Dead Man Talking

by Dead Man Talking (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  During his stay standing-by the Ernest Shackleton in Hamburg, Clark had ensconced himself in a small hotel not far from the shipyard. It was a neat, family-run establishment which enjoyed the patronage of ships’ officers like Clark, understanding their needs and providing them with modest facilities for them to undertake the considerable amount of paperwork which they brought home from the shipyard. Although the builders provided Clark and Hunter with a tiny office, neither man much enjoyed working there after hours and it served as little more than a place in which to change in and out of their boiler suits. Both preferred to relax in their hotel and sort out and coordinate the problems of the day over a stein of beer and a cigarette.

  Ironically, as Hunter’s engine room came nearer his expectations, his work eased, whereas Clark, as chief mate and therefore executive officer of the ship, had increasingly to consider the domestic arrangements necessary to have the ship stored, manned and in commission ready to enter service on the due date. Fortunately the hotel provided him with a telephone and he was able to contact Eastern Steam’s Liverpool headquarters with reasonable ease. The previous evening he had put in his requests for key personnel to join the following week and reminded the chief store clerk of outstanding indents. He knew the clerk, a Mr Wilson, quite well. Wilson was a quiet, efficient man with a sickly wife and a son with a club foot; Clark always thought Wilson possessed the intelligence and drive to have done better in life, but the clerk bore his twin burdens uncomplainingly. Nevertheless Clark often spent a few moments chatting to Wilson, partly out of a feeling of pity for the man, partly because he knew Wilson to be discreet. Thus the previous evening he had asked Wilson if he could find out who the company were intending to send over as the Ernest Shackleton’s bosun. Clark was anxious to get hold of a man named Dixon, but feared that an older petty officer would be given the new ship as a mark of confidence, though everyone knew a new ship was a work-out and the old boy, Perry by name, would be better left aboard the James Clark Ross where he had been vegetating happily for years.

  ‘They haven’t decided yet, Mr Clark…’

  ‘That means it’s Perry,’ Clark had said, disappointed.

  ‘Er, I don’t think so, sir…’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Perry and it isn’t Dixon, who are they thinking of, Wilson?’

  ‘You haven’t seen any English papers, Mr Clark?’

  ‘Fat chance,’ responded Clark, considering his own fraught existence and at first missing Wilson’s point.

  ‘The news isn’t too good, I’m afraid, sir.’

  There was something about Wilson’s tone which was both ominous and somehow intimate, as though the man wanted to bridge the distance between them, and Clark was quite unaware that this was because he himself was situated in Germany.

  Instead Clark assumed the bad news was of a domestic nature, something to do with the ship or the company.

  ‘What’s up, Dent’s share prices diving again?’ he asked with an air of flippancy that increased Wilson’s apprehension.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that, it’s a consequence of the troubles in Danzig…’ And that was as far as Wilson got, for the next moment the line went dead and Clark became aware that he had been chatting for longer than he ought to have done. Moreover, neither Danzig nor its troubles meant much to Clark and he so far forgot about the matter that he failed to mention it to Gerry Hunter over dinner that night, preferring to grumble about the indecisiveness of the company in the matter of choosing a bosun.

  That Clark, a German speaker, was unaware of the manoeuvrings of the Nazi government from any local newspaper, or the conversations of those about him in the shipyard, needs some explanation, but it is easily given. By nature seafarers are not usually politically inquisitive; politics are the province of those who dwell on land and, if he read newspaper headlines, Clark read the Nazi version of events with a naive and uncritical eye. Moreover, Jack Clark was a man whose interests were entirely absorbed by the sea and, in his youthful conceit, he had conceived a vague contempt for the machinations of faction and party. He would by nature have rather read a book than a newspaper and an early adventure had diverted his attention away from the cut and thrust of commercial acumen that had decided his father’s career. Whilst still at school aboard the Conway, Clark and another senior cadet had been selected to accompany what turned out to be the last British Arctic expedition under sail. Led by Commander Frank Worsley, whose name had been made by his part in Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ill-starred Endurance expedition, Clark’s experiences as an ordinary seaman aboard the small brigantine Island in which Worsley visited Spitsbergen and Franz Joseph Land had entranced him. By way of a diversion from the drudgery of life in the shipyard, what leisure hours he possessed were spent reading books on exploration, which he collected. Currently, and for the third time, he was reading Cook’s journals. It was for Clark not only fitting that the shipping company to which he was apprenticed on his return from the Arctic named its vessels after explorers; indeed, it was a private delight that his present appointment was to a ship named after Worsley’s heroic ‘Boss’, Shackleton himself. Had he known how these almost infantile connections were to intertwine in his life, he might not have viewed them with such enthusiasm.

  Thereafter, sufficiently cushioned by circumstance and influence against the worst deprivations of the depression, Clark had, unlike many seafarers, escaped the despair of protracted unemployment himself. His career as a junior officer as he rose in rank with the acquisition of his certificates of competency had not been greatly interfered with by the decline in world trade. Moreover, Dent’s, with their fast liner services, had secured two government contracts and thereby saved most of their ships from enforced idleness.

  Clark might still have gleaned all was not well in the world during that fateful summer had a number of other circumstances not hidden the facts from him. Had Hunter been the remotest bit interested in current affairs, he might have drawn his colleague’s attention to the impending crisis between Germany and the Anglo-French. Hunter, however, was no more interested in politics outside Ulster than in flying to the moon. But Hunter’s parochialism was of little account when set against the smokescreen of family, for Clark’s German relations had played host to him on several occasions since his arrival in Hamburg. To be fair to Clark, he had declined their invitation to him to stay with them in their large house in Altona, a pleasant residential suburb of greater Hamburg that lay some miles below the city centre on the north bank of the Elbe. During the early weeks of his sojourn at the shipyard, Clark had regularly spent his weekends in the company of his mother’s older brother, Uncle Reinhard, and his family. Reinhard Petersen had two sons: Johannes, at thirty, was a year older than Jack, while cousin Kurt was thirty-three. Kurt was an officer in the Kriegsmarine, so only Johannes lived at home with his parents and strutted about in what Jack thought was a rather ridiculous brown uniform bearing the red, white and black armband of the Nazi swastika. Clark found Johannes’ constant eulogiums upon the virtues of Adolf Hitler and of the progressive nature of the National Socialist movement tedious but, because he quite liked Uncle Reinhard and Aunt Eva was a kindly soul, he took little notice of them. Clark had been accustomed to Johannes’ bombast since childhood. The political discussion that did take place in the Petersens’ household was not unnaturally weighted in favour of the national government’s policies and their successful regeneration of the German economy, particularly insofar as it affected Hamburg. Although F.G. Petersen’s had long since passed into liquidation, Uncle Reinhard was eager to re-establish the former Anglo-German links and would have liked to have resurrected his family’s fortunes in shipping. What was never mentioned was the intimidation of minorities, though occasional veiled allusions to ‘riff-raff’ were made by Uncle Reinhard, and Johannes referred darkly to the ‘scum’ which were being removed from their parasitical positions in German business.

  Unable to judge the extent or nature of outrages being pe
rpetrated by Nazi Party members, blinded by the familial ties of blood, and working daily with Germans whom he had come to respect as they all went about their business of building the Ernest Shackleton, Clark was almost hermetically sealed from any objective appreciation of the deteriorating European situation. Nor had he taken much notice of another circumstance which had occurred about a month earlier, before the progress of the ship’s building became increasingly absorbing and his duties less easy to lay aside in favour of visits to Altona.

  He had arrived at the Petersens’ house one Friday evening at the end of July to be greeted by Johannes with the news that he had better get a good night’s sleep because Kurt had arrived from Berlin and the three of them were all going out wildfowling on the following morning.

  ‘Where is Kurt?’ Clark asked.

  Johannes pulled a face. ‘Oh, he has gone to see some piece of tail he likes. She is a silly cow but then Kurt is a sailor like you and,’ Johannes lowered his voice so that his mother could not hear, ‘he likes to fuck anything.’

  ‘I see,’ Clark responded with a chuckle, hoping to embarrass his cousin. ‘I thought it was you Nazis who liked to fuck anything, you said you had fucked Austria…’

  ‘Ah, Jack, you think you are a clever bastard.’ Johannes grinned back, then added in a lower tone, ‘This girl is no good for Kurt and I think he has some stupid idea he is going to marry her. I am very worried about him. He cannot marry her.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Oh, she is not right for Kurt. He is stationed in Berlin and I keep asking him to bring back one of those smart Berliners with an educated arse for his little brother, even if he doesn’t want one for himself. He says they are not worth the trouble, which is a clear indication that he has got it bad for Magda…’

  ‘Magda?’ Clark frowned. ‘Magda… er, was it Liepmann?’

  ‘Yes… You see, now you know, you don’t approve…’

  ‘I haven’t seen Madga since we were kids,’ Clark said, remembering a skinny dark girl with unsightly pigtails and huge eyes who had once played with them during some family gathering. ‘But isn’t she some relation?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what makes it worse, she’s a second cousin besides being a Jew.’

  ‘Does that make any difference?’

  ‘What? Being a Jew?’

  ‘No, being a second cousin?’

  ‘Not as much as being a Jew does, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Well, if Kurt doesn’t care, why should you worry?’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you, Jack?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  But they got no further, for at this point Uncle Reinhard came into the room and Kurt’s marriage plans were hurriedly dropped.

  ‘Time for a little schnapps, I think,’ Uncle Reinhard proposed, rubbing his hands, ‘and you can tell me how your ship is coming along, Jack.’

  Clark did not see the elder of his two cousins until the following morning, and even when Kurt appeared in the first light of dawn, he seemed disinclined to talk. Clark attributed no significance to this. Neither the hour nor the purpose of their excursion was conducive to idle chatter. He declined a gun and offered to row the skiff which the family kept in a boathouse on the Elbe. Pulling across to the river’s southern bank where an area of marsh lay, bordering the river with the shallows beloved by duck, Jack pottered happily while his cousins blazed away for two hours, their English spaniels throwing mud and water over their masters as they brought back the booty. Jack lay on his oars between the two marksmen as they stalked through the shallows in their waders, collecting the haul until Kurt and Johannes had had enough and announced a strong desire for breakfast.

  On the walk back to the house carrying their bag and with the spaniels romping about them, it was Johannes who extolled the virtues of the vigour induced by their early-morning pursuit so that Jack gathered such manly activities formed some part of the Nazi creed. For the first time a sense of unease crept into Jack’s mind. He possessed an innate suspicion of linking the personal with so obviously a national movement as the Nazi ethos. Something of his scepticism must have shown on his face, for Kurt caught his eye and Jack sensed he too felt something of his own awkwardness. But he dismissed the notion as silly; how could he possibly know what Kurt was thinking? Kurt was a serious, reserved man and was probably simply embarrassed by his younger brother’s rather preposterous enthusiasm. Indeed, this seemed confirmed when Kurt snapped, ‘Please shut up, Hannes. Adolf Hitler is not God!’

  Johannes shut up as Kurt had commanded, but the mood of the morning had been shattered. The younger brother’s face bore a stony, resentful expression with which his English cousin was unfamiliar and they trudged the rest of the way in silence. Even now Jack Clark attributed Johannes’ mood to mere sibling interaction: it was only much later that he realised it was evidence of the ideological chasm that was opening up between the two brothers.

  But there was one moment that weekend that left Jack truly perplexed and it occurred just as he was leaving to return to his hotel late on the Sunday afternoon. In his honour, Aunt Eva had served tea in the English mode, and both Uncle Reinhard and his two sons were in decorous and rather awkward attendance.

  ‘I shall carry your bag down to the tram-stop,’ Kurt announced as Jack laid his cup and saucer down and turned to take leave of Johannes.

  ‘He is going to his Jewish tart,’ Johannes said in a disagreeable stage whisper which, Jack thought, both Kurt and his father could hear.

  ‘Well don’t be long, my dear,’ Aunt Eva said, looking at her elder son.

  Kurt spread his hands and shrugged. ‘You would not think a Korvettenkapitän in the Kriegsmarine would need so much mothering, would you Jack, eh?’

  Jack, not knowing quite what to say with Johannes’ remark still in his ears, smiled wanly.

  ‘Come,’ said Kurt, ‘let me have your bag.’

  ‘There’s no need…’

  ‘I insist.’

  They had left the house and garden behind them before Kurt spoke. ‘I heard what Hannes said to you and it is true, I am intending to see my Jewish tart.’ Kurt said. ‘Do you remember Magda Liepmann, Jack? She played with us once or twice when you came to stay as a little boy.’

  ‘I recall a dark girl with long plaits.’

  Kurt chuckled. ‘Oh, you should see her long plaits now…’

  ‘I should like to meet her again,’ Jack said conversationally.

  ‘Perhaps you will,’ Kurt said, before going on, a note of urgency in his tone. ‘But there is something I wanted to speak to you about; something between ourselves. I know you are fond of Hannes, Jack, but be careful what you say to him; he is a Nazi and not to be trusted.’

  ‘I must say I don’t particularly warm to his zeal,’ Jack responded. ‘He’s rather too dogmatic for my taste.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Kurt interrupted, ‘and I have no time to explain, but it is best that you are circumspect in your dealings with him, as with all Nazis. He is typical, a convinced Nazi, and now father has joined the Party.’ Kurt paused a moment and set Clark’s bag down to change hands.

  ‘Here, let me.’ They shared the weight between them, then went on.

  ‘Anyway,’ resumed Kurt, ‘it is not circumstantial that I am in Hamburg. I have a job to do and you may see me in the shipyard in the next few weeks…’

  ‘That would be pleasant…’

  ‘No, it would not, Jack.’ Kurt’s tone was unhappily vehement. ‘I only wish it were so. I tried to get another assignment, but I could not pull enough strings. Of course, I knew you were standing-by the Ernest Shackleton, but I did not wish to meet you, not on board, at least.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jack looked sharply at his cousin.

  Kurt remained silent for a moment as they walked in step, each holding a handle of Jack’s bag. ‘Because, like sleeping with a Jewish girl, having an English cousin is beginning to look dangerous in this country.’

  Jack di
gested this news. ‘And that is why your mother told you not to be out long?’

  ‘You begin to understand, Jack,’ Kurt said. ‘Look, there is the tram stop, so I must tell you quickly that it is better that if we meet in the shipyard, you must pretend not to recognise me. And, forgive me Jack, but don’t come to the house too often any more. I shan’t be staying there, I’ve naval accommodation in the city, but it is best for all of us that no direct connections are made by other people.’

  ‘But Hannes…’

  ‘Hannes will keep his mouth shut about you, if he knows what is good for him, unlike that Austrian dogshit he thinks is Jesus Christ. Besides, he has applied to join the Kriegsmarine like his big brother…’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  They were approaching the tram stop and a small queue waited for transport into Hamburg. Kurt stopped, jerking the bag swinging between them and compelling Jack to face him. Jack took both handles and held out his hand to Kurt.

  ‘What do you think the opinion of a non-Party Korvettenkapitän counts for in these matters?’ he asked ironically. ‘No, I shall recommend him. I may need the protection of a Nazi brother, God help me. Goodbye, Jack. I hope we meet again.’

  ‘I was hoping to meet Magda,’ Jack said, trying to introduce a flippant tone to counter the depressing gloom that seemed now to have enveloped Kurt ever since they had set out on the duck shoot.

  ‘I think you will,’ said Kurt.

  ‘We could have dinner together.’