Remember Me (22 page)

‘I can’t help it,’ I said. ‘I like writing essays.’

‘Then you should keep writing them.’

‘The
Herald
said that your U-boat was sunk and you were captured. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’ A note of bitterness crept into his voice. ‘The newspaper said so little about that I was surprised they bothered to mention it at all.’

‘What happened?’

‘We were depth-charged by destroyers and forced to the surface. Then a Sunderland came along and finished us off.’

‘A Sunderland!’ I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. ‘We’ve got Sunderlands flying out of Hobsonville.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen them. Every time they fly over I get shivers down my spine.’

‘Last year I wrote an essay about a U-boat caught on the surface by a Sunderland while it was attacking a convoy. Would you like to read it?’

‘Perhaps one of your other stories.’

‘Would you tell me your story? I’d love to turn it into an essay.’ I knew I was pushing it but I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I’d wriggled forward in my seat until I sat perched on the very edge, like an eager dog begging for a bone.

‘I don’t think that would be a very smart thing to do right now,’ cut in Captain Biggs. ‘It might fall into the wrong hands.’

‘It would be like “Mack’s Story”,’ I said. ‘When I finish it I’d only show it to you and Mr Berger. Please!’

‘I think I owe you that,’ said Christian Berger. ‘Captain Biggs has told me about the trouble I’ve caused you and your parents.’

‘You’ll tell me your story?’ I could hardly believe my ears.

‘Perhaps not this week, but soon. And what you write must remain between you, me and Captain Biggs.’

‘Yes!’ I said. My arms shot up in the air. I’d scored another goal. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the trouble you’ve caused us,’ I added. ‘Mum said she and Dad faced much worse in the Blitz.’

And so Captain Berger sat, listening to the groaning of the U-boat’s hull, hoping its song wasn’t the prelude to the final curtain. One by one his crew closed off the leaks or reduced the flow to levels that did not immediately require the U-boat to surface. He had to concede that the newer recruits had performed satisfactorily. The earlier panic had given way to a desperate efficiency as it had become apparent that they’d survived again. Nevertheless the tension was palpable.

‘One day when all this is over I’m going far away,’ he said softly, as though unaware that he was putting his thoughts into words. ‘I’ve already decided where.’

The officers and crew around him exchanged glances and smiles. Their captain always seemed to pick exactly the right time to talk about the future. They strained to hear even though they’d heard the story dozens of times before.

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

Christian woke to the droning of a Sunderland as it lumbered past his window. He’d noticed the flights had occurred around an hour later each day but this flight either broke the cycle or began a new one. He wondered if the timing of the flights was based around the high tide. It was a distinct possibility. He’d learned from Captain Biggs that Hobsonville was located on a creek feeding into the upper harbour. He watched the Sunderland until it disappeared behind the window frame then swung his feet to the floor. His bedsprings groaned and sighed as though in mortal agony. They’d sung their discordant melody all night, every time he’d moved. He was accustomed to spartan surroundings but the Church Army seemed to have elevated austerity to a new level. His bunk on the U-boat had been so cramped and uncomfortable sleep had come only as the result of exhaustion but, all things considered, he preferred it to the bed he’d just left.

He wandered down the bare corridor past the dormitory where Captain Biggs and the Brothers slept in curtained-off cubicles, with no more privacy than patients in a public hospital. He couldn’t understand why. The rooms on either side were unoccupied. He stepped into the bathroom. The floor was still wet from those who had preceded him. The Church Army rose at six for prayer before continuing God’s work.

Christian joined Captain Biggs for breakfast in the dining room at seven. If anything the Church Army
porridge was worse than the lumpy grey concoction served on board the
Rangitiki
. After the first morning he’d asked the young Sister if he could have toast instead. She’d obliged but served it with butter and jam rather than the cheese and slices of cold meat he was accustomed to in Hamburg. The elderly Sisters made the jam from plums, peaches and blackberries donated by parishioners. During the restless night he’d come to a decision and made his announcement the moment he’d finished breakfast.

‘I have decided that today I will go out,’ he said. ‘I only have a few days left before I begin my new job on Monday. I would like to use them to get to know Auckland.’

Captain Biggs swallowed the last of his tea and placed his mug on the table. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? What if you’re recognised?’

‘There may be a little unpleasantness but I can deal with that. People must learn to judge me by who I am, not what I was.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Where I’m less likely to be recognised. To town, then maybe the waterfront drive everyone has told me about, or maybe I will catch a ferry to the other side of the harbour.’

‘That makes sense. But wait until everyone is either at work or school. If you’d like a swim I have a bathing costume you can borrow.’

‘Thank you, but no. I don’t swim any more. I’ve had enough sea water to last a lifetime. I would like to borrow
a street map and a bus timetable, if you have them. I don’t think I should invite trouble by getting lost or standing too long at a bus stop.’

‘Sister Gloria will get them for you. And, Christian?’

‘Yes?’

‘Take our phone number with you. If you get into any trouble just ring.’

‘Thank you.’

At nine thirty-two Christian walked out the front door of the Church Army, straight across the road and down the seventy yards to the bus stop. Sister Kathleen and Sister Gloria had seen him to the door, urging him to be careful and reminding him that in New Zealand traffic drove on the left-hand side of the road. They needn’t have bothered. There wasn’t a car to be seen. Those who went to work had gone and those preparing to shop had yet to leave. A fox terrier licked its privates on the pavement outside the butcher’s but other than that there was no sign of life.

By his reckoning if the bus was on time he had around ninety seconds to wait. His eyes swept the small cluster of shops across the road, his first real look at the neighbourhood. A woman in a smock was busily pressing trousers in the window of the drycleaner’s, the shop closest to the Church Army. The butcher’s was next door. The fox terrier had licked what needed to be licked, found a patch of sun and lay down in it, literally as happy as a butcher’s
dog. There was a narrow lane alongside the butcher shop and across from that a greengrocer, a milk bar and the corner shop where he guessed the boy lived. Thirty seconds had passed. A woman emerged from the doorway of the corner shop with a broom in her hand and began sweeping the pavement in front of the doorway. As though suddenly aware she was being watched she looked up. Their eyes locked. Christian nodded slightly in acknowledgement. His action was automatic, the polite response required in the city of his birth. The woman reacted in similar fashion with just the merest movement of her head, and returned to her sweeping. In her look he read both recognition and caution, and deeply regretted the need for the latter.

He turned away and focused on the bend in the road where the trolley bus was due to appear if it was running to schedule, but the road was still deserted. The issue now was how late the trolley bus would be. The glance from the boy’s mother had driven home to him the need to be careful more eloquently than the combined urgings of Captain Biggs and the Sisters, not just out of self-interest but out of concern for others who had been affected by his arrival. The bus couldn’t come quickly enough. The sound of a labouring engine caught his attention and he glanced back down the road. A Bradford truck struggled past, weighed down by a load of mattresses, if the signage on its sides was any indication. Christian observed its progress with a wry smile. The British Army of
Occupation used a lot of Bradfords and the people of Hamburg cracked jokes about their lack of power and unreliability. He recalled a cartoon drawn on a beer-hall wall depicting the bombed-out ruins of his city. The caption had said ‘If only Bradfords were bombers and Lancasters were trucks’ or words to that effect.

The boy’s mother finished sweeping and went inside her shop just as the trolley bus swung around the corner. Christian had passed the first test standing at the bus stop and now faced the second. He stepped up into the bus the moment the door hissed open, looked the driver in the eye and said, ‘Two sections please,’ as he’d been instructed. The driver barely gave Christian a glance as he took the sixpence and handed him his ticket. There were only four passengers in the bus, three women and one man. Two of the women sat together chatting. Nobody showed the slightest interest in the newcomer. Christian followed Sister Gloria’s advice and chose a window seat on the driver’s side to lessen the chance of being spotted at bus stops. The bus passed the first stop without slowing but pulled in at the second to pick up a man. Christian recognised the type instantly. The man’s trousers were stained and threadbare, his sandals so scuffed little of their original colour remained and he wore a yellow shortsleeved knit shirt of a kind that would never be seen in Hamburg, but in every other respect he was typical of the kind of thug who hung around the docks looking for a fight or a quick way to make easy money. Grazes on the
man’s cheek and forehead seemed to confirm his assessment. Christian turned to look out of the window but watched the man carefully in the reflection in the glass. The man surveyed the bus’s passengers as he made his way down the aisle. Christian tensed when the man stared at him, braced for trouble when he paused to check him out more closely, then slowly exhaled in relief as the man walked on past without incident.

Rather than unnerve him, the incident gave Christian confidence. He’d come under scrutiny and passed the test. He began to relax in anticipation of taking his first real look at the city that he hoped would become his home. The excitement he’d felt as the
Rangitiki
had passed down the Rangitoto Channel and into Auckland Harbour slowly returned. The day had begun warm and was destined to become warmer. Overhead, light scattered clouds drifted across a background of intense blue. As the bus crossed Ponsonby Road he caught his first glimpse of the harbour since his arrival. The water was turquoise, deepening to green in places, so unlike the grey waters of the North Sea, and it sparkled in the sun. Two freighters sat moored in the channel waiting for berths so they could exchange their cargo for another before returning to the other side of the world. A vehicular ferry crossed to the northern shore while smaller working craft went about their business. A sprinkling of yachts sailed gently before a light breeze. This was the New Zealand of his imagining, unhurried, untroubled and unscarred.

Before the trolley bus had dipped down into the gully and the harbour was lost from sight, Christian had made up his mind. He’d find the bus that would take him the length of the waterfront drive and, once there, turn and walk leisurely back towards the city for as far as his legs could carry him, all the while taking in the sights. With luck his path might take him over a hill high enough to provide a glimpse of Great Barrier Island, even though he knew it would be no more than a smudge on the horizon. A glimpse would be all the encouragement he needed to persevere. Optimism began to infiltrate every cell in his body. He had an urge to smile, to reach out to strangers and shake their hands, to share his joy and delight in his new country. His new start hadn’t begun the way he’d hoped but he was certain things would change in time. Acceptance was simply a matter of patience. He believed his new country would soon reach out and embrace him in the same good spirit with which he embraced it.

When I rode down to the breakwater after school I had no idea Christian Berger was anywhere in the vicinity, not that it mattered one way or the other. I had fish to catch and no time to worry about anything else. Mum had collared me at breakfast and asked me to go fishing after school. I’d intended to go fishing anyway but her asking really put the pressure on. We’d had salad for dinner on Monday, which consisted of lots of lettuce,
tomatoes, cucumber, sliced hard-boiled eggs and slivers of ham. None of us liked salad but it was summer and salads were what you were supposed to eat. But for the slices of bread and butter we had with it we would’ve left the table still hungry. On Tuesday we had sausages with mashed potato and peas. On Wednesday we had Mum’s version of ‘pork fillets’, tripe in a white sauce with boiled potatoes and Brussels sprouts. Cheap meals was a routine we’d all been through before. You didn’t need to be Einstein to work out that the scale of the boycott was becoming apparent and Mum was squirrelling money away in preparation for hard times to come.

I cast out my line with a grim determination and, I must admit, a silent prayer or two. I needed to catch fish and that presented a problem. A pattern had begun to emerge which didn’t augur well. Mack always reckoned the more desperate you were for fish the less likely you were to catch any, and that’s how things had been panning out for me. The last time Mum had asked me to go fishing the tide and conditions had looked perfect but I’d hardly got a bite. I was beginning to wonder if the fish could tell when I was tense. Mum wanted to pay for my bait but I’d refused to take her money. I coughed up the shilling from the pennies and threepences I’d managed to save. That didn’t augur well, either. The two shillings I’d spent on bait after winning the knockout hadn’t drawn a worthwhile bite. Everything seemed to be against me but that was something I was rapidly getting used to.

For instance, Nigel normally wouldn’t be seen dead walking to school with me but now we set off together just before the bell went for assembly. It was the same at lunchtime. We came home and stayed home until ten to one when the bell went for the afternoon class. The playground was no longer a safe place even with Eric, Ryan and Maxie looking out for me, and a couple of Nigel’s pals looking out for him. Collitt and his cronies made sure of that.

My rod tip dipped in a way that made me think there was more than just a small snapper having a nibble. I let the fish play with my bait for a while and waited until there was a solid tug before striking. As soon as I felt the fish’s weight and the way it was pulling I guessed I’d hooked into a gurnard. They’re a pretty red fish with spectacular green wings but not always popular eating because they’re full of little bones. Fortunately Rod had a way of filleting them that cut out most of them and he used Dad’s pliers to pull out any bones that were left. Usually catching a good-sized gurnard was worth a bit of a shout and carry-on but all I felt was a sense of relief and an awareness that my job had only begun. One gurnard wouldn’t feed five. I cast out again, got the same purposeless nibbles, waited for the big bite and struck. Another gurnard. I always thought of gurnard as rather solitary fish although sometimes I’d encountered them in schools. This looked like being one of those times. I cast out again in almost feverish haste. Over the next thirty minutes I caught four more, the most
gurnard I’d ever caught at one time. I could hardly believe it. Was this my lucky day or what? Six gurnard equalled twelve fillets, which equalled two meals with Dad having a bonus fillet each time. I’d come down to the breakwater terrified of failing but set off for home flushed with success, feeling every bit the provider. Mum would be over the moon.

As I rode home I thought about Christian Berger and his promise to tell me his story. I’d let Eric into the secret, which was only fair given the way he’d stood by me, and told him I’d ask if he could listen to the U-boat captain’s story with me. I don’t think I’d ever seen Eric more excited. I was picturing Eric and me sitting cross-legged at Christian Berger’s feet as I turned right from Ponsonby Road into Richmond Road. I saw myself with a notepad on my knee and a pencil in my hand while Eric just had the goofy, enthralled look on his face he got when we watched Battle of Britain movies. We were in the Church Army lounge with mugs of hot tea and Sister Glorious hovering about re-arranging the flowers. The next thing I saw—and it wasn’t in my imagination—was Collitt and his mates coming out of Scanlan Street on my left. They howled like hounds that had suddenly picked up the scent of a fox. I guess they thought it was their lucky day, too.