The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘I’m sorry, Karl, it’s true.’

  A flash of pain travelled across Karl’s face, then he poured himself another drink.

  ‘Every week there is one less of us. Soon Europe will be devoid of its idealists, soon there will be nothing but mercantilism and Coca-Cola. Viva el capitalismo,’ he added, cynically.

  ‘I believe he was killed by the man I’m pursuing. But they’re trying to frame me for his murder.’

  ‘I know, I have a radio. Congratulations, Gus, you must have done something to really rock the boat.’ Karl downed the Schnaps as August stepped closer.

  ‘This man, he’s possibly a double agent, maybe even triple.’

  Karl looked at August; a searching gaze. Finally, he spoke. ‘I’ve seen Jimmy once or twice since the end of the war. I know a little about his nemesis, August. This is not a man to be played with.’

  ‘We know what we’re doing.’

  Karl sighed then looked at Izarra. ‘You know, by the time we were forced to surrender, Gus and I had begun to think of ourselves as the invincible ones, magical men marked by some invisible sign of fortune. As our comrades fell we always escaped unscathed, no matter how terrible the odds, how ill-equipped we were. We thought we were gods, that no man would pull us down.’

  ‘I’m far more of a realist these days,’ August retorted.

  ‘That I don’t believe. You always thrived on hope and imagination.’

  ‘You too, Karl.’

  ‘And women, my friend, don’t forget the women.’

  ‘But in the end it wasn’t those things that kept you going, Karl. After all you survived Franco, Camp de Gurs, Hitler’s labour camps.’

  Izarra looked up. ‘You were in Camp de Gurs?’

  ‘The French bastards put us on beaches – whole families, women and children, starving and desperate for fresh water, forced to dig holes in the sand for shelter. I finally escaped, then worked underground in Germany for a while until my arrest in 1941. The Nazis put me in with several of my Communist comrades in Neuengamme, then in the last week of April 1945 they started shooting us one by one. So many of the resistance were executed that month because the bastards knew surrender was just around the corner. They issued orders to execute all Communist Party members and anyone they thought would prove useful and sympathetic to the incoming Allied forces. They executed seventy-one men and women in the Neuengamme camp, on the 21st and 23rd of April alone. So many great people died that week. I was lucky the morning of the day I was due to be shot, the news of the fall of Berlin came through. I stood in the concrete yard waiting for my death but no guards came. They’d all fled. But I tell you, Gus, by then I was ready to die, I had no hope left.’

  ‘And now?’ Izarra couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Now Stalin is kaput, the Allies carve up East Germany and Berlin like they were a Sachertorte and the same lawyers and judges that served the Nazis are now passing so-called judgement on them. It is hard to stay an idealist in such circumstances. So instead I have become a hermit.’

  ‘You’ve given up politics altogether?’ August ventured.

  Karl smiled. ‘Not entirely.’ He indicated the certificate on the wall proudly. ‘I am the district’s representative for the Steinwerder. It is a great honour.’ He checked his watch. ‘But come, we have to hurry. We need to get to my bolthole before Tommy starts his night patrol. Is the car safe?’

  ‘For now – we changed the plates.’

  ‘We’ll dump it tomorrow. It’s not as safe as you might think here. Interpol and MI6 regularly come through on the obligatory search for ex-Nazi officials and war criminals, although I have noticed every time I try and give them some real leads they’re not interested. They prefer to root around the old working-class districts – what’s left of them – Altona, St Pauli, always avoiding the obvious routes out and the hideaways. The number of Nazis who pretended to be refugees and left the country courtesy of the Red Cross was sickening. It seems Interpol like making their own mistakes, but I don’t underestimate them. Why do you think your man might be in Hamburg?’

  ‘Because I’m here now.’

  Karl looked over at Izarra, who shrugged innocently, then the German burst into laughter, throwing an arm around August’s shoulder.

  ‘As I thought, you haven’t changed a bit, my friend. You still hanker for that rush as the bullets whistle past your ear. You have become one of those sad men who only feel life when they are confronted with death. It’s psychosis.’

  ‘Karl, I want this guy – he’s a murderer, a traitor and a war criminal. I will have him no matter what.’

  ‘Then why not just go out and find him? Why play this dangerous game of hide and seek? Better to be a simple predator. You and I know that from Spain.’

  ‘This war isn’t that simple, and there’s something else at stake.’

  ‘There always is.’ Karl turned back to Izarra. ‘Are you sure you want to stick with this loser? He’ll get you killed for sure, whereas Uncle Karl is dependable, better looking and, by all accounts, a better lover,’ he flirted, grinning.

  ‘But you’re married,’ Izarra deadpanned back.

  ‘So?’

  The three of them walked back through the warehouse. The showrooms and storerooms were now empty, the crate they’d seen earlier dangling from the crane now sitting neatly in the centre of the wooden floor. At the front door Karl pulled out a set of keys.

  ‘I hope you don’t suffer from claustrophobia or seasickness,’ he told them.

  ‘Why?’ Izarra asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he replied, with an enigmatic smile.

  The small Fiat was buffeted by the wind coming off the Alster as they drove following Karl’s motorcycle, his dark-blue helmet catching the streetlights like a flare. The squat brown-grey body of his BMW R75 hugged the road as he sped ahead, the empty sidecar bouncing over the broken tarmac. The two vehicles wound their way back over the cobbled lanes of the Speicherstadt, then into the wider streets of the city itself, some still pitted with potholes.

  They drove north, past the massive sheds of the fish market and the old customs office. Untouched by the war it stood like a sentry from a bygone era. As August glanced to his right, south of the river, he could see the bombing patterns of the Allied planes more clearly – it had intensified the closer they got to the commercial shipping yards and lanes, where the Nazis built their navy.

  Ten minutes later they arrived at the entrance of the Alter Elbtunnel, then plunged into the chilly artificial light of the old tunnel that took them under the river south towards the shipyard district on the opposite bank. August drove, his shoulders hunched over the wheel, acutely aware of how vulnerable the car was – if they were being followed, the tunnel would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush. Izarra must have been feeling the same because she glanced behind them, just as an army delivery truck passed in the opposite lane, the impassive blank face of the driver illuminated momentarily by their headlights, making her jump slightly. Apart from that one truck, the tunnel was eerily empty save for their car and Karl’s motorcycle, the roar of which bounced off the curved walls, which only made August feel more conspicuous.

  ‘You trust this man? He could be taking us anywhere.’ Izarra looked around anxiously.

  ‘Completely. Don’t worry, the tunnel will take us out to the south of the Elbe, to the shipping yard district. It will be deserted around there at night, and Karl knows it like the back of his hand.’

  ‘So we spend the night in his hideaway, then what?’

  ‘We look for the third maze tomorrow. Somehow I suspect the fate of the monk Baptise is linked to the reason why Tyson wants the chronicle so much.’

  ‘You really think he’s going to come after you?’

  ‘That’s what I’m calculating on.’

  ‘So am I. Don’t let me down,’ she finished, soberly, as August accelerated the car out of the tunnel up into the dockland itself.

  They drove alongside the water: a geography of bro
ad shipping canals, flanked by cranes, a couple of US and British naval ships and a minesweeper. With a burst of exhaust that hung in the mist like a black feathery plume, the BMW accelerated in front of them and together they sped past warehouses and offices, many newly constructed, interspersed with the bombed-out shells of older buildings. Karl still drove on and the shipping works began to give way to more and more destroyed buildings, turning into an industrial wasteland as the canals narrowed and split. Finally, he pulled up beside a derelict jetty, a concrete structure that arched over a canal. One end of it had broken away, the rusting steel girders poking out like ancient bones. August parked the car beside the motorcycle. There was not a building or house in sight.

  ‘Well, it’s remote enough,’ he remarked.

  ‘Remote enough to be disappeared and never heard of again,’ Izarra retorted; August noticed she’d slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, no doubt to wrap her fingers around her revolver. He placed a hand on her wrist.

  ‘I told you he’s trustworthy.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I should trust him.’

  ‘If you trust me, you trust him,’ August insisted, a slow anger beginning to burn within him. He wasn’t going to let her sabotage anything through paranoia. ‘This isn’t Spain, Izarra. Karl has nothing to gain from helping us and everything to lose, including potentially his life.’

  Angrily, she pulled her hand away. ‘Just remember, we’re here to get Tyson, that’s the most important thing. The chronicle can wait.’

  ‘I promise you, I solve the final maze – you get Tyson.’ Fighting his own temper, August climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and Izarra followed.

  They joined Karl who was waiting helmet in hand by the entrance of the semi-derelict concrete construction built over the canal. Intrigued, August stared up at the building, trying to work out whether it was a shed or some kind of shelter. Karl, reading his confusion, chuckled. ‘I found this little treasure at the end of the war. Seemed like the Nazis had captured a small Soviet reconnaissance submarine in the harbour, moored it here, then forgot about it.’

  He walked them into the shell-like structure and the sound of water lapping bounced off the thick concrete walls. It was like being in a tunnel with the distant glow of a city at the far end. Without warning, the bunker was flooded with light as Karl switched on the power, revealing the U-boat, its grey-black metallic body sinister in presence.

  ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’

  ‘Is this your hideout?’ Izarra stared across the submarine, amazed. Karl stepped up on the wooden walkway leading to the deck of the U-boat.

  ‘The Nazis built concrete bunkers over all their submarines in a futile attempt to prevent the Allied bombers from getting to them. The U-boat was originally moored in a larger canal further in the Steinwerder, but I had a couple of shipyard mates tow it out here. The bunker conceals it from the outside and the whole place looks so derelict no one ever comes here.’

  ‘Genius.’ August whistled.

  Karl helped Izarra step onto the wooden ramp that led onto the body of the submarine.

  ‘I’ve always liked to think of it as a personal gift from Stalin himself, for services rendered to the Party, but of course now, with his recent passing, I get to keep it,’ Karl joked, then mounted the tower and swung open the heavy metal hatch to the submarine. ‘In service it would only accommodate a crew of about five, but that’s big enough for me. C’mon, I give you the grand tour. Ladies first.’

  Izarra began climbing the short metal rungs welded into the tower. The two men watched her ascend.

  ‘Nice legs,’ Karl observed, in an appreciative undertone as she disappeared down into the entrance. August followed and Karl paused to glance back along the bunker and out to the panorama of lights illuminating the cranes and vast hulls of the stationary ships. Out on the water there was the sudden cry of a gull. It was a desolate horizon of some industrial underworld, hauntingly eerie. Satisfied the surrounds were empty of any unwanted onlookers, Karl followed the others, slamming shut the hatch behind him.

  The three of them stood in the cramped command bridge of the sub, the two men with their heads bent to avoid bashing them on the myriad of pipes, dial controls and machinery that ran like arteries up and down the corners and walls of the tiny space, which was dominated by the thick metal column of the periscope in the middle of the circular cabin. The air was pungent with the smell of diesel fuel. Karl, catching Izarra’s grimace, smiled.

  ‘The air is always foul in a U-boat. The longest dive time they could survive without surfacing was three and a half days, poor bastards – stinking hot, horrible air, no space. Still you and I,’ he slapped August on the back, ‘would never have qualified – too tall.’

  ‘What happened to the crew?’

  ‘Caught and executed in 1943, I believe, but don’t worry, the place is not haunted. At least I hope not.’ He pushed open the heavy circular door of the next compartment, stepping over the protruding metal frame and into the section. The others followed tentatively. A pin-up poster of Jane Russell in a bikini hung over a control panel, while facing the buxom starlet on the opposite wall was a small flag of the hammer and sickle.

  ‘Eclectic decor, Karl,’ August observed, dryly.

  ‘You can’t imagine how great it feels to be able to hang what you like where you like,’ Karl replied.

  ‘I can,’ Izarra said. ‘In my country, everything is censored – the papers, the radio, you can’t even speak your own language without the risk of being arrested.’

  Karl looked at her sympathetically. ‘My consolations, comrade. We never intended to leave Franco still in power. But I sense his days are numbered.’

  ‘I am not your comrade – I am a Basque, not a Communist,’ she snapped back.

  ‘In Spain we were fighting for our countries, you for independence, me for free Germany,’ he countered. ‘We both got tyrants.’ For the first time Izarra smiled at Karl, and August relaxed a little, relieved that she appeared to trust the German a little more.

  ‘But here everything has changed. I even saw Louis Armstrong play the Max Ernst theatre recently, the crowd went crazy,’ Karl continued, moving forward in the sub. ‘Ten fucking years of Hitler telling us jazz was deviant, primitive music. Germans have a lot to catch up on.’

  Izarra and August followed him, picking their way carefully around and over the machine parts and cables that stuck out from every corner and panel.

  It was hard to imagine a more unpleasant work environment, August thought, as he squeezed his tall frame around the sharp metal corners, fighting a growing sense of claustrophobia. Karl paused and they came to a standstill in single file along the passage. ‘There’s not much room, but I adapted it so that it was at least comfortable for two – three at a pinch,’ he said, as if reading August’s mind.

  The next compartment was filled with rows of batteries, more complex machinery and a tiny scullery off the main passage that ran down the centre of the submarine. Karl led them into the scullery. Behind a small glass window was an icebox, a vinyl-covered bench and a wooden table that looked as if it folded back into the wall. A small metal sink and camping stove sat beside it. Two wine glasses and a portable record player sat in the corner. A Communist paper lay thrown across the table, a half-smoked pipe atop it.

  ‘Very cosy, Karl.’ August smiled at the German, who shrugged.

  ‘I told you I use the place to entertain sometimes. There’s some coffee, a little liverwürst in the icebox, but little else.’ He turned to Izarra. ‘I’m afraid you will have to go out for supplies.’ He turned back to August. ‘They don’t know she’s travelling with you yet, right?’

  ‘As far as we know.’

  ‘Good, we will use this to our advantage. Meanwhile, I can speak to a few friends inside the British compound. I should be able to get some information for you before the night is over. Let me show you the sleeping quarters. The captain’s cabin is down near the torpedo room.’

>   It was a space that was less than seven feet by four. A curtain separated the bed, more like a sleeping shelf set into the wall, from the rest of the tiny space that had room for one fold-out wooden chair, a writing area and a radio in the corner. Over the writing space, beneath the small metal lamp protruding from the wall, was an old black-and-white photograph, a group shot of smiling young men in uniform clustered around a trench of rocks, two of them playing chess in the middle, one strumming a guitar, a couple of the others resting with rifles slung across their backs. Behind them the tell-tale eucalyptus trees – naked trunk and sparse branches – and dusty ground under their feet. August recognised it immediately.

  ‘The Thälmann Battalion, was it Las Rozas?’

  ‘Ja, that photograph was taken just outside, around the 6th of January 1937, just before we went into battle.’ Karl pointed to one young face. ‘He died the day after this photo; him too; Franz a week later from injuries; three others also. The rest in internment camps – out of the eight in this photograph only two are still alive. I am one of them. Throughout all the hell of those years I managed to save this picture. It’s the only thing I have left, except for the memories. They are a legacy for these men.’

  Izarra looked closer. ‘So young.’

  ‘There is something else, Karl.’ August reached into his rucksack and pulled out his gun, now wrapped neatly in the oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it out to Karl.

  ‘Recognise this?’

  Karl’s face lit up. ‘My Mauser! You kept it after all these years?’ he exclaimed, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. He caressed the gun, weighing it in his palm. ‘A C96, such a sexy gun. A real beauty and she still looks good.’

  ‘Do you remember the night you gave it to me?’ August asked him.

  Karl sat on the edge of the bed, August at the desk, Izarra stayed standing, framed in the doorway. ‘It was in Madrid, in that brothel – what was it called again?’

  Karl smiled. ‘El Toro Bravo. If I remember, the madam was quite bipartisan —’