The Passenger (11 page)

Looking down at the injured man, Lorenz addressed Ziegler. ‘How is he?'

‘Not good.'

‘Kaleun,' Richter groaned.

‘Yes, it's me,' Lorenz responded. ‘You banged your head rather badly. Just rest for a while, eh?'

Richter's eyelids flicked open. They were red with irises like discs of jet. He looked like something that had clambered out of a fissure in hell.

‘Kaleun?'

‘Rest. You're going to be fine.'

‘I saw him.'

‘What?'

‘I saw him.'

‘You saw who?'

‘The British officer.'

‘Well, we all saw him, Richter. He was our prisoner.'

‘No, Kaleun. He was in the diesel room. I saw him.'

The men who were standing nearby might have laughed, but none of them did. Lorenz wanted to believe that this was because they were feeling sorry for their comrade, but their uneasy expressions suggested otherwise.

‘You've had a nasty knock on the head, Richter.'

‘I saw him.'

‘Ziegler,' Lorenz whispered, ‘can you give him something? He's lost a lot of blood. He's in shock. We don't want him agitated like this.'

‘Yes,' said Ziegler. ‘I'll do that.'

As Lorenz moved to walk away Richter's hand shot out and grabbed his commander's sleeve with surprising strength. He gripped it so hard Lorenz couldn't free himself. ‘I saw him,' the injured man insisted. ‘And he pushed me.'

W
HILE REPAIRS WERE BEING UNDERTAKEN
the weather became progressively worse. A belligerent wind flayed the waves and raised curtains of foam. Green mountain ranges with frothy peaks appeared on either side of the boat and storm clouds gathered at every compass point. By the following morning conditions were appalling. Men were vomiting into cans and one of the petty officers was thrown from his bunk. Lorenz went up to the bridge and leaned against the periscope housing. The ocean resembled a winter landscape; wherever he looked the surface had been agitated into uniform whiteness. As the saddle tanks rolled out of the turbulence he was hurled against the bulwark. Lorenz tapped Müller on the shoulder. ‘Enough! Clear the bridge.' He gesticulated at the open hatch and shouted ‘Dive!' into the communications pipe. The watch clambered into the tower, and, after taking a quick look around, Lorenz followed them down.

In the control room Lorenz sloughed off his oilskins and said, ‘Forty meters.' The vents were closed and there was the customary burst of activity prior to the boat's descent. As the manometer pointer revolved, the reeling, yawing, rocking and swaying subsided and a grateful hush spread through the compartments.

Lorenz proceeded to the radio room where he undertook a leisurely perusal of the boat's record collection. Strauss waltzes, Wagner overtures, and the complete Mozart horn concertos; traditional naval marches (rarely played); tangos and foxtrots arranged for a small dance band; hits performed by Zarah Leander, Marika Rökk, and Lale Andersen; French cabaret songs and illicit American jazz—Cole Porter, Glenn Miller, and Benny
Goodman. Although the Party had banned jazz, this prohibition wasn't enforced on U-boats. Indeed, the popularity of jazz among U-boat crews was common knowledge in Berlin and considered, with weary disapproval, as another example of their tiresome eccentricity.

‘Put this on,' said Lorenz, handing Brandt a Benny Goodman record. The public-address system transmitted the thump of the connecting stylus, and the boat filled with lively syncopations. Lorenz retired to his nook, but left the green curtain open. Lying on his bed, he listened to Goodman's agile clarinet, the irregular leaping intervals, the growling low notes, the sweet high notes. It was such paradoxical music, powerful and driving, yet at the same time fleet and fluidly inventive. How bizarre, thought Lorenz, to be traveling under the sea in an artificial air bubble, while listening to jazz! The vibrations would be transferred through the hull and out into the deep, providing a musical accompaniment for passing squid and porpoises. When the music came to an end, he called out: ‘And another.'

Lorenz got up and walked to the officers' mess where he found Graf, sitting alone, finishing a coffee. The chief engineer had exchanged his grey leathers for British standard-issue khakis. He had acquired the uniform from captured stocks abandoned by the British Expeditionary Force prior to their departure from the northern French ports. Such spoils were much sought after.

‘Repairs complete?' Lorenz asked.

‘Almost,' Graf replied.

Lorenz sat down beneath a portrait of Vice Admiral Dönitz. ‘What about the hydroplanes?'

‘They seem to be working very well.'

‘So what happened? Why did we have to switch to manual operation during the attack?'

‘I checked the system.' Graf's sentence was irresolute.

‘And . . .'

‘Thoroughly, you understand.' The chief engineer sipped his coffee. ‘I checked the system thoroughly and I couldn't find a fault.'

‘But there must be an explanation, a cause?'

‘Not all causes are readily identifiable, Kaleun.'

‘Just one of those things, then, eh?' Lorenz repeated Graf's favorite maxim.

‘Yes,' Graf shrugged, his voice flat. ‘Yes, Herr Kaleun.'

A tin of vitamin-fortified chocolates caught Lorenz's attention. He pried the lid off, selected one, and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, his expression became contemplative. ‘There was a problem with the attack periscope.'

‘Was there?' Graf leaned forward, concerned. ‘You didn't say . . .'

‘It suddenly rotated and I hadn't used the pedals.'

‘Do you want me to take a look?'

‘The machinery functioned well enough,' he paused to scratch his beard, ‘in the end . . .'

Benny Goodman's clarinet soared above the chugging brass, and the drummer produced a striking beat that suggested a reversion to the primitive.

‘The boat's been very temperamental lately.' Graf's expression was full of meaning. He began to nod his head slightly, encouraging Lorenz to speculate.

‘Everything was working when we left Brest.'

‘Still . . .' Graf continued to nod.

Rumors of sabotage had been circulating for some time. ‘Nothing has been tampered with,' said Lorenz dismissively. Graf accepted Lorenz's rebuff with Stoic calm. Only the fractional elevation of his right eyebrow betrayed his mild irritation.

They sat in silence for a while, both listening to a bright, blaring trumpet solo. When the full orchestra returned, Lorenz addressed Graf in a low, confidential register. ‘The crew . . .' He hesitated before continuing, ‘Is the crew all right? Do you think?'

‘I had a chat with Sauer. He thinks Richter may have unsettled them,' Graf replied.

Lorenz took another chocolate. ‘Do you remember that old story about Günter Leidland?'

‘What story?'

‘His boat was scheduled to leave Lorient on Friday the thirteenth. As the date approached his men were getting more and more on edge, so he cast off on the twelfth and sailed to the other side of the dock, where he and his crew waited for a whole day before continuing their patrol.' Lorenz studied the second chocolate before putting it in his mouth. When he spoke again it was as though he was thinking aloud. ‘It's possible to convince yourself of certain things . . .'

‘They'll be all right,' said Graf. Then, indicating the chocolates, he added, ‘Have you finished with these, Kaleun?'

‘Yes,' Lorenz replied, standing up. Graf pressed the lid back onto the tin, and Lorenz walked off. He found Richter lying on a bunk in the bow compartment. The injured man was feverish and talking in his sleep. A bandage had been wrapped around his head and only one of his eyes was visible. Lorenz noticed the iris oscillating beneath the papery lid. He tried to make sense of what the mechanic was saying, bending down so that his ear was close to Richter's lips. A single, clear phrase interrupted the stream of poorly articulated syllables. ‘Stay away from me, you devil!'

Lorenz drew back.

‘What did he say?' asked Voigt.

‘Nothing,' Lorenz replied. ‘He's delirious.'

J
UHL HANDED THE DECODED MESSAGE
to Lorenz who accepted it with a curt nod. His expression gave away nothing. As always, after a message had been received, the men watched him closely.
He fancied that he could feel their frustration when, albeit for only a few seconds, he disappeared behind the curtain of his nook. When he emerged his features were still uninterpretable and set hard, like plaster of Paris. He marched resolutely to the petty officers' quarters where he found Hoffmann sitting on a bunk, reading a damp, disintegrating newspaper. Torn strips hung out loosely from the front page. The electrician sensed Lorenz looming over him and stood up. ‘Herr Kaleun?'

‘Well, Hoffmann.' Lorenz steadied himself by reaching out to grip a rail. ‘How are you feeling today?'

‘As good as can be expected, sir.'

‘Yes, filthy weather.' The electrician folded his newspaper. ‘We just got a message from headquarters,' Lorenz added.

Hoffmann looked bemused. He wasn't accustomed to being taken into the commander's confidence. His brow wrinkled as he tried to work out what was expected of him. Feeling obliged to respond, he made a guess: ‘Is it about the batteries, sir?'

‘No,' said Lorenz. ‘However, it
does
concern you.'

‘Me, sir?' Hoffmann looked over Lorenz's shoulder at Juhl, who was as inscrutable as his superior.

‘A personal communication from Admiral Dönitz,' said Lorenz.

Hoffmann's face showed confusion and incredulity. ‘Admiral Dönitz?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Are you sure there hasn't been a mistake, sir?'

‘Quite sure.'

‘Admiral Dönitz?' Hoffmann repeated the name in an uncomfortable, higher register.

‘The Lion himself!' Lorenz produced a sheet of paper and held it up ceremoniously as if he were about to read from a scroll. ‘You are informed, Elektro-Obermaschinist Hoffmann, of the arrival of a submarine,' Lorenz looked over the top of the paper, ‘without periscope.'

‘Without periscope . . .' Hoffmann echoed.

Lorenz handed Hoffmann the paper and pulled a bottle out of his pocket. ‘Congratulations.' Suddenly, men began to crowd into the petty officers' quarters. They extended their arms to shake Hoffman's hand and reached in to slap him on the back. ‘I gather from Juhl here,' Lorenz continued, ‘that you were hoping for a daughter.'

‘Yes, I was.' Hoffmann looked at Juhl. ‘How did you know?'

‘You told me.'

‘Did I?'

‘Maybe not explicitly: on the bridge.'

‘I don't remember that.'

Lorenz filled two glasses and handed one to Hoffmann. ‘To your daughter, may she enjoy a long life of unprecedented health and spectacular happiness.'

‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun,' said Hoffmann. His eyes glittered with emotion.

After touching glasses they downed the rum.

Werner emerged from the galley and made a lewd remark about Hoffman's potency, which provoked laughter and quick exchanges of competitive vulgarity.

‘Have you thought of a name?' Lorenz asked.

‘My wife likes Dorothea,‘ said Hoffmann.

‘And so do I,' said Lorenz. ‘Congratulations.'

The men parted, giving him enough room to leave. On returning to his nook, Lorenz observed, with considerable attendant regret, that his bottle of rum was now almost empty.