can always use an extra cargo ship.”
“Where would we go?”
“Maybe Riga, maybe—depends how fast the Wehrmacht move. More likely, the Liepaja elements of the Baltic Fleet will withdraw up to the naval base at Tallinn, in Estonia. We’ll have to take equipment, personnel, some of the civilians—we’ll save whatever we can, and that will be your job.”
“We can do that,” DeHaan said. “What about my crew?”
“They can stay as they are—we may interview your passengers, but, as for the crew, whatever you’ve got you can keep. But they’d better remain on board. As of this morning, the Latvian gangs are back in business—digging up their rifles in the chicken coops, and waiting eagerly for their German pals.” Shalakov paused a moment, then said, “What was it, DeHaan? Agents? To Denmark? Not neutral Sweden, I hope. Dropping off agents, I would guess. Certainly not picking them up.”
“Why not?”
“I admire the British navy, and I admire daring—as a quality in special operations, and I know the Germans are kicking the hell out of British merchant shipping, but there was no way under the sun that your ship was ever coming out of the Baltic.”
After dusk, the bombers came again. From loudspeakers mounted on the streetlamps, a staticky voice called out, “Attention! Attention! Attention citizens of Liepaja, we are having an air raid. Prepare to take arms and fight the invaders!” In Russian first—Kovacz translated—and then in Lettish. DeHaan put the fire crews on alert, hoses reeled out, and had Van Dyck make sure of the pumps. Then the sirens whined, for a long time, it seemed, fifteen minutes, and then, from the south, the first bombs—muffled, deep-voiced whumps that marched north toward the city. As the antiaircraft started up, hammering away from the ships in the military harbor and the roofs of Liepaja, DeHaan looked out on the pier, at the foot of the gangway. It had been guarded since they docked, two soldiers with rifles, but they were no longer there.
As S. Kolb hurried across the quay, an incendiary hit the side of the tractor factory and a fiery river of green phosphorus came after him. He ran away from it,
but the bastards wouldn’t leave him alone that night. Fallback from the antiaircraft fire came rattling down on the pavement, so Kolb held his briefcase over his head as he ran.
Nonetheless, he was gleeful, thanked his lucky stars that he was off and away from that accursed iron sea monster and her laconic Dutchmen. Beans and canned fish, the smell of oily steam up his nose as he ate, slept, read his book. Did he have it? Yes, he did, the history of Venice—three pounds of Doges, now just snuggle up to a building wall so it doesn’t get skewered by some hot metal shard from heaven. Where the hell was he? The street signs were cut in stone on the corners of the buildings, so, here it was Vitolu iela—of course! Good old Vitolu iela, what happy times we had there! Had he ever in his life seen a street map of Liepaja? No. Who had? What sort of lunatic would ever come to such a place?
He heard the bomb whistle, his knees turned to water and he tucked his head down between his shoulders and scurried into a doorway. Sucked in his breath when the thing hit, a few blocks away. Hah, missed! He tried the knob on the door, but it was locked. A tarnished brass plate said the place was an art school, ichthyological illustration their specialty. So that’s what they do here, draw fish. Above the plate, someone had printed Closed on a card tacked to the door.
Somewhere ahead of him, a building on fire. The flames threw flickering orange light on the street and, for a moment, a shadow moved. What was that? No policemen, please. Again it moved—a woman, out of one doorway and into another. He moved up two doorways, and waited. Not long. She was breathless and fat, carrying a huge bowl with a dish towel stretched over the top. Was that soup? Oh yes, by God it was. Pea soup! Nothing else smelled like that. “Good evening, madam,” he said, in German.
She made a noise, a throttled scream, one hand rising to her throat.
Kolb lowered his briefcase and—the god of inspiration came to visit—tipped his hat.
The woman put her hand back on the bowl.
“Madam, can you tell me . . .” Two airplanes came roaring over the street, a hundred feet up, he couldn’t hear himself think. Then they were gone. “Madam,” he said, raising his voice but keeping it gentle. “Can you tell me where to find the railroad station?”
“Vuss?”
“Be calm, my dear, nothing can hurt you tonight.”
She looked at him, then pointed.
“Railroad?”
She nodded.
“How far?”
“Zwanzig minuten.” Twenty minutes.
Again, Kolb tipped his hat. Do you have, perhaps, a spoon? “Good evening, madam,” he said, and hurried away up the street.
Now train stations were a poor choice during air raids, but Kolb only needed to be close—any caf or hallway would do—because the trains wouldn’t run until the bombers got tired and went home. He had no Soviet papers, but bribery was a way of life in this empire and, with Adolf pounding on the city gates, he sensed it wouldn’t be a problem.
Local or express, he’d be on a train tonight. A short run, up to enchanting Riga, “the Paris of hell,” then a call at the British consulate. Where he’d look up the passport control officer, almost always connected to the spy people, if in fact he wasn’t running the thing himself. Also at the consulate: secure W/T transmissions—or so they thought. I say, Brown, dear boy, one of your chaps has turned up here—headed for Malm, he says, but it seems he’s gone a bit wide.
So please advise.
And the loathsome Brown would surely have something in mind. Something dangerous, of course, unspeakably difficult and dreary.
Back in the street he’d just left, an explosion, then a faade fell off a building and came crashing down in a huge cloud of dust. Hadn’t hit the woman, had it?
Bastards.
23 June, 0630 hours. Port of Liepaja.
DeHaan paced the bridge, standing a restless port watch. Too far north, he thought, every heart had its compass and his pointed far south of here. Here it was not summer—a cold early sky above the city and the marshland beyond, bending reeds, black ponds, pine forest. And some shadow of a future darkness that fell over him. He felt it.
Slowly, the Noordendam came back to life. Kees, hobbling with the aid of a stick, led Van Dyck and a crew of ABs in the repair of the stern hull—a length of sheet tin cut to fit, then welded on. It looked awful but it would keep the water out. There was coffee in the wardroom at 0800, and when DeHaan mentioned the absent Kolb, Shtern said that he’d left, during the air raid.
“Where the hell did he find to go?” Ratter said.
Shtern didn’t know.
“He went back to work,” Kovacz said.
“What will become of us now?” Mr. Ali said.
“First we get out of here,” DeHaan said. “And then, part of the Soviet merchant fleet.”
Many the silences that had descended over wardroom tables in DeHaan’s years at sea, but this one had quite a heft to it. Certainly they’d foreseen this, individually. Now, however, it was said among them, and that made it worse. Because they’d all thought that somebody would have an idea, because somebody always did. But not now. Finally Kees said, “Maybe they’ll send us to Britain.”
“With what?” Kovacz said.
“Wheat, cattle.”
“They can’t feed their own,” Maria Bromen said. “How to feed Britain?”
“And we can’t get there,” Ratter said. “We can go north to Estonia, then Kronstadt, the naval base off Leningrad, but that’s it. The Germans will mine the whole Baltic now—if they haven’t already.”
“They claim they have,” Mr. Ali said. “In clear. On the radio.”
“Trying to scare the Russian submarines,” Poulsen said.
“What scares me,” Shtern said, “is years. In Russia.”
Cornelius came to the door and said, “Captain, sir? You are needed on the pier, sir.”
“Now, Cornelius?”
“Yes, sir. I think you better come. Russian soldiers, sir.”
DeHaan left, taking Kovacz with him as translator. At the foot of the gangway, an oiler and an AB stood sheepishly in the custody of a squad of Soviet marines. Called black devils, for their uniform caps, they wore striped sailor’s jerseys beneath army blouses in honor of their service.
The sergeant stepped forward as DeHaan and Kovacz came down the gangway. He spoke briefly, then Kovacz said, “‘Here are your sailors,’ he says. ‘Out last night after the raid.’”
“Thank them,” DeHaan said. “We’re grateful.”
Kovacz translated the answer as “Please to keep them where they belong, from now on.”
“Tell him we will. And we mean it.”
“One missing,” Kovacz said.
“It’s Xanos, sir,” the AB said.
“What happened?”
“Press-ganged. We went looking for a bar and he wandered off, and they told us he’d been grabbed by seamen from one of the ships in port.”
“Stas, ask them if they can find our sailor.”
Kovacz tried. “They say they can’t. Can’t search all the ships. They regret.”
The marines went off, and DeHaan sent the crewmen back to the quarters. “If you leave this ship again,” he told them, “don’t come back.”
2040 hours. Port of Liepaja.
In the cabin, DeHaan and Maria Bromen waited. Tried to read, tried to talk, but they could hear the fighting now, south of the city, faint but steady, like a distant thunderstorm. A German reconnaissance plane flew high above the port and some of the gunners tried their luck but he was too far above the flak burst. Then the cruiser started up, with its heavy turret guns, the detonations echoing off the waterfront buildings.
“Who are they shooting at?” Maria Bromen said.
“Helping their army, trying to.”
“How far, then, the battle?”
“Big guns like that? Maybe five miles.”
“Not so far.”
“No.”
She rose from the bed and went to look out the porthole, at the
dock and the city. “We are leaving soon, I think.”
“We are?”
She beckoned him to the porthole. There was an army truck parked by the gangway. The canvas top was turned back and a few soldiers were wrestling with a bulky shape, pushing it toward the tailgate, while others waited on the pier to ease it to the ground. After a moment, DeHaan saw that what they were fighting with was a grand piano. Too heavy—when the weight shifted, the piano dropped the last two feet onto the stone quay. One of the soldiers in the truck picked up a piano bench, shouted something, and tossed it to the others.
With a sigh, DeHaan went up to the deck, where Van Dyck and some of the crew had gathered to watch the show. “Where do you want it, Cap’n?” Van Dyck said.
“Forward hold. Get a sling on it, then cover it with canvas.”
The soldiers had apparently intended to carry the piano up the gangway, but Van Dyck waved them off, pointed to the cargo derricks, and the soldiers smiled and nodded.
DeHaan went back to the cabin.
“So now,” she said, “we go north.”
“The Russian officer said Tallinn, the naval base.”
“How far?”
“A day, twenty-four hours.”
“Well,” she said, “you warned me, in Lisbon.”
“Are you sorry, that you didn’t stay?”
She smoothed his hair. “No,” she said. “No. It’s better like this. Better to do what you want, and then what will happen will happen.”
