The Student was hoping that further negotiations with Moscow would lead to wartime activities in Iran or Turkestan which could lead to an outbreak of cholera or the plague in central Europe. In which case there was a good chance the book would be highly successful.
The Student was now getting excited, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ‘They would only need to put one advert in the Boersenblatt trade magazine for 10,000 copies to be sold into shops all around the country. Wake up, you old devil! You haven't been listening, have you?’
He didn't seem too offended and led me upstairs to my room.
5
TIGHTROPE WALK IN THE DARK
Up until now everything had gone as smoothly as I could have hoped for. This meant that I was not mentally prepared for any adversity and quickly lost my composure when something finally went wrong. So, what had happened? The Student, having led me to the door of my room and bidden me farewell with a friendly poke in the ribs, proceeded to saunter off whistling the entrance march from Aida or the like. I suddenly felt the compelling need to gather myself and reflect on everything that had happened in the course of the day and how these events and people would form my life. I earmarked an hour for these musings and was going to devote the following:
– Five minutes to the real Griesemann, deceased. May his spirit rest in peace.
– Five minutes to my heroic new commander, my captain.
– Three minutes to the Iron Cross.
– Half a minute to the police vice-president.
– Two minutes to the Student and my other friends and colleagues.
The remaining 44½ minutes I planned to leave entirely free to fill with thoughts of the lovely Christine. I was very methodical and good at mental arithmetic and needed little time to work out this timetable; in fact, although it takes some time to relate these thoughts, it only took as long as the time it took to squeeze into the room.
Before I turned on the lights I was certain that I would not be able to manage any clear or contemplative thoughts because there was a snoring man in my room, and when there is snoring I am unable to think clearly. Who the devil was this and why was he asleep in my room? I switched on the light indignantly.
In the narrow space, which was already incredibly confined, they had managed to squeeze a second bunk, albeit the shortest one they could possibly find. When Bohemia was still a free and happy country, you could go to a guesthouse on a Sunday and order schnitzel. For the customer to be satisfied the meat had to spill over the edge of three sides of the plate. In a similar fashion my unbidden guest was sprawled out in his bed, his face covered by a blanket, his bare legs akimbo. On this day my powers of intellect and deduction had been used so often and intensely that I was slacking and therefore could muster only the simplest of observations. From his sailor top I could make out his rank. He had one stripe less than me and was, therefore, Maschinengefreiter. From the calm and deep frequency of his snore, I deduced that he was young, strong and healthy. I estimated his shoes to be size 44 (UK 9), and judging by the photograph of his parents in the tasteful metal frame by his bed he was unmarried and came from a well-to-do and pious family. I suppose the company could have been worse.
I had to pass over his bed to get to mine. It seemed easiest to step over his face as this was where the obstacle was flattest. After a few attempts I managed to synchronise my breathing with his snoring. I briefly wondered whether I should open the window but before the thought could manifest itself I fell asleep to the sound of the snores. When I woke up and opened my eyes it was late and there were more and more noises to be heard in the corridor. A pair of eyes was staring at me. The intruder, now only 1.5m away from my head, went from lying down to sitting up, only half standing to attention, and spluttered: ‘Maschinengefreiter Dr Raimund Pachthofer reporting for duty.’
The first official encounter between a subordinate and their superior can determine the level of respect for the remainder of the relationship. I decided to be strict and admonished myself to show no weakness. My mouth was dry from having just woken up, adding to the sarcastic tone I was adopting: ‘The next time I expect you to report for duty from the chamber pot, cigarette in mouth!’
This resulted in deep embarrassment. Turning puce, he leapt out of bed, looked for and finally found the only spot where his large feet could find a place, then repeated the action. I wasn't satisfied and made him strap on his bayonet over his pyjamas and put on his cap. I made him repeat it a fourth time because he had forgotten the Hitler salute.
I stretched to full height, savouring the moment and explained: ‘The only times you are exempt from executing the Nazi salute is where the dimensions of the room forbid it or if you are in danger of knocking over delicate nautical instruments.’ I then finally added ‘at ease’, and allowed him to remove his cap and bayonet and get back into bed.
I instinctively understood that the more forceful and bullying one appeared, the more likely you were to achieve submission. He thanked me profusely for the instruction and beamed with a sense of duty and subordination. Now I could afford to be more affable and I enquired after his personal details. He had a PhD and was a meteorologist. His most recent station had been a remote mountain outpost. When the war broke out he volunteered and was placed in the U-Boat Waffe, as he was used to the following: going up and down ladders; reading instruments; being constantly on the lookout; shaving infrequently; and surviving on tins for weeks on end.
‘Herr Obermaschinenmaat,’ he exclaimed, as his nostrils flared with excitement, ‘you are the most experienced and respected petty officer of the German U-boat fleet. You cannot imagine what an honour it is for me to be trained by you.’
This was too much. I could hardly distinguish a torpedo tube from a cinema projector and I was meant to instruct someone? I was incensed but there was no need to fuel my anger with pretence. Sadly, I had not picked up the full range of navy swear words in my twenty-four hours of duty. But what of it? I was sure the man from the mountain provinces would not be able to tell the difference. Good acting was not achieved by imitation but by grasping the essence of the situation. Was Shakespeare himself there to have heard King Lear swearing or Caesar speaking to his wife?
I began my tirade: ‘You sad little barometric worm. Do you really think I have the time and inclination to train you personally? Is this why I was decorated in the highest order? So that I can waste my precious talents in the manner of a primary school teacher? Oh no, I won’t! I have a sailor's patent not a nursing diploma! You are more likely to see the German fleet rise from the bottom of the sea at Scapa Flow and start fighting again than hear me utter a single word of instruction. And even if our admiral himself gives me an order to do the same, I would throw my logbook on the floor and then he can sink the battleships on his own!’
The poor man sunk his head and was completely silent. Perhaps I had gone too far. Then I had an idea that could save me from this unfortunate situation. I continued: ‘Of course, I realise how unfamiliar everything will be to start with and you will want to pose questions all of the time. Carry on, I don't mind, as long as you don't ask me. It is your duty to find out what you need to know. Don't hold back. I will even help you. If I think there is a situation where you should be asking more questions I will subtly kick your shins. You may want to put on an extra pair of knee-high socks.’
I thought to myself: if I manage to keep this chap with me all of the time, then I have an inconspicuous method of asking questions and finding out things that would otherwise have been impossible. In a nutshell, I may just about survive.
***
As it happened, it was a Sunday and no one was on duty that day. Lunch for the sergeants and my new recruit was served by the orderlies in clean aprons. Shiny cutlery was laid out and there was even a tablecloth. With my source of information close by, I felt relatively safe. For the time being everyone's sole concern was one thing: the post. I, for my part, had little interest in seeing what letters were waiting for my pre
decessor. I could only imagine the ladies from his diary chattering about their daily lives, demanding their money or sending photos. I was not looking forward to this. I have never enjoyed reading other people's letters, but here I had no choice. There was not a single moment where I was on my own, and if anyone saw me throwing the letters away without reading them I would no doubt arouse suspicion.
It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. There were no letters from ladies with dubious addresses. He must have given them a false address. In fact, there was very little post for me. There was a postcard sent from Munich showing three women dressed up as Münchener Kindl.1 The hood covered their foreheads so you could only see the tip of the nose, cheeks, mouth and chin. The voluminous cloak covered their figures up to the knees, at which point their bare legs stuck out which made them look more convincing. All three girls were from the serving classes. I could just make out a bruise on the instep of the one in the middle, likely to have been obtained from polishing the parquet too vigorously with a broom. This was assuming the girl was from an area where the polishing of parquet was not yet done mechanically. The postcard was accompanied by the words: ‘Do you recognise me?’ and I added, being the honest man that I was, ‘No’.
There was also the latest chess magazine and a letter enclosing 5 marks for the correct answer to one of their challenges. Then there was a bill for tailoring services marked ‘third reminder’ and a few more unremarkable items. Then, to my surprise, there was a proper letter with female handwriting on violet paper. It was promisingly heavy but when I opened it nothing interesting fell out apart from some newspaper cuttings consisting of chess challenges and their solutions. I started to read the letter:
Dear Gotthold, I am sending you all the clippings I could find. I spent all day in the library collecting them. I fear I am making myself unpopular by cutting holes in the magazines, but there is another woman who collects the bridge and she is even worse. She tears out whole pages. They are calling me Jack the Ripper, whatever that means, I think it must be some kind of an insult.
My sister's bloke never writes to her either. He says he is busy washing the deck, don't you dare use that as your excuse. I know you are underwater most of the time, With greetings and a kiss, your Jakobine.
P. S. I went to see Frau Schnuppelmatz. She says you are a rascal. If you don't propose soon I will come and look for you or write to your admiral to complain. Yours, the above.
This was obviously my bride-to-be. The letter was posted in Wiesbaden before 3 September. I hoped that she was now evacuated, preferably to a camp for civilians where no letter writing was allowed.
As it was now raining heavily, the mess hall was getting busier. I was getting used to the faces around me and feeling more comfortable. In addition to the two paintings of Hitler the mess hall had further ornaments: an aquarium and terrarium in one corner that would have once been in use. One was filled with earth and a few dried-out plants, the other with water and some coral. They must have been designated to hold treasures from foreign countries: exotic fish and amphibians to amuse and instruct the comrades left behind. Wartime activities had led to less exotic specimens being brought back. Instead of fabled animals from the Malayan Archipelago or the mouth of the River Amazon, there were only ordinary central European frogs, lizards and white fish. I could see the Baron pacing up and down, on the prowl for a victim of his jokes. The ones who had been there longer knew to keep well out of his way but unfortunately he had already found me.
‘Guess what happens if I break the lizard's tail off?’ ‘It’ll grow back,’ I answered, annoyed.
‘If only it were that easy.’ He burst into laughter. ‘Why shouldn't their tails be rationed too? First of all he needs a ration card, then he can wait and see what happens … Ha, ha, ha.’
I ducked quickly as I was sure that the German sailors never missed their aim, but sadly there was nothing being thrown in the direction of the jester. They must be more tolerant than me.
For my part I would have been perfectly happy sitting on my own, leafing through my diary contemplating various facts that were emerging from my surroundings. For example, it was quite easy to differentiate those sailors who were based on a U-boat from those on other ships, such as destroyers or patrol ships. The latter had bronzed faces, the former an unhealthy green hue around their eyes and pale faces. Fortunately I did not stick out because I was just as pale – the air in London WC1 must be very similar to the air on a U-boat. I was sure no one from the Geheime Macht had thought of this small detail. If they had sent a young man from Brighton in my stead, his rosy cheeks would have given him away.
The post had given me no further information about the private details of my predecessor. If only there had been a letter from my newly acquired mother saying something like the following:
My dear son, I am sending you a photograph of our little house in XXXheim, which as you know cost us 2,000 marks and has 950 marks left on the mortgage. Your father Johann, the retired civil servant, celebrated his sixty-second birthday yesterday and he is well. By the way, he received no birthday message from you. I recently went through your papers and put them in chronological order. Your school leaver certificate from such and such a school in XXXmistdorf, a letter refusing a scholarship because you were caught stealing apples, etc., etc.
Although I could easily imagine such a letter giving all the relevant information about my previous life, it was alas not to be as these things only seemed to happen in novels. In real life you receive ridiculous postcards with barefoot, hooded figures, chess clippings and unjust recriminations. When I say unjust, I mean it only to the extent that I was not strictly responsible for my predecessor's sins.
I suddenly had a thought. It may be possible to look in the record office. They must hold some rudimentary information on the sailors, if only the basics such as date of birth, details of parents and other useful titbits. There was a slight risk of appearing suspicious but I hoped that my recent decoration was reason enough. Perhaps I could say, ‘I want to check whether the Iron Cross First Class has been noted in my records’.
If I had been left to my own devices I may have come up with the perfect plan, which may have led to a more advantageous outcome. As it happened it was no surprise that in a group of people of different temperaments, the nervous and fidgety individuals cannot bear to see anyone content in their own company. It was to an extent my own fault as I had chosen my position badly by sitting down at one of the desks where the opposite seat was unoccupied. It was inevitable that I would be disturbed. Had I only chosen to sit with those writing letters, I might only have been jostled in the elbow or been asked to pass the ink pot.
The Student wandered in and came straight towards me and the empty seat opposite. I nodded and made a point of immersing myself in the act of reading my diary with elbows on the table and fingers in ears, but to no avail. The Student had brought a cigar case with bits of wood and glue with the intention of building some sort of wooden ladder for the frog in the terrarium so he could predict the weather. Our aneroid barometer was ultimately useless.
There is a superstition that a frog will climb up a ladder when the weather is fine. The Student had taken out his watch to see how long it would take and removed the frog so that he could acquaint himself with the ladder. But the Student was typically absent-minded and was not getting anywhere. He had the wrong tools and was then trying to feed flies to the watch. I was preparing to intervene if he went so far as to try to wind up the frog or tell the time from it. In the end he gave up. He brushed away the bits of wood and placed the frog on top of his toolkit, where it certainly did not belong, and he said in a whinging voice: ‘It is so unbelievably boring, Gotthold. Please do something.’
I wasn't sure what he meant but extricated myself from the task by taking out my last clean handkerchief and wiping an imaginary bomb splinter out of the corner of my eye. I replied, ‘Not now, can't you see I'm busy.’
I continued to watch him w
ith great interest. He stood up, sighed and took the frog out of the box he was carrying it in, blew away the sawdust on its bright green skin and waltzed towards the corner where the two glass cases were. First he placed the poor frog carefully in position, then he pushed the glass cover away. The three lizards now darted around wildly while the frog was still in shock.
Behind the glass cases a control panel was now visible, with various buttons and a telephone handset. He started to turn the dials and the mouthpiece began to emit the sounds of glasses jingling and a stream of voices. I kept rubbing my eye, feigning lack of interest but I was searching for my source of information out the corner of my other eye. He was still next to me and staring at the apparatus open-mouthed. I kicked his shin with moderate strength to encourage him to ask some questions. This proved unnecessary since everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to the voice that was now clearly turning into our captain’s. One stocky fellow took position at the door to keep a lookout …
‘No, no, gentlemen! My dear people have no idea of the great pleasure that awaits them. We will announce it tomorrow morning, first thing. Thank you so much for everything and the honour you have bestowed upon me. I was warned countless times that I could not expect to achieve miracles with my people but I am pleased to say that I can indeed do so. Not only in the grand scheme of things but also in the little details. Let me explain, only yesterday I awarded the Iron Cross First Class to one of my petty officers who suffered from being terribly cross-eyed. As I was affixing the medal, oh wonder upon wonders, the man looked back at me with a straight gaze for the very first time in his life. That is what can happen – the force of mind over matter, but there is something else …’
Any Survivors (2008) Page 8
