Any Survivors (2008)

by Freud, Martin

  ‘Here you can see,’ my tour guide continued, ‘the ancient pilgrimage church St Bartholomew. The lake here is stocked with aibling, or arctic char. Would the gentleman like to travel as far as the church?’ This was said a little nervously with her natural voice. ‘With only one oar this could take hours.’

  I took another large bite of the apple. ‘Just continue with the journey. I will let you know in good time.’ We were steering to the other side of the lake and her strokes were becoming a little more laboured. Here the rock faces were very steep, almost like a fortress. There was no space to pull in at all. On the natural blank spaces there were rock drawings, old crosses and washed-out colours. ‘These ancient petroglyphs depict the terrible fate of those caught in a storm on this part of the lake and who found nowhere to disembark with the steep cliffs surrounding them. The locals call them Marterln. According to local custom everyone who passes should say a prayer for the poor lost souls in purgatory. Storms can hit in a matter of minutes, especially in the autumn, and small single-oared rowing boats are particularly vulnerable. Would the gentleman like me to continue?’

  ‘Yes please, fräulein, carry on,’ I replied, still unfazed. She continued to push and pull the heavy oar through the dark green, still element. ‘At this very spot,’ she continued in her professional tone, but I could hear she was on the verge of tears of exhaustion, ‘it is customary to fire a shot so visitors can hear the wonderful sound of the echo that reverberates from the cliff faces. Once the gunpowder reserves of our boat company are used up, this practice will cease for the duration of the war. We only fire a shot if the passenger expressly wishes us to. Most of our customers decline these days. The gentleman wishes also to decline?’

  I took another bite of the apple. It was the last one. ‘Dear fräulein, I have come all this way, from the other end of the Reich, only so I can hear the wonderful sound of the echo, so I must insist. Please fire the shot!’

  This was the first time she looked straight at me, like a victim at the stake looking at their merciless tormentor. She said, ‘I am not very familiar with the workings of the equipment. My training was only brief.’

  ‘If you prefer, fräulein,’ I replied, ‘we can return to the landing place and you can refresh your training, and we can come back here straight away.’ The piece of apple in my mouth was by now quite small. She shook her head, her lovely eyes full of tears. She secured the oar, reached under the bench and pulled out an antiquated pistol so heavy she could hardly lift it with one hand. The barrel of this mighty gun was plugged with paper. She filled the gunpowder and lifted the murderous instrument high over her head. She hesitated a moment or two, struck with the dilemma of how to hold her hands over both her ears, while requiring one to pull the trigger. Her solution was not ideal. She lifted the gun as high above her head as possible and, pressing her arms against her temple and half-covering her ears, pulled the trigger. The explosion was hefty and sounded like the shot from cannon. I think she used a little too much of the gunpowder. The echo reverberated five times – six times – seven times – then there was silence. The pistol fell out of the girl's hands, scraped her knee and landed on her shoe. A lock of her hair was singed and her hand was dripping blood from tiny round black apertures. This was too much for poor Christine. Sobbing, she collapsed to the ground, a heaving mess of green linen, black wool and dishevelled blonde locks. My heart melted. I threw the blue shades into the lake and made my way towards the other end of the boat where the once proud girl had collapsed in a heap. I got down on my knees, which in this situation was not meant to be a position of reverence. As I had previously said, I was feeling sorry for the girl. By now, however, the boat was rocking so hard that I did not trust myself to walk upright. ‘Christl, Christl, don't cry!’ I tried to console her. ‘Everything will be okay!’

  She had pulled the linen fabric of her skirt over her head and I had to carefully unwrap her. She hugged me with such force that the boat tilted dangerously to one side. I freed myself and urged Christine, ‘Please darling, stay calm. Do you really want us to die here and now, without having explained everything to one another?’

  She was still holding my hand tightly. ‘Wilhelm, Wilhelm, to see you here! Please don't look at me too closely. These barbarians don't let me wear any make-up, not even a little powder and lipstick because it is deemed bad taste. Please do go ahead and cover my legs again. I bet you would not have thought that I would be wearing two pairs of fustian long johns, but it's very chilly here and easy to catch a cold. Look Wilhelm!’ She unbuttoned her jacket. She had pinned the brooch onto the floral winter dirndl. ‘I wear it day and night, even pinned to my pyjamas or my night gown, depending on which one I am wearing. Ever since you gave me this I knew that you would not give up on me. You travelled all this way to find me. But who told you that I would be in Berchtesgaden? What a silly question! Of course – you have excellent connections. If I think how well organised the whole thing is. First you put me to the test but I passed, didn't I? I felt so sorry for you when you were poor, do you remember? I even gave you my golf shoes! Now I understand why you did not need to take them with you. But Wilhelm, I must say, your helpers were not that clever were they? If I had put up a little resistance then both of them would have been full of broken bones. I was the German jiu-jitsu champion of 1935! I would have made a knot out of the skinny one and with him tied the fat man's hands behind his back. But I was as quiet as a mouse when I noticed straight away that they were pinning something on to me. I had nothing to give them anyway. I had to put up a bit of a fight to make it seem real, so I screamed a little when they let me go. A bit like this, two soft little tones: Heah – ho! Even this was too loud. An armed constable was already heading towards us and I had to call out to your people, “Bye bye, boys, take care!” so that the policeman would not fire off shots in their direction. The constable grabbed me so hard by my wrists that you could still see the red marks days later. He shouted: “What's going on, were you attacked?”

  ‘“Nothing is going on,” I replied. “I was just saying goodbye to my friends, you heard me, didn't you? Now please leave me alone!”

  ‘“Yes, you said goodbye at the end but before that you gave off a scream, I heard it loud and clear!”

  ‘“A scream?” I said. “You are a rude man. Don't you know that the Führer expects the police to be civil to the German people, especially to women? I was singing a song from Tristan, a German opera. Listen: Heah-ho! We were arguing whether I was singing the right melody, so I told my friends that the shops were still open and to run and get me the sheet music so we could check if we had the right tune. And then they went off straight away.”

  ‘“You are under arrest,” he said, gripping me even harder. “That will teach you not to ridicule the police.” He reached inside my handbag and the first thing he pulled out was my duty pass issued by the Gestapo. “Pardon me, madam,” he excused himself and then let go of my hand, saluting me reverently. We stood side by side for a while and then he accompanied me all the way home. He was good-looking really, and quite young for a constable.’

  I was not really interested in her successes with other men. But there was no reason to be unduly jealous; I could sense that I was still her current favourite.

  ‘Why don't you reveal your true identity?’ she asked. ‘I realise you are already my prince charming but are in fact a true foreign prince, perhaps a prince of Denmark? The brooch was so special and truly original. Is it an old Danish heirloom? Or something from the colonies in the West Indies? I'm so happy you finally found me; I will never let you go and I will always stay with you! You must understand, I need something more constant, you see, you never know how long the thing with the Gestapo will last. They are more and more out of favour with the people. Things are not as well organised as they used to be either. When I got here and reported for duty no one was in the picture and they only had two disguises to choose from – not enough for me to find something I can really work with properly. One
of the options was to be a waitress in the Hofbräuhaus, in the restaurant; the other was to work on the boats on the lake. I thought the second option would be more pleasant. Men are always rude and a little forward with waitresses. You have to walk through the restaurant carrying drinks, giving ample opportunity for men to pinch you or grab you where they please as your arms are full. And you can see things are no picnic here on the lake either. I have no interest in tracking down the unattractive sailor anymore. They should have sent him by now but he still hasn't made his way to the lake yet. I think it would be best for me to give up the operation and move in with you instead. I can understand if you are unwilling to marry me, if you are of royal blood, but perhaps I could become one of your court ladies?’

  I was tempted for a second and thought, here is finally something I can use my money for, but I decided against it. It was a cowardly solution.

  ‘Dearest,’ she continued. ‘I will never leave you again. If you do not want me to kiss you now then we will find somewhere to disembark, not here of course, but just over there. There's a landing spot not far from the path leading to the Gotzenalpe. There's a little clearing and we can rest on the grass. It will be a little chilly and I will surely catch a terrible cold and it will be the death of me, but I don't care. That's a sacrifice I am willing to make for you. I love you so much that I cannot exist without you.’

  It was time for me to interrupt her flow of words as I was starting to get a little uncomfortable. I did not have to wait long; we both saw it at the same time. A motorboat was heading towards us at great speed. I was sure that there were not supposed to be any speedboats on the lake. Two SS men from the Leibstandarte were standing upright – one of them had a blow-horn:

  UNTEROFFIZIER GRIESEMANN REPORT FOR DUTY IMMEDIATELY!

  Aha, I thought. I assume it is time for us to meet the Führer and they have come to pick us up.

  ‘They’re only looking for that sailor Griesemann,’ Christine said. ‘Coincidentally, that is the name of the man I am meant to be following. Don't worry too much. They should not concern you. As a Danish prince you are ex-territorial, are you not? Could you make sure they do not come too close to us? I do not want anything to do with them.’

  ‘You are demanding too much,’ I answered. ‘I have no intention of scuttling the boat. The temperature is no more than 9 degrees and I am wearing brand new clothes that cost me 250 marks. I think it is more sensible to get up and do as they say. What will they think of us if they find us both lying here? I know well that I have behaved honourably. The boat was not very stable for one but I wouldn't want anyone to think badly of me.’

  The motorboat was now at our side. ‘You must report for duty immediately!’ one of the men said to me – he knew me from sight. ‘You must all be ready at 5 p.m. There will be a car waiting for you. Just jump over into our boat!’

  I climbed carefully into their motorboat as it was quite unsteady. ‘You sailors are always very funny,’ said the other, ‘but hurry up! We haven't got time for your jokes.’

  ‘Who knows if he is having a laugh,’ said the first one. ‘I don't believe he is pretending, I think he really has got shaky knees. Have a closer look at the girl; you’ll see why.’ It was a cheeky thing to say and Christine went bright red. She was a little indignant that we were not giving her a lift, but there was nothing for it. She had to row all the way back on her own. ‘Bye bye, sailor boy!’ she called after me. ‘Say hello to your mates!’ It would be highly embarrassing for her to admit that she had been that close to her target without realising it. I doubted she would take action against me. Besides, she would be busy for a few hours rowing back, possibly taking even longer against the stream. Hopefully, by the time she was able to do anything I would have already spoken to the Führer. The two guardsmen hurried me along so much I nearly forgot to pick up my uniform.

  15

  A GUEST AT BERGHOF

  I was lying on my back in the rear of the car trying to change into my uniform trousers. The car flew ahead, and with it my thoughts. My entire life passed in front of my eyes. I had been in several life-threatening situations in the past few weeks but never noticed my past speeding along via my thoughts; I was sure it had not happened before. As a result I have come to the following simple conclusion: when I am moving very slowly, say climbing a mountain with a heavy pack or behind a slow-moving plough, then my thoughts were equally slow. If I am in a fast-moving vehicle, then my thoughts are transported like a flash. I remember once knowing a poet who was only able to compose his poems in a taxi. This led to his financial ruin in the end.

  With my life passing before my eyes, I was currently going through my childhood and youth, a state I was still familiar with. I was standing with my dear mother in the laundry room, 15 years old and on my holidays. I will not say where or which country so as not to give away any details that might endanger my mother. Laundry rooms and schools can be found almost anywhere in the world. I was helping my mother voluntarily, as I didn't normally have to do any work in the school holidays. My mother had sent me to the shops earlier on to buy some washing powder because we had run out. It was during the time when a particular advertisement was very popular throughout Europe (this much I can give away, we were in Europe). I will call it ‘Pursol’.

  The shopkeeper was trying to sell me some of this Pursol. ‘It washes whiter,’ he said. But my mother had told me to get the washing powder we always had. So I said, ‘No thank you, I would like the usual soap flakes.’ The shopkeeper was forced to concede.

  As we were doing the laundry, there was a loud droning in the air. The laundry room was in the courtyard and had a covering but no walls, so you could go outside and look at the sky without having to open any doors. It was an airplane, not unusual in those days, but it was an old rickety model. It was pulling a banner. We could not tell what it was as it was the wrong way round, so we continued with our task. After a few minutes we heard the noise again. The airplane had come back and this time we could read the writing: ‘Pursol washes whiter’ were the words we could now read. ‘What will people invent next?’ my mother said, shaking her head. But at that moment in time we both lost our faith in the old soap flakes. We felt that our washing could indeed do with being a little whiter. ‘May I light a cigarette?’ I asked my mother. I was only 15 but I was on holiday and they weren't very strong. My mother answered, ‘Just for once, but make sure that none of the ashes land on our washing.’ I took out my matches. On the packet I found the words: ‘Pursol washes whiter.’ Since it was a fine day, we hung the washing out to dry in the courtyard. My mother said, ‘That's enough hard work for today, let's go inside and you can read the newspapers to me.’ We were both feeling a little discontented. I opened the paper and the first thing I could see was a full page with giant letters and a picture: ‘Pursol washes whiter.’ My mother had had enough of the paper and turned on the radio. We heard a few beats of dance music and then a voice said, ‘Pursol washes whiter’. My mother sighed and looked outside where the washing was swaying in the breeze, commenting: ‘Son, I don't think our washing looks particularly white today.’ And I said, ‘Mother, we don't know the maker of the soap flakes personally and we don't owe him anything. Do we have to resist any longer? Why don't we just go with the flow?’ And my dear mother said: ‘You are right, my son, the next time we do a wash, I will get you to buy some Pursol.’

  This is the way advertising works, whether it be washing powder, toothpaste or laxatives, and this was how the Führer and his regime crept into our consciousness. He advertised himself and his ideals for so long and so consistently that no one dared swim against the stream and everyone just went with the flow. But let us not dwell on this now, the man is in power and could do as he pleased. If I manage to persuade him to rethink his ideals, then that would be true victory for humanity. As it stands the man is answerable to no one. I convinced myself that I would be successful. The forthcoming events presented themselves clearly to me in my mind. The structure was
in three clear parts with a central image and two side panels, like an Italian altarpiece, a triptych. Only my mental pictures were much nicer than the old images since they were thoroughly modern. They were moving images and spoke to me clearly as in a film.

  The first panel: I get separated from my comrades, evade all the policemen, sentries and the lifeguards. Crawling, creeping through corridors and slipping through doors, I reach the inner sanctum of the Führer. I'm not sure what his office looks like; light wood panelling with green carpets, someone once told me, lots of bookshelves and of course a desk with a telephone. It doesn't really matter what the room looks like – it was all about the man who sits there. I open the door so quietly that he does not notice me straight away – all this is in my head of course. He is restless and plagued by unpleasant thoughts. He is talking loudly to himself: ‘Am I surrounded by crooks and fools, liars and sycophants? Is there no one who will tell me the truth?’ I step forward – in my vision – and speak: ‘Yes, my Führer, I am here. I will tell my Führer the truth!’ I had to repeat his title. If I used the formal ‘Yes, I will tell you the truth’, Ich sage Ihnen Die Wahrheit, it would sound a little strange. If I used the informal form of address, the ‘du’, as in Ich sage Dir die Wahrheit – how much greater would the impact be? How dare I use the informal form of address with the Führer? He would answer, ‘And who might you be who professes to speak the truth?’ I would turn a little so he could see my Iron Cross. He has one as well. That should be enough to forge a link between the two of us, being decorated with the same medal. ‘I see you have demonstrated great bravery at sea for me and for the Fatherland. A man like you deserves to be heard. Speak!’ He points to an armchair. I decline. ‘No, my Führer, I would rather remain standing.’ And then I begin my epoch-making, world-changing speech.