Remember Me (19 page)

I checked out every pew but failed to see a strange face. There were a few notable absentees. The Gillespies were missing but that came as no surprise. They hadn’t been back to the chapel, choosing instead to attend church services at All Saints. Some of the families who’d walked out with them did likewise. I nearly fell off the pew when I spotted my parents. They were occasional churchgoers at best. Rod sat on one side of them, Mack on the other. I knew immediately why they’d come. I should’ve guessed they’d be there. Nobody could take on one member of my family without taking on the lot. They’d come in case I needed support. My parents weren’t the only infrequent visitors. Every inch of every pew was occupied. The neighbourhood had come to
greet the U-boat captain just as crowds turned out at the airport to greet Stirling Moss, the only difference being they weren’t intending to greet him with cheers.

Captain Biggs made his way down the aisle and said a silent prayer in front of the cross as he usually did. This was the cue for the congregation to stop talking, face the front and compose themselves, maybe even say their own silent prayer. I could hardly believe it when the muttering and whispers continued. It was all right to greet friends and look around before the service started, but definitely disrespectful thereafter. Captain Biggs coughed discreetly but to little effect. It took Sister Kathleen to bring everyone into line. Never one to brook any nonsense, she cranked up the volume on the organ and let rip with the opening bars of the first hymn. Voices stunned into action dutifully sang ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus’ but it wasn’t Jesus who was foremost in their minds.

The congregation never really settled down. People were continually stealing glances towards the back of the chapel, particularly when everyone else had their eyes closed in prayer. As the service wore on, the glances became less frequent and disgruntled parishioners began fidgeting, impatient for the service to end. I think by the midpoint of the service, everyone was feeling a bit cheated. The showdown had been building for five weeks and the main attraction had failed to turn up.

More out of habit than hope I stole another glance towards the door and saw Sister Glorious standing by the
back wall. A stranger stood beside her. Why was Sister Glorious standing at the back? Who was the stranger alongside her? My pulse rate doubled. I felt Eric’s elbow in my ribs. He’d noticed the stranger, too. It had to be the U-boat captain, although he didn’t look anything like as steely as I’d expected. He didn’t look a bit like Curt Jurgens. He didn’t even look German. The man was tall and fairly solid but there was an air of resignation about him. He could hardly have been less impressive. I could tell by the growing murmur that others had noticed him, too. In the middle of the last hymn, Sister Glorious led him out of the chapel.

This was too much for some people. Normally when the last hymn finished the congregation stood while Captain Biggs and the Sisters made their exit so they could take up position outside the door and shake hands or exchange pleasantries with everyone as they left. This time they didn’t stand a chance. The first people were heading for the door before the last note of the organ had died away. Once protocol had been breached, mob rule took over. There was a stampede. Collitt led the charge of the CEBS, almost trampling me in the process. God’s House had more in common with a cattle yard than consecrated ground. Everybody wanted to see the U-boat captain, some determined to let him know exactly how they felt.

By the time I managed to squeeze through the doorway Sister Glorious and the stranger were totally
surrounded. She looked scared and way out of her depth. I think it was only her youth and fragility that kept everybody reasonably calm. People were loath to speak their mind in front of her. If the stranger had been alone I have no doubt he would’ve been assaulted. However, the tide of anger couldn’t be held back forever. Mrs Rogers, a pinch-faced, narrow-minded busybody whose husband—according to Dad—had died just so he could get some peace, was the first to speak. She claimed the right by virtue of the fact that she was the Gillespies’ next-door neighbour.

‘How dare you enter our chapel!’ she screamed.

The stranger turned white. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

Mrs Rogers heard his accent and hesitated.

‘You’re the U-boat captain, aren’t you?’

‘Me? God no,’ he said. ‘I’m a reporter. I’m from the
Herald
.’

I laughed, but I’m pretty sure I was the only one and it certainly didn’t help the situation. Think of a lynch mob with no one to lynch. Their anger had to go somewhere. Now picture a twelve-year-old boy who’d stupidly just put up his hand.

‘What are you laughing about?’ someone shouted.

‘Come here! I’ll give you something to laugh about.’ Mr Rycroft, Clarry’s dad, was glaring at me. I’ve never seen anyone froth at the mouth but at that instant he came awfully close.

I couldn’t believe what was happening. Mr Rycroft was one of the good dads, always cheering us on at athletics. Everyone’s eyes were on me, most of them hostile, and it suddenly occurred to me these people I’d grown up among might actually want to hurt me. In desperation I looked around for help and saw Collitt pushing his way through the crowd. I just knew he couldn’t resist the temptation to thump me and make himself out to be a hero in the process. And there was Mack, charging towards me as though he’d recovered all of his old strength, but it still looked like Collitt would reach me first. Just as I was really starting to panic a hand clamped down hard on my skinny little shoulder. I nearly screamed but in that instant I realised there was something familiar and comforting in the touch. It was Dad’s hand. Dad had come to my defence.

‘Your boy’s the cause of all this,’ said Mrs Rogers accusingly. ‘Him and that traitor Mack.’

I was aghast. In front of everyone she’d called Mack a traitor and he’d managed to elbow his way through the crowd until he was standing right behind her. Her words hit him like bullets.

‘There’s no call for that,’ said Dad.

‘No call?’ Mrs Rogers was spitting in her fury. ‘Mack is a disgrace and a traitor to the boys who went off overseas to fight. Given half a chance I’d tell him to his face.’

‘Then thee best turn around,’ said Dad.

Mrs Rogers spun around and turned as red as the tail-light on Dad’s Chev. I think everybody felt her embarrassment. Her mouth opened but no words came out. She all but ran away.

‘Come on, son, we’re going home.’ I hadn’t realised it but Mum, Rod and even Nigel had moved up alongside Dad and me, closing ranks. Dad looked as defiant and steadfast as John Wayne, Mum looked ready to take them all on single-handed. A big lump formed in my throat but it was about to get even bigger. ‘And thee,’ said Dad to Mack. ‘Best thee come with us.’

One of the first people Dad brushed aside was Graham Collitt. There’s nothing on earth meaner than a bully denied a cheap shot. Collitt looked cheated, as though he’d mistakenly put all his pocket money into the collection plate. I thought at the time we’d won a small victory but in reality it was no more than a dignified retreat. Both Mum and Dad had been very guarded and not responded to the thinly veiled insults of some of their customers and acquaintances. They’d done their best to exclude themselves—and me—from the hostilities. But circumstance had forced them to make a stand and to their credit they hadn’t hesitated. They’d stood up for me, for Mack, for Captain Biggs and for their principles. In so doing they’d also stood up for Christian Berger, a German, a U-boat captain and a man they’d never even met. This time they both knew there’d be no cushioning of the consequences.

‘Rudder jammed!’

Captain Berger made his decision. Torpedo tubes had sprung leaks before and somehow the Chief had always managed to stem the flow. He had to believe he could do it again. His Chief Engineer, Friedrich von Wiebe, had sailed with him on every patrol since he’d assumed his first command. He was a man Captain Berger could trust with his life and often did. He trusted him now. Safety lay in depth but at a depth untried even with an undamaged hull. He cut speed to a quarter and descended, putting metal sheets and welds under pressures they were never meant to withstand. New sounds filled the submarine as the pressure increased alerting the crew to their danger. Sonar waves bounced off the hull.

‘Got you,’ they said.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘D
EATH OF A
U-B
OAT’

Christian Berger agreed to be interviewed without hesitation, despite Captain Biggs’s reservations. ‘It is an opportunity for me to set the record straight,’ he argued. ‘So far all they know is that I was a U-boat captain and that’s hardly going to win me friends. Once they know more, know more about the kind of man I am, perhaps they will change their minds.’

‘Perhaps,’ Captain Biggs said doubtfully. He still hadn’t recovered from the shock of seeing how quickly his lambs of God had turned into a pack of baying hounds. ‘If that’s your decision I’ll bring the reporter in. Make yourself comfortable in the meeting room.’

‘No, you take him to the meeting room. You make him comfortable. I will join you in a few minutes. It won’t hurt to make him wait.’

Captain Biggs allowed a small smile. He’d never commanded a ship as Christian Berger had nor engaged in the one-upmanship of business, but he recognised the tactic and approved of it. The bishop had made him wait for more than half an hour, during which time every worst-case scenario had played on his mind. Every passing minute had sapped his confidence and resolve. By the time the bishop had finally called him into his office, he’d been pathetically grateful and reduced to a babbling wreck.

When Christian entered the meeting room he strode purposefully up to the reporter and offered him his hand. ‘Christian Berger,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

The reporter shot to his feet. The speed with which he stood spoke more of a reaction to authority than simple politeness. If he’d expected the commander to be cowed by the events that had occurred outside the chapel, he soon realised his error.

‘Alun Griffiths,’ said the reporter. ‘
New Zealand Herald
. Pleased to meet you.’

‘You are Welsh?’ said Christian. ‘I spent just over a year in a POW camp in South Wales. Near Bridgend. I liked it there. I almost didn’t go home when the war ended. Please sit.’ He smiled inwardly as the reporter dropped back into his seat. He took up station at the head of the table. Instructions had been given and obeyed. He’d taken control. ‘Where would you like to begin?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you begin by telling me why you are here? Why have you come to New Zealand?’ The reporter seemed to almost apologise for the question.

Christian smiled. ‘To anyone else in the world the answer is obvious. New Zealand is a very fortunate country. You know, on the voyage over from Europe I shared a cabin with a survivor from Auschwitz, a Jew. Every member of his family was killed except a brother who was lucky enough to emigrate to New Zealand in 1948. The brother wrote to my friend and said, “Jichak, you must come. This country is an egalitarian paradise. It is utopia. It is a true democracy and there is nothing, nothing at all to fear.” Paradise, utopia, nothing to fear. Contrast this with Europe.’

‘That tells me why your friend came but not why you came. Weren’t you already on the ship and on your way when you met him?’

The question was floated so quietly and innocently that it caught Christian by surprise. He was aware of Captain Biggs shifting uncomfortably on his chair. ‘I was ordered down here in 1940. All I saw of the country was a glimpse of Great Barrier Island but that was enough.’ He told the reporter all about meeting Mack and how he’d dreamed about New Zealand during the war. He painted as flattering a picture as he could.

‘But why were you sent down to New Zealand?’ asked the reporter.

‘To intercept a troopship.’

‘By that do you mean sink it?’

‘That was the intention.’ Christian now saw that the reporter’s apparent meekness was a sham. Alun Griffiths knew exactly what he was doing. Christian kept his voice even but was well aware of the shift in dynamics. Despite the games he’d played, there was no doubt who was now on the defensive. He did his best to salvage the interview. ‘Fortunately the ship sailed a day earlier than we’d been led to believe so our mission was unsuccessful.’

‘You say “fortunate”. Surely from your point of view, missing the troopship was unfortunate?’

‘Yes, it was unfortunate then. I was unable to carry out the task I’d been assigned. But now the war is over I can look back and say my bad luck was a blessing, it was
fortunate the troopship sailed a day early and I’m glad it did.’

‘Did you sink any other ships on that mission?’

‘Yes, off Cape Town and another off North Africa.’

‘How many ships did you sink in total?’

‘Over the course of the war? I had two commands. Together I sank fourteen ships for a total of sixty-one thousand tons.’

‘Very impressive. Did you pick up any survivors?’

‘There is no place on U-boats for survivors. Surely you know that. If it had been possible to sink ships without casualties we would have done so.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. But it was not possible. Nevertheless the casualties were regrettable.’

‘Regrettable?’

‘If that means I regret the casualties I caused, then yes. Regrettable.’ Christian realised the reporter had been deliberately provoking him and also regretted his flash of irritation. The reporter changed the subject.

‘How were you captured?’

Christian told him and went on to describe his return to the battered, bombed-out shell of a city that was Hamburg. He told him about joining the men, women and children who worked day in and day out clearing away rubble and the endless soup lines. He told him about the casualty rate in U-boats, how only one in four crew survived; how he’d helped set up the Centre to help the families of those killed and to help
the survivors get back on their feet. He spoke calmly and honestly, all the while working on restoring some balance to the interview. Yes, he’d been a U-boat captain but he’d also suffered. He told how his family’s home had been flattened and his family scattered; how his sister had moved to the United States and his father had given up his post at Hamburg University to teach in the Upper Ruhr; how his parents and sister had run away from their devastated city and how he, in contrast, had chosen not to run away but to emigrate to New Zealand only after his work at the Centre was finished. Christian watched the reporter closely throughout his discourse and was convinced the man had listened sympathetically and understood the points he made. He believed he’d established a rapport.

‘Would you mind if I took a photo?’ asked the reporter. ‘Photographers are thin on the ground on Sundays. I only rang the office once the interview was confirmed. With any luck he’ll be waiting outside.’ He turned to Captain Biggs. ‘I’d like a shot of the two of you together by the chapel, if that’s OK.’ He rose and headed towards the door, pausing as he reached it. ‘One last question, Mr Berger. Do you think anything good came out of the war?’

‘Very little, my friend. But it made me aware that a country as blessed and fortunate as New Zealand existed. For that, I am grateful.’

Christian replayed the interview in his head while the photographer set up a cumbersome plate camera on top of a heavy, equally cumbersome tripod. He couldn’t help comparing it with the beautifully compact, hand-sized Leica that had gone down with his U-boat. Sometimes it amazed him that Germany had lost the war. Overall he thought he’d done well with the interview and succeeded in his objective. When the photographer asked him to smile, he smiled. He believed that when people read their newspaper the following morning they’d discover another more human side to him. He shared his conclusion with Captain Biggs as the reporter and photographer left.

‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned the troopship,’ said Captain Biggs. ‘I’d managed to keep that bit under my hat.’

Newspapers weren’t delivered to the Church Army. It was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Instead Captain Biggs and the Sisters relied upon the goodwill of neighbours to pass their newspapers on after they’d finished reading them. Some days two or three
Herald
s arrived this way, on other days they went without. The collection plate never produced much but that Sunday, with the congregation swollen by the curious, it had produced more than usual. Captain Biggs took three pennies and sent Sister Glorious off to the newsagency first thing Monday morning. Christian Berger awaited her return with high expectations, Captain Biggs with growing trepidation.
The elderly Sisters were eager to see a picture of their chapel and their dashing young captain in the newspaper. Everyone was expecting a story and photo on page three or page five until Sister Glorious arrived back in tears. The newsagent had all but thrown the copy of the
Herald
at her. Passers-by had told her she should be ashamed of herself. The story was splashed all over the front page.

‘PONSONBY CHURCH HARBOURS U-BOAT CAPTAIN’, screamed the headline. And in marginally smaller print beneath, ‘Community Anger Fuels Church Walk-out’. The photo showed a smiling Captain Biggs with his arm around the shoulders of a smiling Christian Berger. That had been the reporter’s idea. Captain Biggs had thought he was metaphorically embracing the concept of world peace but Alun Griffiths had known exactly what he was doing. He’d got the story he wanted and succeeded in making the Church Army appear to be a division of the
Wehrmacht
. There was no mention of Christian’s return to Hamburg or of his work with the Centre. The only new thing the parishioners learned about the U-boat captain was contained in a separate panel, prominently positioned so no one could miss it. ‘U-boat Sent to Torpedo Our Boys’, the headline said accusingly.

‘God help us,’ said Captain Biggs. His face turned grey as it drained of blood. In the bottom right-hand corner there was a file photo of the bishop above a headline that said ‘Bishop Promises Full Investigation’.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Christian. ‘I should have taken your advice.’ The Church Army phone began ringing almost immediately.

‘Don’t answer it,’ said Captain Biggs.

‘It might be the bishop,’ said Sister Kathleen.

‘I know. Don’t anyone answer it until I’ve had a chance to think.’

‘That’s a nice photo of you,’ said one of the elderly Sisters. ‘Look, Sister.’ She passed her magnifying glass to her colleague. ‘Such a lovely smile.’

Christian Berger stared at the newspaper in dismay. Agreeing to the interview had been a big mistake but the bigger mistake was in allowing himself to be photographed. His temporary home had become a prison. Now there was no way he could set foot outside the door without being recognised.