The Passenger (36 page)

In the torpedo room he leaned against the doors and felt overcome by exhaustion. The light bulbs buzzed and flashed a valedictory SOS before going out. He could see a faint glow in the distance emanating from the control room and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again Sutherland was standing in front of him. The British commander was wearing his cap and his coat was hanging open. Lorenz glanced down nervously to see if Sutherland's ribcage was visible, but there were no horrors to discover, no scraps of decaying flesh or bloated internal organs.
All that he could see was a British naval uniform. Sutherland's skull was undamaged and the corners of his eyes were creased with compassion. Although Sutherland's lips did not move, Lorenz could hear the British commander's voice, as if its point of origin was in his own head. ‘Let's get out of this prison.' Sutherland raised his right hand. The index and ring fingers were held straight and rigid, while the middle and little fingers were bent back. When he stretched his thumb it looked like a cocked gun. ‘You know what to do.' Sutherland touched the tips of his extended fingers against his temple and added, ‘You know what you
want
to do.' The figure began to fade until all that remained was an implied outline, a subtle mismatch between what had just been obscured and what had always been in view. Then Lorenz found himself staring into darkness. The bow dipped, and he felt the angle of the deck change. The water had risen up to his chest and was lapping against his chin. He pushed the barrel of the gun into his mouth, and as he did so he did not feel as if he had been defeated. He did not feel beaten, humiliated, or vanquished; quite the contrary, he felt the wild elation that comes with a decisive victory. The metal tasted good, like a fortifying tonic. He applied a little pressure to the trigger and felt a fractional shift. The old doctor, Hebbel, had been right to marvel at the strange workings of the human unconscious, because for no apparent reason, Lorenz found himself remembering Friederich Wilhelm Bessel, the astronomer who had proved that the star 61 Cygni was located 64 trillion miles away from the earth. He found the notion of such vast distances comforting. In such a boundless universe, there would always be distant corners beyond the reach of evil. He applied a little more pressure.

TWO WEEKS LATER

W
henever he was alone, memories flooded into his mind. They were not ordinary memories, but vivid and cinematic: collecting his film rolls together and stuffing them into a waterproof bag, joining the other men beneath the conning tower, pushing, shoving, wondering whether a shell would hit U-330 before he was able to get out, climbing up to the bridge, Lorenz's exhortation—‘Don't be a fool! Worry about saving yourself—not your photographs!'—running while bullets whistled through the air and rang against metal. He squeezed the flesh of his forearm until the pain was intense and the mental pictures faded.

It was a bright, clear morning, and Pullman was sitting at a window seat in a coffee house near the ministry. Traffic intermittently obscured the shop fronts on the others side of the road. One of them—
Cohen & Sons
—had been boarded up. He focused on the gold lettering but it was not enough to keep the past at bay. The memories were more real than the passing cars. Once again he was in the freezing water. Although his eyes were registering
Cohen & Sons
, he was actually watching U-330 moving away, and when he inhaled, he couldn't smell coffee anymore, but diesel fumes. He was floating in the middle of a ring of familiar faces: Wessel, Sauer, Juhl, Brandt. They were all dead and their blood had leaked out of their wounds and colored the water. He was nudged from behind, and when he turned he found himself looking into a mess of gelatinous adhesions, one displaced eye, and a gaping lower jaw full of broken teeth. Who was it? He had no
idea. The abomination's arms threatening to embrace Pullman so he kicked against the current and swam wildly until exhaustion forced him to stop.

The destroyer was preparing to ram U-330. He watched it gathering speed and then there was a dreadful explosion and pieces of hot metal rained down all around him. Every impact hissed and created a cloud of steam. The destroyer was on fire. He had no time to observe its demise because U-330 had completed another circuit and was coming straight toward him. His limbs felt heavy and weak, and his extremities were numb with cold. He did not have the energy to start swimming again. The effort required to secure his survival was simply too much.

U-330 was getting closer, and Pullman braced himself. The bow was beginning to plow a deep trench between the waves. It continued nosing downward and eventually the deck was submerged up to the 8.8 cm gun. The conning tower appeared compressed and a frothy crest rose up around it. Then there was nothing to see except a whirlpool of swirling bubbles. Pullman felt his legs being sucked downward, an unpleasant dragging sensation as the submarine passed beneath him. This traction eventually weakened and he turned his attention back to the destroyer, which was being consumed by flames. Some thirty meters away another conning tower broke the surface, and Pullman registered a white emblem. Graf bobbed up beside him and said, ‘Looks like a polar bear, must be U-689. Quick, we can make it—start swimming.' Figures were looking over the bulwark and one of them pointed in their direction.

On returning to Berlin Pullman was treated like a hero by his colleagues. Only twelve crewmen had survived, and the fact that he was one of them reflected well on the ministry. In addition, he had managed to save all of his film rolls, and this was viewed as an act of outstanding professionalism. ‘Well done, Leutnant!' his immediate superior in the Press Division had exclaimed while vigorously shaking his hand. ‘Commendable! We can make something
of this!' Subsequently, Pullman had been whisked from one social function to another—morning, noon, and night—and introduced to numerous high-ranking party officials and their immaculately dressed wives. It was even rumored that he might be invited to a special gathering at the Kaiserhof and presented to the Führer.

Pullman had been so very busy, he had only been able to develop ten of the twelve film rolls he had saved. Moreover, none of the photographs he had developed so far were—in his opinion—very good. He had produced much better work on previous patrols. ‘Ironic,' he muttered to himself. An overeager waiter mistook the utterance as a request for attention, and Pullman had to wave the man away.

At ten thirty the door opened and Herr Marbach entered the coffee house. He was a man in his early fifties, and his hat and coat were clearly very expensive. His movements were unhurried, and when he reached Pullman's table he greeted the photographer with genuine affection. ‘Good to see you, my boy! Good to see you!' They had originally met at an art exhibition and had become friends on account of a shared interest in early photography. Marbach owned one of the finest collections in private hands. It included numerous daguerreotypes and some charming street scenes by Eugène Atget, Michael Frankenstein, and Oscar Kramer. Marbach was a wealthy industrialist with Party connections and he had done a great deal to advance Pullman's career. These benign intercessions were not entirely altruistic, for Marbach had three unmarried daughters between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four and he was always on the lookout for right-thinking husbands-to-be. His plan was to cultivate a circle of potential suitors and encourage a spate of romances just after the war's successful conclusion. This policy had been decided upon in order to ensure against the possibility of premature widowhood. He was a doting father and couldn't bear the thought of any of his daughters having to endure a broken heart. Pullman was second in line for the hand of Marbach's middle daughter, Helga.

The two men sat down, and Marbach ordered more coffees and an apple strudel. ‘So, you've returned in triumph. Tell me all about it.' Pullman recounted the story of the scuttling of U-330—for the umpteenth time—and when he had finished, Marbach expressed his admiration in the form of an extended eulogy seasoned with words like ‘courage' and ‘valor.' Pullman was quick to reject any charges of heroism, knowing full well that Marbach was always impressed by a show of modesty.

‘I hear that you've been invited to the Kaiserhof?' Marbach raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘That hasn't been confirmed yet.'

‘But it seems likely.'

Pullman shrugged and sipped his coffee. ‘I really don't know.'

Marbach studied his young companion and wondered whether he should elevate him to the position of first in line for his daughter's hand. He was, after all, a handsome fellow with a winning (if somewhat incomplete) smile. An invitation to the Kaiserhof was a great honor. This boy could go places . . .

They continued talking about life on board U-330.

‘He was something of a maverick, I hear.' Marbach sliced his apple strudel with the edge of his fork and raised a piece up to his mouth. ‘Siegfried Lorenz.'

‘Yes,' Pullman replied. ‘A good man, but one who had succumbed to unhealthy levels of cynicism. He certainly didn't believe in our cause. In fact I doubt he believed in anything, really. He was a man without convictions.'

‘I heard that he fouled up a special operation.'

‘Did he?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did you find that out?'

‘Through a business associate of mine—Ehrlichmann. We have joint interests in Paris.' Marbach savored his apple strudel and swallowed. ‘Ehrlichmann knows an SS officer who had some involvement.'

‘Oh? What happened?'

‘Well, as far as I understand it, Lorenz was supposed to transport some important prisoners back to France. One of them was a scholar, a Norwegian academic, who, if the rumors are true, was a man possessed of unusual gifts—a kind of psychic, who Himmler wanted taken to the castle at Wewelsburg. This Norwegian was supposed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of runes, so you can imagine how keen the Reichsführer was to meet him. I believe some tests of his ability were planned . . . Anyway, the prisoners escaped or died, I forget which, so the mission ended ignominiously. And it was all Lorenz's fault.'

‘That surprises me. He didn't strike me as incompetent, merely uncommitted.' Pullman gazed out of the window but was distracted by his own reflection occupying a table on the pavement outside. ‘I suppose we shouldn't judge him too unkindly. He wasn't exceptional in this respect. U-boat men are a peculiar breed. They do their duty but they can't seem to see very much beyond simple patriotism. They lack vision. One wonders why?'

‘Compared with the army the navy has always been less . . . ideological.'

‘Well, things have got to change—and soon. Wars aren't won with indifference.'

‘Indeed.'

Pullman's half-smile folded into an ugly sneer. ‘You know, sometimes, I detected in Lorenz not only cynicism but also a dreadful weariness. It was as if he had grown tired or bored . . . of everything.'

‘Oh?'

‘It was as if he didn't want to go on.'

‘I abhor defeatism.'

‘There was something about him that I can only describe as—' Pullman hesitated before completing his sentence contemptuously—‘decadent.'

‘A man like that deserves to be exposed. I hope you'll be putting all this in your report.' Pullman produced a short burst of false, histrionic laughter. Marbach was baffled by the young man's reaction. ‘What?'

Pullman looked around anxiously. ‘I'm going to have to ask you not to repeat any of this . . .'

‘As you wish—I can respect a confidence. Needless to say, you will respect mine. Ehrlichmann and so forth . . .'

Pullman nodded and continued: ‘It's been suggested that Lorenz should be awarded a posthumous Knight's Cross.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘In actual fact he was a few thousand tons short, but no one will be poring over the figures or raising any objections.'

‘Given what sort of a man he was . . .'

‘It'll make a good story. And good stories are good for morale. Lorenz's sister lives in Berlin—and there's a niece and a nephew. His brother-in-law is fighting the Russians—a medical man who has been decorated twice for bravery. We'll be able to hold a ceremony for the family and place touching photographs in various publications.'

‘Yes, I suppose you're right,' Marbach sighed. ‘One has to be pragmatic.'

They discussed the war and mutual acquaintances, and then made small talk. Marbach invited Pullman to dinner at his townhouse and casually dropped into the conversation that Helga would be there that night. He was pleased by Pullman's response. ‘And I must show you my latest acquisition,' he continued, ‘an exquisite album of Viennese street portraits taken around 1902.'

Later that morning Pullman walked back to the ministry and discovered, to his great relief, that he was not required to attend a social function that afternoon. An engagement had been arranged but due to unavoidable circumstances the dignitary he was due to meet had had to cancel his visit. For the first time that week Pullman was left to his own devices. The fact that, so far, none
of his U-330 photographs had been very good was preying on his mind. He was eager to develop the last two rolls in the hope that he would find a few images of merit.

When he had finished in the darkroom his mood was much better. Most of the pictures on the last two rolls had turned out to be rather good. There were several compelling portraits of the crew. Only one image was spoiled. It was the photograph that he had taken of Lorenz in the torpedo room. Lorenz was standing in front of the doors and looking directly into the camera; however, he must have moved just at the wrong moment. There seemed to be another commander standing next to him, a man of identical build with the same, intense expression. Pullman looked at the photograph more closely. He was unsure how the image had been produced. There was no blurring, no evidence of motion linking Lorenz and his ghostly double. It was rather irritating, because in all other respects this particular photograph was extremely effective. The camera had really captured Lorenz's character. With some regret, Pullman screwed up the image and allowed the ball of crumpled thick paper to fall from his hand and into a bin.