Any Survivors (2008) (10 page)

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.’

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.

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 predecessor. 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.