Any Survivors (2008)

by Freud, Martin

  I didn't get very far. At the first junction we were stopped by a red light. As the taxi waited with its engine running I heard commotion and shouting from the direction of the hotel. As more and more people ran towards the hotel I couldn't help myself, despite it being close to eleven o’clock. I paid the driver, jumped out of the taxi and joined the crowd and the dramatic scene that was unfolding. The crowd was now so close to the entrance that I couldn't make out anything. I could not see beyond the heads of the people bigger than me. I was wary of getting so close to the building that I would be recognised, considering I was wearing neither a mask nor a false beard. I couldn't ask what was going on. The others seemed to know as little as I did. Only once I had crawled through the legs of a bow-legged fisherman was I able to survey the scene properly.

  The same civilian who had only been Wilhelm Andersen for less than an hour was now held by the shoulders between two SS men. The Kommandant was holding up the familiar Danish passport. People were shouting: ‘Let him go!’

  The Kommandant responded: ‘Back off, mind your own business, anyone who doesn't will be arrested!’

  The crowd consisted of workers, market women and a few members of the Hitler Youth who started jumping up and down delighted that something was finally happening, and also so they could see more easily. The porter stood distraught in the entrance of the hotel repeating the same thing over and over: ‘The gentleman came highly recommended to us by the organisation of ethnic Germans’, but no one paid any attention to him.

  The scene was not yet complete. Christine, the woman I had previously kissed for eight minutes, came rushing down the steps fearing that her lover had come to harm and wanting to help. Elbowing her way past the crowd, the force caused the men to let go of their victim who, finding himself free, made his way towards the entrance of the hotel in search of the long-awaited bed for the night. He paid little heed to the words of the unknown woman who was calling to him to ‘Run away! I’ll help you. Run! I won't let them arrest you.’

  But the leader of the SS patrol was in no mood for fun and games. With routine movement he disengaged the firing pin of the heavy pistol and aimed the barrel at the fugitive. The sound of two faint blasts was almost lost in the noise of the crowd that was rapidly dispersing. Cyclists mounted their bicycles, drivers of heavy-load vehicles started up their engines and drove off. Then the crowd gathered again; there was something else to see now. A soldier was approaching the scene towering amongst the masses. It seemed as if he was riding a horse, but no, he was only incredibly tall: a grey-haired Reichswehr Major. He was now confronting the SS Kommandant: ‘Why don't you pick a different victim? A Czech, Pole or Jew maybe, but shooting down harmless German civilians will not go unpunished!’

  The answer was cutting: ‘Herr Major, I thank you for your advice but the Gestapo does not require it. We are expert at finding traitors in our midst whether they are in civilian clothes or wearing epaulettes.’

  What impressive and bellicose personalities these Germans were. It would have been an ideal place to enact Julius Caesar or Coriolanus! The SS man gathered his patrol and withdrew. Others marched off with their faces set in soldier-like expressions, their backs straight. No one would have thought that a woman had nearly knocked them off their feet only moments ago. No one paid any further attention to the dead body. The poor little man was a sorry sight, lying in a dusty heap on the ground with a dark stain on his back that was gradually getting bigger.

  At least I had been Wilhelm Andersen for a pleasant week as a neutral guest, with a suitcase full of lovely things and Reichsmark aplenty to spend at my leisure. I had dined well, spoken to pleasant people and kissed a beautiful woman. He, on the other hand, had hardly benefited: a few minutes in a taxi being bombarded with questions, then moments of being pushed and shoved around and finally shot down from behind. It was also a shame about all the nice clothes and other things, including my flute. It would all be ransacked and confiscated. In any case, it was time for me to make a move.

  The square was now nearly empty and I was starting to look conspicuous and someone might recognise me. Christine was still standing by the entrance, looking tired and dishevelled. The porter was trying to placate her and move her back inside the hotel. She had at one point tried to throw herself at the dead body but was held back by a constable who said no one was allowed to touch the corpse before the police had examined it. She gave up resisting and was led sobbing inside. I made no attempt to reveal myself to her. It would have been an ugly form of suicide.

  Apropos suicide, I remembered the parade at eleven o’clock; what was I still doing here? I quickly looked at the church tower and saw I had ten minutes to get there. My name was Gotthold Griesemann and I was a petty officer in the German navy. I had to get to the parade in time even if I had no idea what I was meant to do there. I had a task to fulfil and I was not giving up the fight. There was no taxi to be seen so I started to jog. After around 100 paces I wasn't sure anymore that I was heading in the right direction and stopped to ask civilians the way. I had forgotten that my cap showed the number of the victorious U-boat, and this proved to have its advantages. As petty officer of U-boat XY the crowd started to shout as they lifted me on to their shoulders. They wanted to carry me back in a slow celebratory procession, but I shouted, ‘Faster, faster, I must get back’, and finally they started to run with me on their shoulders like a drunken aeroplane. It was a good thing I wasn't very heavy.

  All the windows in the tiny side streets were pulled open, gangs of children, a milk float and all the dogs in the city joined the party. One of the boys got hold of my right shoe for a moment and said, panting to his neighbour, ‘Look at the quality of the shoes.’ He was reading the well-known English label on the inside. It was my own shoe since we hadn't got round to swapping them. ‘I bet they are looted,’ the other one replied, also breathless. I was able to dangle my sock-clad foot back into the shoe they were holding towards me. That at least was only a ‘minor accident’.

  At two minutes to eleven my cavalcade set me down and the guard shouted out to me: ‘Watch it, you’ll get a dunking.’ I didn't know what to answer. Was this how the guards normally spoke to petty officers or was he just displaying Schadenfreude at my unfortunate situation? Was this the norm?

  The solution presented itself in an unusual form. A group of petty officers and seamen, all of them ready for the parade with the appropriate string belts and decorations, had been waiting for me at the top of the first flight of stairs. They all pounced on me. One of them swapped my cap, hung cords, straps and various attachments, belts were pulled, strings fastened and within thirty seconds I was bedecked and adorned like a Christmas tree.

  ‘The Schweinehund doesn't deserve our assistance,’ one of the helpers piped up as they carried out their finishing touches and led me outside into the courtyard. Various battalions of sailors in their finest military apparel were gathered in strict formations. We had free rein to converse and stand around as we wished, almost as though it was our birthday. At the same time various dignitaries at the other end of the courtyard were drawing our commander into polite conversation.

  ‘When we look at one another,’ one of the group commented. He was a skinny, tall man and like the others spoke like an intellectual. ‘When we look at one another properly, it is almost as if we hardly recognise each other anymore.’ He was running his hand over his chin as he said: ‘Not only does washing and shaving become almost painful after a long absence, it seems to reveal unknown facial characteristics.’

  ‘Certainly, it's like being amongst strangers,’ came the grating voice of a large, fat man with watery eyes, his blonde hair closely shorn around his round head. He was called the Baron.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘My name is Schmitt, Oswald von Schmitt. Very pleased to meet you. Hope you’re enjoying the day.’

  Nobody laughed. This wasn't unusual, I surmised, so he felt it necessary to arrange for further amusement, turning towards me.


  ‘Hey, Griesemann,’ he growled. ‘You don't need to worry about anyone not recognising you, even with a clean shave. Now pay attention Gotthold,’ he crowed with an affected commanding voice. ‘Eyes to the right!’

  Everyone stared at me expectantly. This was one of those moments where I was grateful for my razor-sharp intuition. They were expecting something from me – that much was clear. They were staring at my eyes, another clue. I had it! My predecessor, may he rest in peace, was cross-eyed! At the command, eyes to the right, I turned my head as ordered and in a painful squint I made one eye dance to the left while the other went as ordered to the right. The things one learns as a child can come in very useful as a grown-up. I was never any good at literary history or geography, but my two strengths were those that were taught secretly outside of regular lessons: squinting and wriggling my ears. My attempt at eyes to the right was a success. The laughter was raucous. The Baron slapped me so hard I was afraid he had broken my shoulder blade. I was about to explain the difference between appreciation and assault when our captain, nervously nestling against his weapon, shouted ‘Attention!’

  We scampered to our places. Professional soldiers had once confirmed to me, a parade is something terrible and can often leave more unpleasant memories than heavy fighting. It was even worse for me. Many years ago in a youth organisation I had learned a little bit of marching, saluting and how to hold a rifle, but this was something else. I didn't know any of the instructions and didn't even know the names of the men to my left and right. I clenched my teeth and copied everything the others were doing. I was doing all right I thought. I was concentrating so hard, I couldn't follow any of the speeches or who was overseeing us. It might have been good if I had made a bit more effort to discern what was going on. Then it wouldn't have been such a big surprise when they made the next announcement. I jumped out of my skin when the captain called out ‘Obermaschinenmaat Griesemann’.

  I automatically took three paces forward, clicked my heels and saluted. I must have seen it on a film. I was directly opposite our captain, although he towered over me because he was much taller. He fumbled amongst the cords and straps of my uniform, shook my hand and said: ‘You deserve it comrade. My heartfelt congratulations. About turn!’

  Three steps backwards and I was back in my row. On my uniform I was now carrying the Iron Cross First Class. After me another three sailors were decorated. They received the Iron Cross Second Class. Those who were honoured had to step forward and the other navy detachments marched past and left through the gate to the courtyard. The area emptied itself and the ceremony came to a natural end. We were dismissed and summoned for lunch. It wasn't very good and if this was a special day, I wasn't looking forward to normal days!

  After the meal we were off duty. At least I could remember which room was mine. No one had bothered to tidy up. Everything was as we had left it in the morning. There was a coal fire burning which made the thin iron walls glow red. I was on the hunt for anything that might compromise me, so I could add it to the flames. There was what was left of the medicine in its package. It would have been enough for an analysis but I thought better of it. Then I started to look for the permit but remembered that the guards had taken it off us when we left. A packet of traveller's currency for Mr Wilhelm Andersen was of no use to me now and was, moreover, incriminating, so I threw it into the fire.

  I got undressed, removed the English branding from my shoes (which sadly meant I had to cut a hole into the lining) and took stock. In one corner I could see my navy suitcase with my full new name. The lid was open. All that was in it was now mine but sadly the inheritance was somewhat lacking. It was a dubious trousseau comprising the following: threadbare undergarments; a few bottles of cheap liquor of poor quality; shoes I could not wear; a mouth organ; tobacco; a box filled with postcards; and finally, a fat portfolio of photographs depicting naked ladies, some so ugly I wondered if they were cut out of a medical textbook showing sufferers of scrofula. I felt a bit like an ermine waking up after a deep sleep to find I had metamorphosed into a skunk or something similar. I wasn't just thinking this because of the smutty photographs or the quality of the undergarments; there is no shame in being poor and tastes can differ. But the diary I found at the bottom of the trunk was meticulously kept and gave further insight into his dour and unsympathetic character. I planned to study this tome as well as I could, memorising as much as possible now and saving the work-related passages for later. For now I was interested in his, or should I say my, personal life. Just think of yourself in my situation: any moment the door could open and an unsavoury female could enter throwing herself at me who might turn out to be my mother, sister or even wife. I had to be prepared.

  The diary was not only in chronological order, there were also pages devoted to specific subjects and statistics. I found the page devoted to his love life. His floozies had no surnames; they were called Lia, Mia, Lola, Mimi – simple names and easy to remember. Every name was followed by an entry of three or four numbers. I was confused. It could not be their age because some were well under 10 or even over 90. I also dismissed any purely physiological statistics – there were fractions and numbers such as 12a. What could it mean? After closely studying the calculations for a good measure of time I finally had it. The first numeral was the house number. There was no point looking for a street name as his ‘girlfriends’ were all found in the same type of back alley of a harbour. He was obviously capable of remembering the individual street names by heart. The second numeral was the room number. This was where I found ‘12a’ and the like. The third rubric contained the remuneration value they were expecting, presumably proportional to their youth and beauty. It began with 5 marks and went no higher than 15.50. It took me some time to figure out the final category where there were numbers such as 5, 70 and accompanied by a plus or minus. I had to go back to the narrative part of the diary to work out what these meant. Minus was money advanced and plus signified money he had borrowed. He was not a noble character. Those ladies in the 10-mark category were often only paid 5, or if they were too energetic he even only paid 3 marks. Where there was no number to be found, no monetary transaction had taken place. The solution to this numerical mystery was insignificant to my future because I didn't maintain friendship with prostitutes. On the plus side, it had offered good mental training and invaluable insight into the character of the person I was meant to embody.

  The petty officer entered the room (there was no knocking on doors in these quarters) and led me to the captain. I was happy to be interrupted as I was getting bored of studying the past of a stranger. Judging by his stripes he was of equal rank and by the way he treated me on my special day I got the feeling that I had often disappointed him in the past. I tried my luck: ‘Will you lend me 2 marks?’

  ‘No, you Schweinehund. You never pay me back,’ was his answer. It appeared that my predecessor had burnt all his bridges with his colleagues so it was a good thing the captain had nothing against me. The building where the captain held office was a requisitioned school and he had taken over the library and equipment rooms. There was row after row of books, several coloured prints showing the battle of the Teutoburg Forest, a historic village and the coronation of Charles the Great. There was also a glass case with a stuffed penguin and an otter, obviously not on speaking terms because they each faced in different directions.

  The captain was not alone. On the narrow side of the desk was an unattractive, no longer young, gentleman in SS uniform with horn-rimmed glasses and a shiny bald head. I couldn't discern his rank but could sense that he was a high official. He did not return my military greeting. My captain thanked me with particular warmth and offered me a seat on the sofa. I sat on the far corner ready to jump to attention if required.

  ‘Griesemann,’ the captain began. I sprang up.

  ‘Stay seated,’ he said smiling. ‘This is your special day and you should be treated well.’

  The Nazi was rummaging amongst the various
objects on the desk, looking bored, until he found something that looked like a miniature bayonet and started cleaning his nails with it. He showed little interest in our conversation and yawned intermittently. ‘Griesemann,’ he started again, ‘without any fault of your own, I am certain, you have been drawn into an ugly espionage affair. The Gestapo want me to send you to Berlin to be interrogated but I refused. I need all my people, especially my trusted Torpedomaat, and I had heard that the Gestapo often don't return people they take. What was that, Herr Polizei Vizepräsident?’

  The man could not answer because he was now busy cleaning his teeth with the mini-bayonet and was in the midst of a campaign with a bridge on one of his molars on the left. He just waved his fat hand at an angle of 110°, which seemed to mean ‘lets forget about all that’. My heart was bursting with pride at the thought that my captain was protecting me against the almighty Gestapo. How many battleships must you have sunk to be able to talk fearlessly to these monsters?

  ‘We have come to the agreement,’ the captain said, ‘that I will interrogate you myself with the kind assistance of Herr Vizepräsident. So be prepared. You have nothing to worry about but please promise that you will tell the truth. Let me proceed with an explanation of the situation.’

  The Nazi who was pretending not to listen stared at me with his fish eyes as if to say, ‘heaven help us’. The captain paused and leaned courteously towards the police official, giving him the opportunity to say something. He remained silent and gave a little wave again, thus permitting the questioning that was not to his taste to continue.