Most of the instructions were in connection with my lovely, but still sadly unknown, neighbour. ‘Do not take up contact with the lady in the room opposite.’ This note had been deposited in my toothbrush yesterday, but I only discovered it the next morning because I only brush my teeth in the morning. Then on the breakfast menu: ‘Lady in Room 21 most likely a spy from the other side.’ The menu itself was less exciting: lentils with bacon, and bacon with lentils, that was the extent of my choice for the morning. There were further warnings not to engage, but all equally vague. It seemed a wasted opportunity for only a slight suspicion.
By now it was the third evening in the hotel and I still hadn't really spoken to her and only caught rare glimpses of her. Up until now we had made do with the briefest of nods of recognition, nothing more. One morning I had purchased two small bouquets of violets and left them in front of her door: one in each shoe – flowers were damned expensive in these parts. Later that day I found a gingerbread heart in my room, which much have been from her. It was very dry and lacked honey and spices, but on it was written Ich liebe Dich, I love you.
One shouldn't underestimate one's enemy, especially if they are German, a people of martial tendencies. I was prepared for everything: a furtive attack on the flank, for example, but that was not what she had in store for me. In the hotel all was still and dark and I was feeling my way down the corridor when I noticed a strange object moving in front of my door. I aimed my torch in its direction. There she was cowering on my doorstep, crouching down in a blue corduroy jacket with a deep v-neck. Her blonde hair was held back with a band and her smooth face was turned towards me. At first I didn't know where I had seen this face before, and then I remembered: it was the face, neck and arms I had seen on the poster in blacked-out London at the precise moment my fate had changed.
The girl was holding her dog with her left hand so he didn't roll off her lap. The other hand was held out towards me in an exaggerated manner of a beggar. In her clear, deep voice she implored: ‘This poor old girl would be grateful for some comfort.’
Now would have been the right time for another warning from my colleagues, something like ‘look into her eyes and you are lost’ would not have gone amiss. Her eyes were like a mountain stream, forging its way through cliffs and down ravines. Eyes that grabbed, conquered and coerced. Those eyes were now looking at me and all I could do was throw caution to the wind as I was usurped by the rapids and carried away. I was ready to face whatever danger was heading my way, possessed as I was by the beatific sensation of a commander of a light cavalry facing batteries of enemy cannon: knowing the end was nigh but it would be a damned good fight all the same.
I knelt down and picked up the girl. She was incredibly heavy, much more so than I expected, and if she hadn't thrown her arms around my neck, we would have both toppled over. I am athletic, strong and perfectly capable of holding a girl in my arms who is bigger and stronger than I am, but if it had been the other way around, if she had been carrying me, then that would have looked more natural. The dog slid from her lap to the ground and snapped ungraciously at my trouser legs. For a moment we both didn't speak, for my part because I was gasping for air and she because she was trying to placate the dog. Then she began to stroke my arm saying, ‘My, what lovely fabric this is!’ In the hallway a floorboard creaked, a sure indication that someone was there. We both held our breath. She whispered to me, ‘Someone is spying on us, come into my room. And bring your flute.’ I lowered her on to the ground and she slipped into her room, pulling the dog in with her.
I couldn't find the flute straight away because I wasn't allowed to turn the light on before drawing the blinds. Just as I pulled the cord, I heard footsteps coming towards my room. The key that was in the door was turned and pulled out. The steps moved away; I was locked in.
After a while I received a note through the door: ‘Where are you, why don't you come over?’ I responded that I was locked in and shoved the note back under the door. After a few minutes the second note arrived: ‘Be patient. I love you and will wait.’ Initially I added, ‘Be strong’, but then I thought she might misinterpret this and be offended. She was strong, particularly around the hips, as I noticed when I picked her up. So I crossed the words out vehemently and wrote instead: ‘Good night.’ And that was the end of our correspondence.
It was a wonderful night, full of dreams of the girl. In the morning I woke up to the sound of another note being pushed through the door. My first thought was that it was from her and immediately rushed up to retrieve it. Sadly it was from the Geheime Macht. The word Befehl (order) was the heading and further instructions followed:
Report to Obermaschinenmaat G. Griesemann at daybreak: Old Sailor's Home, North Quay 27. Follow his orders unconditionally. Do not wear Danish badge. Permit is enclosed.
That was my contract – a grey paper sealed with official stamps and signatures. Fair enough – I would show them. I tried the door to my room; it was now open. Which one of my numerous superiors was responsible for playing the part of providence and censorship, I was not to find out. I got dressed with more haste than usual. As I got to the door of my neighbour's room I put two chocolates in her going-out shoes, one in each shoe. It was all I could offer in terms of a gift. I hoped she wouldn't put them on without checking first. I must have stood there a moment or two, contemplative and indecisive, when suddenly the door opened and a pair of strong arms pulled me into the room. Like a fawn in the clutches of a boa constrictor, I was helpless in her arms and found myself entwined in a long kiss. My room looked out on to the courtyard; hers had a view of the market. As it happened I could see very little past her rosy cheeks and well-formed ear but I had full view of the church's clock tower. Eight minutes into our kiss I was getting nervous on account of the urgency of the instructions in my pocket. There was so much I had to ask her before my departure. She showed no signs of letting me go on her own accord so I prised away my mouth and asked her, ‘What is your name?’
‘Christine.’
‘Are you working for the German counter-espionage movement?’
‘Yes, that's my occupation, but I'm currently not on duty. I'm on holiday here.’
‘That's okay then.’
‘Yes, my darling, everything is okay.’
Lovely as it was, I really could not justify a moment longer in her presence since it was long after daybreak. As I was walking down the stairs feeling light-hearted and uplifted, like after a full German breakfast, I remembered too late that I had meant to warn her about the liqueur pralines in her shoes.
4
THE NEW ROLE
The old sailors’ home was no more than ten minutes away and was a rambling decrepit building with an old-fashioned gable roof. There was a sign over the door, decorated with a garland of pine twigs: ‘A Warm Welcome to our Heroes!’ A crowd of people surrounded the building in a boisterous and exuberant mood, which was a rare sight here as one usually sees only sullen faces. The SS guarded the inside of the building and municipal police were cordoning off the street side to keep away the curious masses.
It didn't take long to find out what was going on, but then this was Germany where everyone was desperate to share each other's business. A U-boat had returned which had apparently won a battle with a British fleet. The crew had arrived only an hour ago with their baggage, grey and dirty with three weeks’ beard growth. They had sunk a battleship and two armoured cruisers. They were claiming it was two battleships and a whole flotilla of cruisers. The longer we stood there the more impressive the victory became. All this attention was not exactly beneficial to my task but I had my orders to follow. I made my way to the officer at the front and explained why I was there. He answered in the deepest North Sea bass tone, ‘I'm sure you would like to meet one of our heroes but visitors are not allowed.’
It almost seemed he was one of the heroes himself. I showed him my permit but he only shook his head, unsatisfied. He pointed towards the SS Kommandant who shook his head even
more, but at least admitted me into the antechamber where another SS man proceeded to frisk me in search of weapons. This was most unpleasant for me because I was incredibly ticklish. He found nothing of interest apart from a tobacco pipe which he promptly dismantled, expecting to find a machine gun inside. Visibly disappointed, he handed it back to me, leaving me to put it together again. He sent an orderly to fetch the sailor but in such a way that I understood nothing of what was going on. I had to concede that the SS had the right tactic when it came to conspirators. It seemed to work because the next I knew the Kommandant was reluctantly shrugging his shoulders and shouting to the orderly, ‘Lead this gentleman to Obermaschinenmaat Griesemann!’ The word ‘gentleman’ was pronounced with such contempt he may well have said ‘individual’ and it wouldn't have sounded any less derisive. I was led to the first floor, not like an esteemed visitor but more like a prisoner being led to the gallows.
Since receiving my order this morning I had been preparing myself to meet this Unterseebootobermaschinenmaat Gotthold Griesemann. I pictured him as a tall, strong, imposing, real German sailor with an open gaze and booming voice, my future friend and helper in my fight against Nazi rabble. My escort announced my presence: ‘Your visitor, Herr Maschinenmaat,’ and shoved me into a room consisting of a metal bed, metal oven, metal washstand and strangely pungent air.
‘That will be it,’ said the sergeant with a thin whiny voice as he waved the orderly away. Now alone, we looked at each other in mutual distrust and immediate instinctive dislike. This was my friend and helper? A measly little sea rat, not a seaman! The petty officer was not even ready for visitors. He was in ersatz cotton underwear next to the washstand looking into a mirror fragment in which you could barely see both nostrils at the same time, contemplating his three weeks’ growth of dirty blonde beard. From neck to waist he dressed in a dazzling white long-sleeved bodice, evidently just thrown on. His long johns and thick socks were less dazzling and a sure indication of three weeks at sea. This was surely where the not quite fresh smell stemmed from. He carried on what he was doing and had a minute quantity of shaving soap skewered on his knife. He was deliberating how to use this precious relic in the service of this necessary shave without forfeiting the entire quantity. He began to soap his face without taking any further notice of me. As I began to break into questions, explanations and introductions, he waved me away and said abruptly: ‘Give me your passport!’
In nervous haste and somewhat anxiously, he leafed through the passport with this left hand while scraping through the unruly growth of facial hair with his other. Artfully and with an unflatteringly cross-eyed expression, he alternately looked into the fragment of the mirror and then again at the passport. Then he looked at me, ‘Why don't you take your clothes off? Come on, play up!’
Under normal circumstances it would have been quite pleasant to rid myself of coat and vest in a stuffy, overheated room. I obeyed but thought with clenched teeth, what does this bastard want from me? I was disgusted, but not frightened; confident that something he would say or do would shed light on the hitherto completely incomprehensible situation. I stared at him and that was the best thing I could have done. From under the beard stubble and soapsuds a familiar face emerged. It was the man whose photograph was stuck in my passport. If it hadn't been so hot, my brain might have worked more quickly, but as it was I could only slowly piece together the situation. It became clearer by the minute. I had been picked out only because I bore a striking resemblance to a petty officer in the German navy. He was part of the conspiracy and needed to leave the country with the help of the neutral passport that I was carrying: not a bad idea! With some palpable relief I slipped out of my trousers.
‘We’re swapping clothes?’ I enquired naively.
I must have sounded as thick as a plank as he now mocked me: ‘If you think it's enough to exchange business cards and buttonholes …’
‘And you will show me what to do in your place?’ I responded, now somewhat intimidated.
‘And what else – you stupid monkey face,’ he replied frostily. ‘Do you really think an illiterate frog like you with no brain could last in my position for more than five minutes? I'm not risking it. You will remain in bed until I'm gone. Here, take this powder. You’ll get a fever, just enough so that they take you to hospital. There you will say nothing and no one will know you. They’ll leave you alone for three days at least, enough time for me to escape over the border.’
That was all fair and well, but what was to happen to me when the fever had passed? No one seemed to have thought of that. We began exchanging our clothes. It wasn't easy to part with the lovely new suit that I was so proud of, in exchange for a uniform of unknown quality. Slowly I began to empty my pockets of my watch, money and everything else. But I misjudged my new partner. He not only saw my clothes as his, but also all that they contained. He slapped my wrist with the blunt end of the razor and hissed at me: ‘Hands off! Take your thieving paws off my things!’
This was too much for me. I couldn't just sit back and put up with it. Without letting him see how much my hand was hurting, I stared fearfully at his razor as if there was a poisonous spider or scorpion sitting on it and screeched: ‘For goodness sake, throw that thing away.’
I had judged him right; his nerves were shot. He threw the razor into the corner without thinking. It was my experience that one shouldn't attack anyone holding a knife. As soon as his hands were empty I punched him on the nose and started to sway. He was blind with rage and prepared his punch at my forehead. I had already worked out that he was no good at boxing and ducked his blow, so that he lost balance. With a sturdy kick I forced him into the opposite corner. Just then the door opened. A tall man in captain's uniform surveyed the scene benevolently. We both sprang to attention. It was hard to say who looked more guilty. But the captain was in a happy mood and not inclined to view a tussle between two half-undressed sailors with displeasure. ‘Have fun boys, but behave!’ he said with a twinkle and was gone again.
I regained composure more quickly than the sergeant, but then it wasn't my captain who had just interrupted us. I continued the fight. Capitalising on my advantage of having shoes, I jumped towards my sock-wearing adversary's stomach. I brought him to the ground. He gasped for air. It was my luck that at that point he asked for water. There was a glass of water by the sink, which albeit not fresh, would do for my purposes. I spotted the powder meant for me and quickly dissolved it in the glass, forcing him to drink it. He put up some resistance but I held his nose and poured it down his throat.
For research purposes I would love to have studied the effects of the drug but I wasn't sure if the circumstances allowed it. Although unconscious, I wasn't sure how long he would stay that way and whether his unconscious state was a result of the right dosage or the kick in the stomach. At any rate he was now peaceful and for the time being I could do whatever I wanted with him. I helped him to get dressed: braces, tie and shoelaces were the most challenging. Then I put the passport in his pocket. At this stage I could have reversed the entire transaction as my partner was putting up no resistance. I could have pocketed the passport, taken back my clothes, put him back in his uniform and we would have each gone our separate ways. But I didn't want that. My adventure had begun and I had developed a taste for it. The role of a ‘victorious hero’ was one I was eager to relish. Besides, I was doubtful that the Geheime Macht would have let me get away with anything other than their plans. They had me well and truly under their control.
The current situation left little time for further contemplation: I had to act and fast. My victim was now slumped on the shabby seat of the only chair, wearing my fine English travel suit which was just slightly tight on him as he was a little bit bigger than I was. Every few minutes I had to shake him otherwise he would have fallen into a deep slumber. But time was precious and I, or he as the visitor, had been in the room far too long. I fed him some rum from his bottle. I had some fine cognac in my (now his) civilian clo
thes but I wasn't inclined to waste it. The rum did the trick and he was back on his feet and we hobbled down the stairs together.
As little as I was accustomed to wearing a uniform, I noticed straight away the benefits it entailed. That a civilian had arrived an hour ago stone cold sober and was now decidedly intoxicated, did not raise any eyebrows and was seen as perfectly natural. One sailor shouted to me: ‘Parade at 11 o’clock, don't get too drunk!’
I could only wave back good-naturedly. He seemed to know me well but I knew neither his name nor what our relationship was. VIPs were arriving in a constant stream so it was not difficult to find an empty taxi. I pushed the bumbling passenger into his seat and instructed the driver to make the journey as smooth and slow as possible. The interlude with the sailor, who may have been my mate, had made me realise that I was ill prepared for my role. I made the most of the last precious minutes we had. I asked one question after the other, much faster than he could answer:
‘Who's your best friend? Do you have family? Will anyone visit you, how does one salute a passing officer from a car, do you get an advance on your pay?’ Whenever he threatened to slip into oblivion I started shaking him until he started to talk again. The question and answer game didn't yield very much. It all went so quickly I could only remember half of what he said. Although we were travelling at a snail's pace we were already approaching the hotel. Twenty metres away from the hotel I stopped the car and deposited my victim on the street. The porter was standing in the entrance. My patient approached him hoping for a bed for the night and some well-earned rest. I shouted from my hiding place: ‘Watch out, he's had his fill!’ I then asked the taxi driver to turn around and drive me back.
Any Survivors (2008) Page 5
