The Passenger

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Uncle Siegfried, what’s the matter?’ Jan was pulling at his sweater.

  ‘I was just wondering what I’m going to get for Christmas, that’s all.’

  Later, Monika arrived and suggested to Lorenz that they go for a short walk. The streets were empty and tiny flakes of snow began to fall. Monika’s talk was as easy and fluent as usual. They stopped beneath a street lamp and the crystals of ice on her eyelashes twinkled like stars. When she pouted Lorenz found that he could not resist kissing her.

  ‘Can we go into town tomorrow night?’ she asked.

  ‘If you want,’ Lorenz replied.

  She laid a hand against the side of his face. ‘I’ve booked a hotel.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Fürstenhof.’

  Lorenz grinned. ‘An excellent choice.’

  GLOCKNER USHERED LORENZ DOWN A dimly lit hallway and into a spacious living room: bookcases, escritoire, Grotrian-Steinweg upright piano, leather sofa, and reading chair. Everything was the same. There were no ornaments, paintings, or photographs, and the air seemed somewhat hazy, as if the contents of the room were being viewed through a fine mesh.

  ‘You’ve started playing again?’ Lorenz had noticed a Beethoven piano sonata on the music stand.

  ‘Yes. It’s gradually coming back.’ Glockner wiggled his fingers.

  ‘I don’t know why you stopped.’

  ‘Time,’ said Glockner, ‘never enough time. And I can’t bear to play badly.’

  Lorenz sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and extended his arms along the back rest. ‘Well, what did you find out?’

  Glockner lowered himself into the reading chair. ‘He was quite a character, your Professor Grimstad. You said he was an archaeologist.’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘He did supervise some archaeological digs in Norway and Iceland, but these were undertaken without the approval of his university. In fact, he wasn’t an archaeologist but an authority on Norse literature. He came to prominence early when his controversial translation of the Völuspá was published.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Völuspá. The Seeress’s Prophecy. Some believe it to be the greatest poem of the Germanic peoples.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s part of the Edda, which you must know.’

  ‘We did it at school.’

  ‘Indeed. Grimstad’s reputation grew, and for many years he enjoyed the respect of his colleagues; however, he began to attract criticism when he started writing about pagan ceremonies. It was all rather speculative, and his peers began to question his judgment, and it was about this time that he began to dabble in archaeology—a discipline in which he had no formal training or experience—presumably in the hope of discovering evidence that would support his theories. Things came to a head about four years ago. It seems that he persuaded some of his students to participate in reenactments of a pagan ritual, and a subsequent scandal led to his dismissal from the university. I’m not sure what he got up to, precisely, but I believe that there were allegations of sexual impropriety.’

  ‘Was he a member of the resistance?’

  ‘After his dismissal he became involved with various folkloric groups, among whose number he was bound to have met staunch nationalists.’

  ‘And the Schutzstaffel? Why were they interested in him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t able to find that out; however, Himmler—of course—is renowned for his peculiar ideas about the significance of Norse mythology. And he’s very fond of runes.’ Glockner hummed a jaunty introduction and sang a few lines of a famous SS anthem: ‘We all stand ready for battle, inspired by runes and death’s head . . .’

  Lorenz nodded in agreement and the two men fell silent. A clock was ticking and outside a car drove past. A sudden blast of wind rattled the windows. ‘Thank you,’ said Lorenz. He took a slip of paper out his pocket and handed it to his friend.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A name and a telephone number.’

  ‘Lulu Trompelt?’

  ‘She likes opera and foreign poetry and she’s supposed to be pretty—although I only have someone else’s word for that.’

  ON RETURNING TO BREST, LORENZ was informed by Cohausz that Wilhelm had gone absent without leave. He remembered the young bosun’s mate, clearing up the boat—anxious, scared—handing him the British penny. ‘He was due back three days ago,’ said Cohausz. ‘I’ve spoken to his parents. He spent Christmas with them in Hamburg. They said goodbye to him at the station.’

  ‘Did they see him get on the train?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He could be anywhere.’

  ‘True. But eventually he’ll be found and then . . .’ Cohausz mimed aiming a rifle and pulling a trigger. ‘What a fool. Do you have any idea why he’s chosen to face a firing squad?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know that for sure, do we? Not just yet, sir.’

  ‘He couldn’t have gotten lost.’

  ‘An accident possibly, Kommodore?’

  ‘What? On the way down from Hamburg? I think that’s highly unlikely, don’t you?’

  Some of the crew had already been interviewed, and Lorenz learned that Berger was the last person to have spoken to Wilhelm before the errant bosun’s mate had departed for Hamburg. Lorenz had the young seaman brought to his quarters.

  ‘It was the day after the explosion,’ said Berger. ‘A group of us had gotten together in a beer cellar down in the port, Herr Kaleun. We’d all drunk too much. It was getting late and most of the men went off to the Casino Bar: Kruger, Peters, Stein, Neumann, Arnold—and a few others—crew from different boats who I didn’t know. I was left sitting at a table with Wilhelm.’

  ‘How was he behaving?’ Lorenz asked.

  ‘He wasn’t himself, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He was glum, moody: not very talkative. But then, all of a sudden, he started saying things . . .’ Berger shifted in his seat as though he was experiencing some kind of physical discomfort.

  ‘Things? What things?’

  ‘It was difficult to understand him at first, sir. He wasn’t very clear, because of the drink, I suppose—mumbling, cursing. Then he started saying that the boat wasn’t right.’

  ‘You mean unsafe?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t referring to a technical problem. More like the boat was . . .’ Berger hesitated. ‘More like the boat was jinxed. I suppose he was brooding about Hoffmann—and the explosion.’ The young seaman ventured a tentative opinion. ‘We have been unlucky, sir.’ His expression was a tacit invitation for Lorenz to agree, and his features sagged when the anticipated endorsement was not forthcoming.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Something about God and punishment, something about his mother meeting a gypsy in a wood, and Richter—he was going on about Richter being right. It was all very confused, Herr Kaleun.’

  ‘It sounds like Wilhelm was frightened.’

  Berger frowned. ‘No, not really—I’d say upset. But it’s difficult to say, sir. He was very drunk, Herr Kaleun. I didn’t stay with him for long. To be honest, I was feeling a bit sick and wanted to lie down. That was the last I saw of him.’

  After Berger was dismissed Lorenz summoned Sauer and Voigt.

  ‘Do you think you can manage without Wilhelm?’ he asked.

  ‘If we have to,’ Sauer replied. Voigt nodded his assent.

  ‘Good,’ said Lorenz.

  ‘I can’t believe he would have done such a thing, Herr Kaleun,’ said Sauer.

  Lorenz sighed and remembered how he had found Wilhelm standing outside the listening post—awkwardly positioned, his eyes wide and fearful. The boy had seen something. And like all superstitious sailors he had taken it to be a bad omen.

  LORENZ WAS SEATED NEXT TO Graf in the lounge bar of the Hotel Café Astoria. The chanteuse with the plangent voice was singing a song about a cold-hearted lover, and her geriatric accompani
sts were performing with customary vigor.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ asked Lorenz.

  ‘Yes,’ Graf replied. ‘The new propellers are wonderful. Not a sound . . .’

  ‘Hydroplanes?’

  ‘The whole system has been taken apart and put together again: you couldn’t find a speck of rust with a magnifying glass.’

  ‘Engine mountings?’

  ‘Solid as a rock.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lorenz, ‘there they are.’ An administrator was standing by the door and scanning the room. By his side was a handsome, square-jawed young officer, whose permanent half-smile communicated condescension rather than good humor. The administrator spotted Lorenz, raised his hand, and advanced with his companion through the smoky haze.

  ‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz, Oberleutnant Graf. May I introduce Leutnant Max Pullman, the photographer assigned to your patrol.’ The young officer saluted and Lorenz invited him to sit. ‘I’ll get more drinks,’ said the administrator. Lorenz asked Pullman about his prior experience of U-boats, and he was surprised to discover that the lieutenant had already been out on one (albeit uneventful) patrol. ‘My photographs appear regularly in magazines,’ he said proudly, ‘and one of them was chosen to be on the front cover of the Illustrated Observer.’ He was, as Lorenz had expected, intelligent and well-informed. They talked for a whole hour before the administrator announced that he had orders to take Pullman back to the academy. The photographer had been engaged to take some formal portraits of Cohausz. As the administrator and Pullman elbowed their way through the crowd, Graf leaned toward Lorenz and said softly, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘He’s a Party man,’ Lorenz replied. ‘He’ll be keeping a close on eye us. You’d better warn everyone.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Graf.

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING THE CREW of U-330 was assembled on the deck in readiness for the commander’s customary pre-departure speech.

  ‘All hands present or accounted for,’ said Falk.

  ‘Well,’ said Lorenz. ‘Here we go again. There are expectations, but we are prepared and able to meet those expectations.’ He paused, grinned at the crew, and scratched the back of his head. ‘A boat can only ever be as good as its crew, but its crew is only ever as good as its captain.’ Pullman was positioned near the tower and the repetitive sound of a camera shutter echoed around the vast interior of the pen. ‘I’ll do my best—as I’m sure you will too. And together . . .’ Lorenz filled his cheeks with air and let it out slowly. ‘And together, we shall prevail. Dismissed.’

  The photographer sidled up to Graf and said, ‘That was his speech?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Graf. ‘His longest yet. He may have spun it out for your benefit.’ Although Pullman maintained his habitual half-smile, he was not able to conceal his disapproval.

  Thirty minutes later U-330 floated out of the bunker and followed a tug boat through the obstacles in the military harbor. Lorenz was on the bridge, calling engine and rudder orders through the communications pipe. The sky was not covered with an even distribution of stars: barrage balloons produced ominous areas of blackness—sharp-edged voids. Hulks materialized out of the gloom like cursed ships, and the air smelled of oil and seaweed.

  ‘No brass bands,’ said Graf. Lorenz nodded. Further expansion was unnecessary. They were clearly leaving in secrecy because of renewed suspicions of an intelligence breach.

  Lorenz thought of his family, the quiet courage of his sister and the small, perfect hands of his niece and nephew. He thought of Monika, her upturned face beneath the street lamp—tiny ice crystals landing on her eyelashes; Leo Glockner in his study, and finally Faustine—beautiful, sensuous, elegant Faustine—who he would never see again. Would he see any of them again?

  An escort vessel was waiting for U-330 outside the sea wall. It led them through the Goulet de Brest, along the coast, and past the Pointe de Saint-Mathieu. They continued west, and on reaching the 200-meter contour Lorenz cleared the bridge. Just after midnight he gave orders to dive, and the boat slipped beneath the waves. In Lorenz’s pocket, a British penny was continuously rotating between his fingers, and each revolution seemed to accumulate dark presentiments of increasing intensity.

  PATROL

  Two days passed, the watch-rotation progressed through its inexorable cycles, and the lookouts stared over an unchanging, empty wilderness of foamy ridges. The monotony of their vigil was broken only once by the appearance of a flotilla of wooden crates. Lorenz, ever curious about the detritus carried between continents by the sea, ordered that one of the containers should be opened. Inside were a number of identical yellow velvet ball gowns. They were so old-fashioned they could have been made by a seamstress in the nineteenth century.

  ‘Shall we keep one?’ asked Falk.

  ‘Yellow isn’t your color,’ Lorenz replied. ‘You’re far too pale.’

  ‘I meant for luck, sir,’ said Falk, stiffening as the men standing around him began to smirk.

  Lorenz shook his head. ‘We don’t have room.’

  The boat was crammed with provisions. Loaves of bread–filled nets were drawn across the engine room, the crew quarters looked like a butcher’s shop, and one of the heads was completely full of coffee, tea, chocolate powder, and fruit juice. Moreover, the deck in the forward compartment had been raised to accommodate the reserve torpedoes, making the already confined space even more cramped than usual. There really wasn’t any room for a ball gown. Even so, if there had been even the slightest possibility of stowing it somewhere, Lorenz would have given his consent. The atmosphere on board U-330 had been subdued and uneasy. This was not only because of the photographer’s unwelcome presence but also because of Wilhelm’s desertion, which was viewed by many as yet another bad omen. A lucky charm, Lorenz recognized, might help to counteract the general feeling of despondency. ‘I tell you what,’ said Lorenz, swiftly reviewing his decision, ‘cut out one those embroidered flowers and pin it up somewhere in the control room.’ His compromise was welcomed by sighs of satisfaction.

  The following day, Arnold and Engel reported symptoms of venereal disease.

  ‘So,’ said Lorenz to the two shame-faced penitents, ‘I suppose you spent most of your leave upstairs at the Casino Bar?’

  ‘No, Kaleun,’ said Arnold indignantly. ‘I’ve been seeing a local girl, that’s all.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Engel. ‘Her name’s Marie. She’s very chaste. She goes to church every Sunday.’

  ‘When are you idiots going to learn?’ Lorenz asked rhetorically. ‘Venereal disease is a British secret weapon. The local women carry it especially for the likes of you. I suppose they succumbed to your amorous advances as soon as you told them you were about to leave. Well?’ Arnold and Engel looked down at their boots. ‘It’s a strategy. Don’t you see? A method of interfering with the efficient running of U-boats at sea.’

  ‘Is that really true?’ asked Pullman.

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenz replied.

  ‘Then we must take the names of these women,’ said Pullman, reaching for a notebook, ‘and radio Brest at once.’

  ‘It’s not something we can prove.’

  ‘Be that as it may . . .’

  ‘Pullman, it isn’t possible to arrest women for carrying venereal diseases. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘They could be questioned.’

  ‘There are more important things we should be worrying about.’

  A few days later Lorenz consulted Ziegler concerning his patients.

  ‘They’ve both got gonorrhoea—I think. Arnold is responding to the albucid cure but not Engel.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Lorenz.

  Ziegler shrugged. ‘The old method, I suppose, permanganate of potash in a urethral syringe.’

  Pullman turned pale.

  ‘There’s something you should record for posterity,’ said Lorenz, addressing the photographer. ‘Take a picture of that and it’ll be sure to make the front cover of the Illustrated Observer.’r />
  THE SUN WAS SETTING WHEN Lorenz was given the decrypted message. Another vessel of the 1st Flotilla, U-112, was pursuing a convoy just north of U-330’s current position. He consulted Müller at the chart table, who, on seeing the coordinates, exclaimed, ‘We can catch them up in a matter of hours.’ Immediately Lorenz gave the order to change course.

  When darkness fell, the night was moonless and impenetrable. Visibility was so poor Lorenz resorted to sniffing the breeze for traces of oil.

  ‘Can you smell anything?’ asked Falk.

  ‘No,’ Lorenz replied.

  The boat raced north at full speed, cutting diagonally across waves of increasing size. Two hours passed.

  Lorenz was peering over the bulwark when something on the forward section of the deck drew his attention. A portion of the darkness seemed to become detached, to separate from its surroundings—a deeper black against the general blackness that enveloped the bow. He watched its slow progress, a figure walking beneath the radio antenna, and when it arrived at the 8.8 cm gun it came to a halt. An involuntary sound escaped from between Lorenz’s lips: a dipping and rising note that expressed surprise and disbelief.

  ‘Kaleun?’ said Falk.

  The edges of the shape blurred and whatever it was seemed to dissipate and become absorbed into the darkness. ‘Nothing,’ said Lorenz. ‘Keep your eyes on the horizon.’

  One of the lookouts coughed and said hesitantly, ‘Fifty degrees starboard. I’m not sure—but I think . . . I think I can see a steamer.’

  Lorenz struggled to remain focused. He dismissed the figure from his mind and when he raised his binoculars he spied a smudge against the faintly phosphorescent sky. ‘Yes,’ he responded, ‘I see it.’ He gave further course directions and U-330 continued to jounce across the water with both diesels thumping.