Any Survivors (2008)

by Freud, Martin

  The captain continued: ‘A suspect was stopped by the Gestapo and his papers were inspected. He was carrying a forged Danish passport that was linked to a dangerous group of political terrorists. The Gestapo were aware of the passport number and were watching his moves so we are certain there is no mistake. The suspect came to see you, gaining access with a forged permit. You were together for one hour and you were seen taking him to the front gate, perhaps even further. Now you tell me with all openness and honesty all you know. What do you know of the man, his cause, what did he ask you and what did he even want from you? Don't worry, you have nothing to fear. The Gestapo rendered him harmless. He was shot while attempting to flee.’

  With these words the police functionary hammered his fist on the table so hard that the letter scales danced up and down and the globe turned itself by about a hand's width. I could now examine New Zealand more closely, which up to a minute ago remained invisible. The captain jumped. People who stay on a U-boat for weeks and weeks under water are left feeling jumpy with nerves. The Nazi policeman shouted: ‘Sir, you are going too far with your openness. You’re ruining my plans!’

  ‘Never mind, Herr Vizepräsident,’ said the captain, who had now regained composure and was smiling. ‘Your notes are on the table. I can read your old-fashioned stenography. I was just reading your note: “The friend is in the next room and has confessed all.” Let us leave the dead in peace and not confuse the living.’

  The Nazi policeman's anger now intensified. Impatience and heightened concentration were evident on his forehead in the form of beads of perspiration. He demanded with forced politeness: ‘Perhaps you would allow me now, Herr …’, and here he checked his note, ‘Griesemann, to ask you some questions?’ He moved his head up and down with the result that the muscles in his neck expanded and contracted like the bellows of an accordion. Then he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. It was on cheap lined paper, and he read out:

  Dear Mother, it is awful here, the air is foul, the food terrible, all this only so that the bigwigs can afford a bigger castle for their actress girlfriends and a newer Mercedes for themselves …

  He did not finish and started shouting at me: ‘Did you write this?’ At least I knew I had a mother.

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I'm not envious of those in power. They are perfectly entitled to their actress girlfriends and their castles, and if you don't believe me, you can check my handwriting. Here, I’ll give you a sample.’ This could have been a grave error but luckily it gave me the opportunity to get up and cross the room. When I first entered the room he had been ostentatiously looking in the other direction, and with me sitting down he would not have been able to see my Iron Cross because it was hidden from view under the table. Now his eyes clocked it. Because it's a black and white band, and it is not the done soldierly thing to wash or chemically clean it, even he could tell that my decoration was brand new. This made him stand up. After pocketing the miniature bayonet he pointed at me with his fat, now halfway clean fingers. ‘When was this fellow given the Iron Cross First Class?’

  ‘A few hours ago,’ the captain responded cheerfully. ‘The man is responsible for the torpedo that has made world history for the German navy.’

  The SS man was crushed. ‘You decorated this person,’ he repeated, ‘and you probably did not realise he was a political suspect. We have been watching him for months. The web was closing and now this!’

  ‘Military honours,’ my captain retorted with pride, ‘are not bestowed for political reliability.’

  ‘That's all very well,’ said the SS man, ‘but we will not win a war with such sentimentalities.’ He sat down again and I followed suit.

  For a few minutes no one spoke and I could hear the school's clock ticking. Then he started again, now antagonised and lacking passion: ‘You are already proven guilty. You did not even try to deny it and there is nothing for you to say because you have been under constant surveillance. I am unable to convict a newly decorated soldier, that would be a mistake and also distasteful. I'm not saying we have never executed a soldier with such an accolade, only normally there are at least a few years between decoration and justice. That means the army does not feel the lack of tact so strongly. I know you have committed treason but I do not feel I can put that into protocol. I would be grateful if you could help me to put together something credible I can account for. Your captain, whom I now understand better, has already tried to inform you and I will now finish the story with pleasure. I'm sure you know the facts better than we do but please do the honourable thing and explain to me the one point I am unable to understand. We know that the criminal came to visit you with a forged permit. When you were asked about the man, you said to let him through and that you were expecting him. He was with you for one hour. If he wanted to pick up something then surely he would have asked for someone else and then passed by your room so you could secretly hand it to him through a crack in the door. We know this method well but what can we prove? You sat together and discussed something quite complicated, that much we are certain of: a technical drawing and U-boat plans. Certainly your friend was a German sailor, the tattoos on the dead body leave no room for doubt. I'm not asking you what plans you received. You can even keep the money. I will not search your things. Just tell me one thing: where are the plans? Your friend is dead and there is no way you can compromise him. Just tell us what he did with the plans. The chauffeur you used to drive to the hotel is our agent, as is the porter of the hotel. While you were on the market there was always someone watching you. Three of our agents were keeping a very close watch. No one could see any sign of any papers being put aside, but yet, our searches have yielded nothing. We appeal to your honour as a German citizen, a member of the party and as a petty officer, help us to find the papers.’

  This was starting to get on my nerves. If I had had the opportunity I would have quickly sketched a U-boat and its interior and smuggled it in. To my shame, however, I was no good at drawing and could neither draw one from the outside nor depict the inside plans. Just to prove this to myself I tried it at a later date and it always came out looking like a row of false teeth.

  ‘Herr Polizeirat,’ I said, as I felt the need to respond. ‘I have nothing to do with this affair. When the officers asked me if I was expecting anyone, I felt flattered, as it was the first time anyone had ever come to see me, so of course I said I was expecting him. I don't have many friends, obviously. But then this drunken chap appeared and started talking rubbish. I felt a little sorry for him so I accompanied him back to his hotel. He could hardly walk straight. When I heard the shots I could see that the Gestapo was already there so I thought there was no point in me getting involved. Just a thought Herr Polizeirat: if you really think the man was a conspirator and was carrying secret papers, would it not have been possible for the exchange to have taken place with someone else? And that he stayed with me so long so as to divert attention and lay a false trail? You yourself mentioned that this was a common practice. Why don't you let me go through his things? As a sailor I may be better qualified to find these plans.’ My thought here was to show willing and also to see if there might be an opportunity to get some of my things back.

  So to my surprise the basket with Mr Andersen's things was brought to me because the captain approved of the idea. I could see immediately that there was not much that could be salvaged. All the clothes had been cut up and ripped so the lining could be checked; all other items, tobacco pipe and my treasured flute, hacked into little pieces, tubes of toothpaste emptied, cut open and rolled flat. I felt a little stab in the heart but I had to pretend that it was leaving me cold. The only intact item on this sad heap was the bottle of French cognac, the finest French make with a crown and three stars. We all saw it at the same time and the two others licked their lips. Even my captain who had the face of an ascetic was not entirely averse to alcohol.

  ‘Perhaps it's written on the back of the label,’ I added modestly. Both m
en grabbed the bottle at the same time, saying, ‘Allow me’ and ‘May I?’

  My captain's arms were longer and his fingers more nimble. He lifted up the bottle, held it against the light and said contemplatively, ‘If we empty the bottle we should see more easily.’ He lifted it to his lips and drank almost half. Here was further proof of the lack of abolishment of the class system. The leading classes stuck together and the poor ordinary man could see where that left him. My captain handed the half-empty bottle not to me but to the superintendent, and that was that, the rest of the bottle disappeared in one large gulp. If they only realised that it was my cognac and they didn't even offer me a small sip!

  The SS superintendent looked at the inventory and modified the entry for one full bottle of cognac. He crossed out ‘full’ and wrote ‘empty’ over the top. Then he wiped his mouth, reasonably satisfied with the conciliatory result of the interrogation. He gave a short salute and left. My captain was squinting at me, his normally dry fiery eyes filled with moisture. The cognac was strong and his gulp had been hefty. ‘Gotthold,’ he said. Now we were on first name terms again. ‘I think I know your secret. Even the smartest detective will not be able to solve a case if he does not have access to all the information. The life of a sailor is tough and of course no one has the right to condemn certain urges. One should forgive them even if one does not condone them, and often there are true and honourable emotions behind these actions.’ And with these words he left the room.

  I watched him leave, at the same time feeling a little disturbed as I had no idea what he was talking about. Then I had it: he was referring to the moment he had caught the real Griesemann and I cavorting around in our underpants. No doubt he had come to the obvious conclusion, although I had the feeling that it was not as far-fetched as I had thought in these circles. I went a deep shade of red, as red as a tribune in Soviet Moscow on the first of May. If my mother had seen me – my real mother that is, not that one I had written the mutinous letter to – she would have been deeply ashamed of me.

  ***

  It was wonderful to be walking down the streets at dusk. How easy my life would be from now on if only I did not have to return to the sailors’ home and continue playing a role that I was not in the least prepared for. I told myself: have courage, my brave one – as I was changing my first name so often I tended to address myself in vague terms. There was less risk of making a mistake; have courage, I said again, the first days are bound to be difficult. But slowly the others will get used to your expressions and gestures. And by being in close proximity you will learn their nicknames, life stories and idiosyncrasies by heart. If the real Griesemann hadn't died and was to return in a year then he would now be the stranger instead, in danger of drawing attention to himself. I was easily comforted even though I was consoling myself and immediately walked more cheerfully through the darkness, albeit still deep in thought. What was it that made life so much more friendly and bearable since this morning? I found the answer: it was the uniform.

  Walking around in civilian clothes in a port city at war, even if they were well made and elegant, was bound to be depressing. It was a bit like being on the promenade in Cannes wearing a suit and striped satin trousers amongst others wearing white flannel and pastel sweaters, surprised that people were eyeing you up and down in disgust, keeping a wide berth. As a sailor on a U-boat with an Iron Cross, I was finally dressed appropriately for this sea-faring environment. Dressed in the right way, people can be more inclined to approach you with a sense of goodwill and friendship. The shops were still open, so I went into a small cafe, sat down and ordered toast with ham and two soft-boiled eggs. The landlady and the few guests started to laugh raucously, much to my surprise. I wasn't making jokes, I just happened to be hungry. As a hotel guest I had been spared the harsh reality with the special food ration card I was allowed as a neutral leisure traveller. The catering had been more than adequate. I drowned my disappointment in a cup of lukewarm ersatz coffee. I felt a little better at the thought of all the lost money. It would have been of little use to me since there was not much I could have bought with it.

  Only a few steps further on I discovered there were exceptions; it was possible to purchase musical instruments without coupons and I was able to buy a flute. The shop girl complained that no one came into the shop these days. The people of Kiel were obviously not in the mood for making music. She had the mournful look that young women have who spend half their life waiting for something, and although you could have called her pretty, she wasn't my type. For that reason my answer to ‘how long will you be staying in this port for, sailor?’ my reply was, ‘I am sorry but I am unable to give details of the movements of the German navy to ordinary civilians’.

  I was still in love with the beautiful Christine; it was only that morning that I had bid my fond farewell. She must now be mourning the death of her Wilhelm (was that my name this morning?) with her dog on her lap and tears in her eyes. It is remarkable how much can happen in a single day.

  Deep in thought, I almost walked straight past the sailors’ home; it would have been just my luck to get lost and spend the night in an air-raid shelter. I had no idea how to find something to eat. I didn't dare ask. On the ground floor smells were emanating from an open doorway. I entered the room; the area was dimly lit and full of sailors from a multitude of ships, none of whom I recognised. As I looked from one to the other, I took a plate, spoon and fork from the sideboard and stood in line for my dinner. It was certainly not where I belonged. All around me were sailors with no rank, not a single fellow petty officer, but I was so hungry that the voice of caution was left unheeded. In orderly fashion we marched past four dinner ladies, one after the other they each scooped up one ladle of kraut, one of fried potatoes, half a slice of bratwurst and a thick slice of wartime bread. I had been worrying how I was going to eat my dinner without a knife. In a flash, my concerns disappeared as quickly as the thin slice of meat did. I finished my meal, standing in a corner facing the wall so that I would not be disturbed, and made my way out of the room.

  It was to my advantage that the Germans were not stingy with their signs and labels. It was easy for me to find my way. I studied the inscriptions of the diverse localities and found the petty officers’ mess – that must be where I belonged. With some trepidation I pushed down on the iron door handle.

  The mess room was a long, well-ventilated, clean room with whitewashed walls. A workbench stretched the entire length of the room and individual light bulbs cast a pleasant glow. Two large oil paintings of Hitler were hanging on the walls, one of which (I later found out) was meant for the officers’ mess but was only here temporarily (by now three and a half years). The officers always found new excuses to prevent its removal because they were quite happy with their gloomy Tirpitz painting. At the table there were several petty officers, alone and in groups, reading, writing or in quiet conversation. One of them had opened his pocket watch and was adjusting it with a sharp knife. I quickly studied a few of the faces. Thankfully no one expressed any surprise at my entering and I spied a studious-looking fellow who was reading on his own at the end of the table. The Student invited me over with a slight raising of an eyebrow, so I pulled up a seat and joined him.

  Initially I had thought the Student was a young man but up close and in this lighting I could see the grey strands in his receding hair. He appeared a little preoccupied but was nonetheless happy to see me. He checked no one was watching by looking around, but everyone was doing their own thing.

  ‘How did it go?’ he whispered. A mild panic engulfed me. A cryptic question deserved a cryptic answer.

  I murmured back, ‘Exactly as I had hoped.’

  He sighed, ‘Good news for us.’

  I nodded, wishing there was any way I could find out which side he was on. Was he an accomplice or a spy for the Gestapo? I could sense that his attention was wavering and he resumed what he had been doing before I had interrupted him. He had a large pile of magazines that he
was scanning through carefully in order of their publication. He was slow and methodical and appeared to be only interested in one or two pages. I looked over his shoulder. It wasn't the crossword or the letters to the editor; it was the book reviews he was after.

  ‘Nothing, again,’ he said, disappointed. It seemed appropriate that I knew what was not there so I acknowledged, ‘How sad and unfair.’ Anything to do with book reviews was unfair in my opinion. He added: ‘I no longer expect reviews of my first book, especially as it wasn't actually published. You do remember it, don't you?’

  ‘Not very well,’ I lied, ‘but I remember the subject was fascinating.’

  He was happy to be able to discuss his work. ‘You’re a good man, Gotthold. I’ve always said it; I don't care what the others think about your character. Let me tell you …

  ‘My first book was called German Men of Israelite Faith as Patrons of Hamburg's Naval Prestige. A long title, I know. It was dedicated to Alfred Ballin and the publisher was certain that subscriptions of Jewish patriotic organisations would cover the cost of the first printing. Sadly, politics took over and the entire print run was pulped, apart from one single bound copy, salvaged and now in the hands of the Gestapo. They used the information to facilitate the “aryanisation” of the navy. But do you think I ever received any thanks or commission from them? No, I don't think so.’

  My instincts warned me that he was about to launch into a summary of his entire literary repertoire, which was too much, especially after such a dire evening meal. To cut him short, and without wanting to offend, I enquired, pretending to be very tired: ‘Remind me, what was the name of your last book again?’

  ‘My latest book has the title The Dissemination of Asian Epidemic Diseases by Jewish Bacillus Carriers. The relevant Reichs officials have approved the manuscript and the authorities have authorised publication. However, the publisher will not go ahead with the printing since the subject has no immediate impact unless we experience an epidemic here in Germany.’