Any Survivors (2008)

by Freud, Martin

  ‘Buttons on the knee, in Berchtesgaden!’ Her disgust was undisguised. ‘That is not possible and I will not stoop so low. You may be able to find someone to do the deed but you will have to travel. I can guarantee that no one here would oblige.’

  I was a little taken aback. ‘Please, I was only making a suggestion.’ She was inconsolable and I realised I was no longer welcome in her house. I gathered my things and took them under my arm. As a goodbye I tried tipping the large hat, but it was a little awkward as I was not used to the size of it. I could barely make out a thank you. It wasn't possible to put on my uniform – not that it was too cold to get undressed, but it was quite a public road. For the moment I could only see cows being led by children, but as a soldier there were certain rules of decorum that one had to follow. I rolled up the messy bundle under my arm and attempted to make a neat parcel out of it. The lake must be in that direction; there was a little stream leading to it. I thought it was unlikely that I would lose my way and I was right. Only moments later there was a signpost pointing in two directions: ‘Field route to Seelände (short cut).’ Then there was an arrow in the other direction: ‘Shady promenade walkway to Seelände, 8 minutes.’ I was not in a rush and chose the promenade route, although it was cold enough and I had no particular desire for shade. With my bare knees I was even a little chilly. I chose the longer path because I wanted to gather my thoughts in readiness for the hustle and bustle of the activities at the lake. I should be doing something for the benefit of all mankind, but my problem was I didn't understand them, although I was one of them. What else will mankind put up with? What will they take, how much more will they swallow? As they tend to say in certain areas of Germany: what else will they chew, and when will they finally start to resist? I was referring to the peasant woman and soldier's widow. That her husband had been taken from her and was shot in Poland in a war of aggression for objectives she did not share or understand – that was okay. That she could not buy her daughter shoes and was doing all the hard work on her own, without help, making her hands bloody and chapped – that was fine. That the bread tasted rotten and was mouldy, even when it was only a day old – that was no problem. Her parents and grandparents and great-grandparents were pious and had always gone to church, praying to God and Jesus Christ. She no longer went to church but attended party gatherings. She was expected to pray to Adolf Hitler, a mortal person with a newfangled cropped moustache. That was fine, too. But that someone wanted to have buttons on Berchtesgadener lederhosen, where all of her ancestors had always placed green bands – that was quite definitely not okay. It was a disgrace and a damnable expression of wickedness!

  Through the trees of the forest I could see a shimmering light green surface. That must be the lake. To the left and right there were little stalls, almost all of them closed. In the one that was open an elderly lady in a dirndl was wearing the full traditional gear, complete with a locked jaw. ‘Grüss Gott and welcome sir,’ she called out loudly as I approached, hoping to find something worth buying. Unfortunately she was only selling quite useless things: walking sticks with handles made of goats antlers. Would that really be useful once I was back in my navy uniform? She also had finely carved stag heads with real antlers. I wonder if I could hang one of these in the Torpedoanstossraum, provided that I acquired the necessary permission and there was enough space to hang it. Then there were pictures of the Königssee in various different sizes and frames, long tobacco pipes – impossible with my uniform – and sunglasses. But they might be useful. I chose the biggest and most expensive model with blue, adjustable lenses and an imitation tortoiseshell frame. They were only 3 marks but the lady was pleased to get some business in the low season. I did not want people to recognise me, especially as it was forbidden to go out without uniform. I put them on straight away. With this purchase I also acquired the goodwill and pleasantries of the sales person.

  ‘The gentleman cuts a fine figure in this costume!’ she lied, flattering me. ‘If I did not know for certain that all young mountain guides were conscripted, I would have taken you for an alpine guide.’ I acknowledged that her intentions were good. It seemed to me that it was a true honour in these parts to look like someone who could be taken for a mountain guide. Her benign attention was now focused on my parcel; I had not quite managed to pack up my uniform properly – a few buttons were showing. ‘The young man is a military man as well?’ she asked, concerned.

  I had to admit it. ‘Would you do me a favour and look after my parcel here?’

  ‘With great pleasure!’ the woman answered keenly, ‘and if I have to lock up before you get back I will leave it at the cloakroom of the Hotel Schiffmeister.’

  That suited me fine because it would give me the opportunity to get changed there. She fingered my parcel, almost reaching into the pockets of the coat. ‘A navy uniform,’ she observed. ‘There are some U-boat sailors here. I know they are here to visit the Führer. The poor things, it must be terribly nerve-wracking to have the Führer talk to you. I do not think I would survive the shock. It would be too emotional. I am not as brave as a seaman is, of course.’ She leaned over the counter and whispered: ‘One of them is meant to be a young man with fox-red hair whose eyebrows meet. His beloved is here, or is it his ex? She is lurking around, pretending to be one of the girls on the boats. By the way, she is a tall strong girl with a fine figure. The first few days (she has only recently arrived), she came by every day to ask whether we had seen a sailor with a fox-red mono-brow. In the party we were told that it was a disgrace to run silly errands for capable young ladies and to neglect our duties to the nation. But do you know . . .’ Here her tone became more intimate, ‘we tend to be a little old fashioned in these parts. Every one of us here in Seelände would like to know if the girl gets the man with the funny eyebrows. Now, do you believe this can be true?’ She continued, ‘You must be a man with connections. In Berlin there is meant to be a scientific institute belonging to the party where they have developed a method to speed things up, if you know what I mean. That means that a pregnancy no longer takes nine months. Babies can be born only four months after the wedding night. Women would be able to give birth three times a year, but I do not know whether I can believe it. It is all the same to me. Those days are over for me but it could be useful for my husband. He manufactures cradles out of wood. It would be good business for him.’

  ‘This plan is completely unrealistic in terms of party politics,’ I explained. ‘With higher birth rates the Hitler Youth would soon overtake all other party formations in terms of numbers. They could gain too much in influence or even try to overthrow the regime; this is something the others cannot risk.’

  I felt I had had enough sympathy for my 3 marks, and said goodbye politely. Wearing my sunglasses and with my hands in my pockets, I sauntered the last 100m to the Seelände resort area. I came to the conclusion that most things in life required practice. Even walking around with my hands in my pockets was different, as the pockets in these lederhosen were cut differently to my usual choice of trousers. I was a little disappointed by the scenery. The water was picturesque, shimmering pleasantly in different shades of blue and green like an expensive polychrome print. Sadly, however, there was not much of a view of the lake and the little one could see of it looked like any old lake in a low mountain range. There were restaurants and kiosks in abundance making it look a bit like a fairground. My first thought was that there was so little to see because it was low season and they had put things in storage for the winter. Now I realised that it was deliberately constructed just so; the main resort started at the bend of the lake. When tourists arrived they would be obliged to take a boat and spend money if they wanted to see the lake properly. Now I could also see what the Seelände really was – a landing place for the numerous boats, the piers just wide enough for the many visitors to disembark comfortably. One of the kiosks sold tickets for the boats. On both sides of the piers wooden boat houses stood providing overnight or temporary shelter fo
r the vessels.

  The largest hotel was called Zum Schiffmeister. It had a large stone patio area to the front with cafe tables laid out for the expected visitors. Their number was not great, however. To the one side of the veranda there was a red wooden bench where the rowers were sitting, all in alpine costume and mainly females, although there were a few grey-haired men with what looked like arthritic fingers. The females were largely beyond good and evil but the younger ones seemed strong and looked fine in the flattering alpine costume.

  I recognised Christine immediately because she was that little bit taller and more attractive than the other women around her. While the other girls were laughing and joking she was staring at the ground, lips pressed together. It appeared that she was staring at her shoes; well, my shoes really. These were the golf shoes she had given to me after our late-night rendezvous in her room. She had applied some decorative leather bits to them so that they matched the costume. Unfortunately, the long green linen skirt covered her shapely legs and the knitted Spencer jacket did not make the most of her top half either. Her nose was red and a little shiny, her pressed lips appeared pale, almost blue, and her lovely hands were rolled up in the apron. She was sitting a little apart from the other girls. It appeared this was a result of the mutual dislike and lack of acceptance.

  There she sits waiting for her prey, I was thinking to myself with mixed feelings, some of them even sympathetic because I could see how bad she was feeling and how cold she was. I was not afraid; not for one minute did I think she would recognise me. She was expecting a sergeant with bright red bushy eyebrows – the one she had spied from the courtyard window. She must be thinking that her dear impoverished Wilhelm Andersen had been deported to Denmark by now. Even if the blue glasses had not covered half of my face, she would never have thought that the man in the alpine costume could be her lover. I did not want to press my luck too much so I kept my glasses on. And what was I to do now? Take the bull by the horns and go down to talk to her, I answered myself, to prove, once and for all, which one of us was the more cunning spy. So no one had ever been able to withstand her female wiles; well, I was going to be the first. I could not develop a strategy before gauging the situation, and the extent to which I would stick out in this masquerade. I did not need to worry. It appeared perfectly natural for the tourists to walk around like this. The locals greeted me amicably and the other tourists took no notice of me. I was not the only one walking around in such a costume. There was an elderly gentleman in similar attire, carrying a camera with a bright yellow leather strap attached to his grey jacket, umbrella over his arm and rubber galoshes on his feet. As he was passing me I could read what was embroidered on his braces: Ein Volk, ein Reich – one people, one empire. He proved my earlier point – that men with a big belly should definitely not wear lederhosen. He addressed me briefly: ‘Chilly today, isn't it?’ he said and walked on.

  I only gradually worked out how the place functioned as a business. The visitors that were spilling out of the buses and local trains were initially disappointed by the fact that one could not see the postcard view of the lake and began to ask everyone where the path was that would lead them around the lake to get a better view. The locals, used to these kinds of questions, would reply that there was no such path. At first the tourists did not believe this, then they would give in and buy boat tickets from the kiosk. They had a choice of two-, four-or six-seaters, whatever they wanted. Once a busload of tourists was ready, two of the boat girls would get up from the long bench, grab two oars and board the boat. The bigger and stronger one, or – in rare cases – the man, would row standing up, the older or weaker of the two would be seated. As they walked to and from the wooden bench, they joked loudly. I could not quite understand what they were saying because I wasn't familiar with the local dialect. Judging by their gestures, their comments were rude and only suitable for the open air. They would be quite out of place in a nice tearoom or coffeehouse. They seemed to stick to the order they were sitting in on the bench. Half an hour later Christine reached the end of the bench and it was her turn next. I had been walking back and forth along the landing area, hands in pockets, which again appeared quite normal. All the other tourists were just as cold in the chilly autumn breeze and kept on the move to keep warm.

  Once I could see that Christine was next, I approached the ticket vendor and said, ‘I would like a boat. Would it be possible to have one to myself? I would only need one person rowing and I'm not in a hurry.’

  Behind the counter a miserable old man with bushy grey eyebrows looked back at me. He did not seem keen. ‘With only one oarsman you will hardly move forward, it will cost you a lot of money as I charge by the hour. Why don't you join one of the bigger parties?’

  My response was icy: ‘I did not ask you to help me save money.’ He grunted something into his beard, which if I could only have understood the dialect, could well have been offensive. He called out to the bench, I presumed to say ‘Next please!’ but it was just a noise to me. Christine tried to get out of it but the others would not let her. A storm of indignation ensued amongst the older and younger colleagues: ‘Sacra Teif, gehst net zua, du Luader, du faules!’ (Holy Devil, get on with it, you crafty bitch, lazy thing!) Or something like that, I imagined. And even worse insults followed. She took her oar and marched defiantly towards the pier and the boat the man pointed to. She put the oar into a sling around her body which meant she was going to row standing up. All the while she did not look up from the ground in front of her, even when I brushed her skirt as I took my seat. The man gave us a hard push and we moved away from the pier at a snail's pace, through the rippled water that was crystal clear and shimmered pale green in the light.

  The rowing boats used on the Königssee, called plätten by the locals, had a flat bottom and a curved bow like the Venetian gondolas, but they were difficult to row and not very stable. When there was only one person rowing, the oar had to be turned after every stroke which would slow down the boat. If you failed to compensate, then the boat would keep turning in a circle. Christine was standing behind me, while I was sitting on a low bench with a backrest. We both faced the direction of travel. I was still wearing my blue sunglasses and kept turning round, glancing back, enjoying the view of Christine and her rhythmical rowing movements. The water gurgled underneath the boat and the dark forests of pine were passing by along the shore. I had a bought a paper from one of the kiosks, a Voelkischer Beobachter, and I now used it to cover my bare knees. I had also managed to buy a few apples which came in a proper paper bag. I took a large bite. I did not particularly fancy an apple. I would have preferred a sausage, but I wanted to be able to talk with my mouth full so Christine wouldn't recognise my voice immediately:

  If you have any queries regarding the flora, fauna or historic buildings of this traditional German alpine region, please do not hesitate to ask our oarsman who will be more than happy to help you.

  I had read this on a sign next to the ticket office and I decided to make full use of my rights. We were passing a tiny island, full of both deciduous trees and pine trees with a picturesque stone image of a saint.

  ‘Would it be possible to make a stop here, fräulein?’ I demanded, my mouth full of apple.

  ‘This island is private and off limits,’ she rattled off. ‘Docking and landing is forbidden and not recommended as poisonous vipers are to be found amongst the long grasses.’ We continued and reached the western side of the lake where she stopped.

  I took another large bite. ‘Please, fräulein, would you please tell me a bit about this area? I am a stranger here.’

  She recited: ‘This part of the lake is called the Malerwinkel, the painter's angle. This is where painters come in all seasons to “angle”. I mean paint the lake,’ she corrected herself and continued, ‘to paint the lake in oil or watercolour. Fine artistic renditions of this picturesque spot can be bought at the sales kiosk of Angerer Crescentia. Her prices are reasonable and she is open all year round, even
in the low season.’ This was the name of the lady I had bought the sunglasses from – my source of information and cloakroom assistant. She must be handing out commission to the girls who send business her way.

  ‘The tourist board guarantees,’ Christine continued, still reeling off facts, ‘that all painters are of Aryan descent and all the materials used are made using guaranteed Aryan production methods.’ In the short time she had been doing this new role she had memorised her facts well. We moved on, albeit slowly. Even the ripples we were creating were overtaking us. The water here was dark green and so clear that you could see the depths of the rock formations underneath us. Ghostly white branches of trees could be seen near the bottom of the lake and plump little fish swam amongst the white skeleton-like branches, their backs marked with black swastikas. No, that was just my imagination running away with me. They were black stripes that formed a similar shape in conjunction with their dorsal fins. Although the black insignia was to be found everywhere, and nature was lavishly decorated with them, the fish were not part of this campaign. This was not a matter of principle but more a technical difficulty, I thought.

  The scenery changed once we turned a corner after the Malerwinkel. I now understood why the lake was famous. The further we went, the higher the cliffs became. Mountains, wild and beautiful, surrounded the lake. The view was breathtaking and in the background the pyramid-shaped peak was visible, covered in snow. A few miles in the distance a red dome could be seen with dark pine trees behind it, and surrounded by sheer limestone mountains.