Any Survivors (2008)

by Freud, Martin

  I ignored the question. ‘I’ve heard of the legion,’ I interjected. ‘But to be perfectly honest it doesn't win my sympathy vote.’ I went no further as I didn't want to lose my new friends before they had served me the meat course.

  ‘Excellent,’ said my new benefactor. ‘I have also liquidated my relationship with them and think it's time we both came clean with each other.’

  Thank goodness – here was the mixed grill.

  ‘Now, I'm not saying I’ve lost touch completely – on the contrary, I still have some lucrative contacts. But I want nothing more to do with the Gestapo. They are after me. Now let me tell you the story. And you, you are an enemy alien, aren't you?’

  Ah, I thought, he's interrogating me. I nodded.

  ‘Your permit? Is it for residence only, not for work? And where do you live? Do you have any friends or relations? What about your documents?’

  ‘At the moment I have nowhere to stay,’ I disclosed. ‘Hardly any friends, no relations and no documents.’ The music had stopped. There was lukewarm applause from the more good-natured people in the audience. Then quiet.

  ‘How would you like to …’ Mr Leo began. Judging by his face he was about to say something of great importance and I forgot to breathe. At the same time I felt someone kicking me under the table; then, somewhat annoyed, they apologised. It seemed that Leo also received a similar kick that prompted him to stop mid-sentence. After an awkward pause he continued: ‘Some cheese?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said. But the question was not a serious one. Instead of ordering some cheese he said to the waiter, ‘The bill please’, and the three of them watched silently as I finished my meal. Even the girl pulled herself together. It seemed the drunkenness of the party was wearing off. I was in good spirits. Things had been going wrong for months and now it was time for my luck to change. My first stroke of good fortune was already consumed. The bill was on the table and I was just polishing off my last piece of apple torte. I was ready to go.

  ‘If it's okay with you we will finish our conversation elsewhere.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Gather your things,’ he ordered, upon which I shrugged.

  ‘I have no things.’

  We marched past reception, Leo in front; I was the last. Leo paid with a pound note and then the four of us were in complete darkness. Whilst our eyes had got used to the bright lights inside, it was now impossible to see anything. Leo called for a taxi and a shadow appeared, its faint light getting brighter. All three got into the taxi.

  ‘I fear I won't be able to find the way, even if you describe it to me,’ I said, in what I thought was the direction of the window of the taxi.

  ‘Don't be a fool; you’re coming with us,’ the tenor voice said, his strong fists pulling me into the taxi where I stumbled into some very sharp girlish knees. The thought of getting into a taxi was so far from what I was used to, it was hard to imagine. I hadn't set foot in one since leaving my home country. After only a few minutes’ drive the cab stopped at a big block of flats and Leo and I got out. We must have been on Edgware Road from what I could make out by the faint glow of the traffic lights. The girl was preparing to get out too. ‘No. You stay here Angelica,’ said Leo. ‘I don't think you will lose a pearl from your crown if you have to sleep in your own bed for a change.’ The greying man also remained in the taxi, which had now pulled away and was rolling off into the darkness at a snail's pace.

  Leo grabbed me under the arm and led me into his bachelor's flat where he dumped me in a comfortable leather armchair. It didn't bother me that the horsehair was visible in parts. I was sitting comfortably and would have liked a smoke, preferably a pipe but a cigarette would do. Sadly Leo was not inclined to offer. He came straight to the point. ‘Well Herr …’

  I remained silent.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘if you won't tell me your name, I don't need to know. It really isn't important. You have no papers, you already mentioned that. That's fine by me. However, one thing I do need to know is this – are you pure Aryan?’

  I decided to wind him up. ‘According to our family history,’ I said, ‘which we can follow back several centuries, a distant ancestor of mine had an intimate relationship with the devil. He was accused, tried and burnt at the stake as a witch – but as far as I'm aware we never had anything to do with the Jews.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you. That's enough. You ought to be careful with jokes like that! So Herr Nameless, how would you like to travel to Germany for me?’ Now fate was resting her hand firmly on my shoulder. The circle was closed. This was my chance to do my bit for humanity.

  I composed myself and said with feigned nonchalance: ‘If the conditions are right, then why not?’

  ‘Well sir,’ he answered, ‘these are the conditions: free travel in second class, pocket money, documents, newly kitted out from head to toe – and I do believe you are in dire need of the latter. We’ll head to the West End tomorrow. And from you I expect the following: discipline – complete soldierly discipline, to obey orders and ask no questions. You will stay in contact with my sub-agent in the Reich. He will provide advice and supervision. No heroic feats or assassinations either. No Aryan would think of such a thing! If you should happen to come across military intelligence then you will notify me via my sub-agent and take your 40 per cent share in any profits. And the reason I am sending you shall remain a secret for now but will soon become apparent.’

  What followed was purely technical. ‘Do you speak any Cuban?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Estonian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chinese?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  He was getting out his collection of passports. ‘What about Danish?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied meekly.

  ‘Would you be able to tell if anyone was speaking Danish to you?’

  I had to concede that I couldn't tell the difference between Danish and Hungarian or even Japanese. ‘I will have to give you the Danish passport,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘and perhaps a travel companion for part of the way.’ Then he went on to instruct me. ‘If anyone tries to speak any other language than the one you’re familiar with, even English, then you are to answer with the following: “I admire the Third Reich so much that I cannot bear to speak any language other than German when I am a guest on this holy ground – heil Hitler!”’ This was one sentence I was going to have to practise.

  ‘And take care! If you let your mask slip for one moment it could cost you not only your acting career but also your life. But don't worry! It can get no worse than decapitation. Spies don't end up in Buchenwald. I should also add: the organisation for which you are subordinating yourself is called the Geheime Macht, the secret force.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, happily remembering, ‘are two passport photos I have been carrying. This will save you taking new ones.’ He took them off me, studied them carefully and said ‘completely useless’, tearing them cleanly in half. This angered me. When you own so little, two photographs mean a lot. Admittedly, the meal I had recently consumed was worth three times as much as new pictures; I shouldn't be feeling aggrieved.

  ‘I can take new ones here,’ said Leo taking out a Leica camera and setting up two bulbs. There was only one other light on.

  ‘That's impossible,’ I protested, even though I knew nothing of photography. ‘There isn't enough light.’

  ‘Nonsense, you don't know what you’re talking about. With this modern equipment I can take a picture of a galloping horse in candlelight. Smile please, thank you!’ I had to remind him to wind the camera. He was yawning now, though it was not surprising since it was past midnight.

  ‘You can put the two chairs together or sleep on the floor tonight,’ he said. ‘Whatever you prefer. Here's a blanket.’ It was a leopard-print throw. ‘You can take all the cushions as well. Can I get you a night cap?’

  I declined. He took a generous drink with a little soda.

  ‘Herr Karner,’ I said, still c
urious from his earlier remark. ‘You were going to tell me the story of the Leibstandarte Vitztum.’ The drink had loosened his tongue and he obliged …

  ‘The biggest hounding we had since the Turks and congress in Vienna was the public outrage against the murder of a certain Herr vom Rath. It was organised meticulously but the SS had to keep a close eye on the SA. I was also on duty in the Karntnerstrasse. I had just thrown out a unit of SA men as they were taking a suspiciously long time inside a Jewish jewellers. There I was alone in the midst of boxes that had been broken into and with the smashed display windows when a messenger entered wearing Hitlerjugend uniform. He made me jump such that I almost dropped the golden watch I had picked up as I wanted to check the make. I remember well, it was a Warscheron. If I forget the name, I can always dig it out again and check. Anyway, the messenger handed over the note:

  The Vitztum would like you to know that everything is discovered and you must disappear at once.

  ‘As it was signed by my best friend, I really did fall for it and left the country the same day with forged papers. It turned out to be a complete lie. Nothing was discovered at all. The Vitztum did not send me a message. He is still chief constable despite the rumours that circulate about him. My so-called friend just wanted me out of the way so he could take over my position. I decided not to go back. Not only because my false papers were a little obvious and would not have got me very far, but also because I had got into the habit of reading the newspapers here and by reading neutral papers it was easy to see that something unpleasant was going on. Did I really want to be part of it? Things are not so bad here – I really cannot complain. As long as I am not interned I will be okay. But somehow I don't think it would happen because I am a political refugee. Anyway, that's all for today. Goodnight!’

  He disappeared behind a door that must have led into his bedroom. I pushed the two sofas together to create a wonderful bed. The door opened again and a black piece of fur was thrown out, hissing. It was a little black cat. I took her in. She was quite content with only a tiny piece of my blanket. I would have slept like a log had I not been worrying about whether the passport photograph would turn out okay.

  2

  SEALED ORDER

  Leo got up late but soon made up for the lost time with feverish activity. He pulled me from shop to shop and made calls to travel agents, friends and agencies. In short, he was paving the way for my travels. I naturally admired him and his enthusiastic bustle, although I did begin to wonder why there was no further mention of the passport photo. When we were in the taxi on our way to Liverpool Street Station, I plucked up the courage to ask him.

  ‘It's all done,’ he replied, ‘developed, stuck in and stamped. My, you are a worrier! You must have had some bad experience as a child.’

  I declined to answer. His bedroom must have had a secret exit or been connected to a dark room. I had not left his side all morning. When did he have time to get it developed?

  ‘Here is your passport, you can stop fretting now.’ He passed me the thin booklet, looking slightly worried. I opened it to the first page and nodded, satisfied. It was me but it was not exactly flattering. I looked more closely and contemplated: what had I done to deserve these wonders? I was ready to accept the miracle of a walking stick bearing blossom or a songbird starting to speak, but they were old fashioned compared to this. A photograph that was taken of a man in sole possession of a dark blue shirt and spotted tie had developed into a gentleman with white dress shirt and tuxedo. This was too much to take in. I nudged Leo with the passport. ‘Please, Mr Leo. Something's not quite right.’

  He became angry and shouted, ‘Enough of this Talmudian sophistry! If that's all you can come up with then we can stop right here. I thought you had discipline!’ To give up because of this small matter didn't seem worth the risk of having to hand back the new clothes, the travel money and, most importantly, having to give up the mission that fate had sent to me. As a result, our farewell at the station was far less heartfelt than we might have expected it to be.

  I had company during the short journey from Esbjerg in Denmark to Flensburg. It was a fellow conspirator from the Geheime Macht, sent to see me through the Danish-speaking area. He was an unattractive man with black fingernails and a chubby, red face. He must have been Danish as I couldn't seem to communicate with him. According to Leo he was part of the organisation but in all likelihood he was badly paid and seized the opportunity to vent his bad mood on me. We didn't even need the secret signs we had agreed on. I was the only passenger leaving the rickety cargo steamer and he was the only one waiting at the pier. His greeting consisted of pulling my thick woollen scarf around my mouth and chin, making me look like someone suffering from severe toothache. I could scarcely breathe, much less talk, which must have been the aim of the procedure. I was to be silent and inconspicuous. Unfortunately I forgot to ask Leo, amongst other important details, who was in charge of paying expenses. At every opportunity my companion gestured menacingly that I had to pay and at one point he snatched my wallet from me. Thank goodness it only contained Danish loose change. After paying he pocketed the wallet. I felt stupid but could not protest, being forced to remain mute. It was a small country and we soon crossed it. The expenditure on beer, ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches and cigarettes remained negligible. All the same, if on my next mission by any chance I had to travel through Asia on the Trans-Siberian Railway, I would be sure to insist on a more amicable companion.

  Entering Germany was easy and posed so little danger I felt ashamed of myself for not visiting before. I envisaged crawling over fences, sneaking through barriers, swimming through channels. I was almost disappointed to find there was no need for further deception or skill. My guide left me at the border, just after passport control, with no further pleasantries such as a goodbye or handshake. I gave him a friendly nod. He spat out and mumbled something in Danish, more than four words. I suddenly felt I understood the language after all, although I'd rather not translate what he said. I had a second-class ticket to Kiel and was one of those people who, in possession of a window seat in direction of travel and a valid ticket, could feel nothing other than happiness and satisfaction. My scarf was where it belonged, around my neck, and I no longer resembled someone fearing a visit to the dentist. My miserable friend was gone and Reichsmark notes were rustling in my pocket. From head to toe I was dressed in fine clothes and had the air of a tourist on a pleasant leisure trip. Leo had bought everything in a large London department store, not in the cheap basement area, but where the upper classes shopped. He instructed me to sew in all the Danish labels from his extensive collection but was no longer in a position to control how far I had got with this. In the overhead luggage compartment my suitcase was swaying, filled as it was with further unexplored delights. When had life ever been so good to me? And I was so free! In my button hole there was a large enamel symbol with the white Danish cross on a red background, upon which stood Danimarca for those who were not so good at recognising flags. I was humming with pleasure ‘Ein freies leben fuhren wir, ein Leben voller Wonne’ (‘a free life we lead and a happy one’) from Schiller's Räuber. The man opposite me, an SS man with the Führer's insignia, accompanied by his soignée mother, smiled indulgently with tolerant sympathy; probably thinking that the man from the neutral country is feeling good in Germany.

  Leading a free life was an exaggeration, as I soon found out when I began to receive instructions from the Geheime Macht almost immediately. When I got to Kiel I felt in my pocket for my ticket and discovered a sealed envelope. The miserable guide must have left it there. In typewritten letters I found the name of a hotel where I was to stay. In Vienna I would never have dreamed of entering one of the fine hotels and they would probably have turned me away. But shyness was one of the characteristics I was shedding with age. In London, where the hotels are more imposing from the outside, I had once arranged a rendezvous in the reception hall. Another time I was almost invited to have tea in the Savoy. But
all the same, to enter a hotel like this and book a room was a novel sensation and almost as fantastically exciting as a train journey in a sleeper or seat in an opera box at a gala performance. I was suitably excited; even sweating. The cover of the Baedeker guidebook I was clinging to desperately was rubbing off on my hands – fortunately no one would notice since my hands are naturally red.

  The hotel in Kiel was no marble palace with endless columned halls and multiple floors, but instead was a narrow two-storey building, bourgeois and dignified. I was happy to see that there was only one counter. At least they wouldn't send me from one to the next – a favourite pastime of those in public buildings with multiple counters, whether a railway station or unemployment office. I am convinced that if there are counters at the gates of heaven then the waiting souls will be sent back and forth endlessly. The hotelier, the porter and the room waiter, all three no longer in the prime of their youth, sprang to attention and started clucking like hens to receive me with full honour. I immediately began to recite my little saying about the holy German language because everyone was attempting to extend their welcome in various languages I could not understand. When they proceeded to speak to me in German, I had to pretend I could understand only snippets of their ramblings. The hotelier, who also happened to be the chief receptionist, asked me how he could help me. Although my arrival was not unexpected, they had not made a firm reservation because they had so many vacant rooms. I could choose between a single room with running water, a double bedroom with street-facing balcony or an apartment with an en-suite bathroom. I took my time, leafing carefully through the language section of my Baedeker and responded with feigned concentration and some mispronunciation: ‘Without doubt, mein Herr, I prefer the latter.’ The clucking increased, as did their activity and they began to tread on each other's toes. To be more precise, the hotel manager took advantage of his position as an entrepreneur by treading repeatedly on his employees’ toes without once apologising. It became apparent to me within a few minutes in the society of the new regime that their maxim of transcending class barriers was a myth. In the most convoluted way I could manage and in my very best German I asked the porter, who was also my room waiter, to take my luggage into my suite. I then went out into the blacked-out night to buy a beer.