Remember Me

by Derek Hansen

  AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’

  Christian Berger knew well the dangers of Hafenstrasse, but the street and its inhabitants no longer intimidated him. On his first visit there his woollen greatcoat and, above all, his boots had marked him out as a fool. Only a fool walked alone down that street at any time of the day; past the boarded-up old homes the squatters had fortified to resist attempts by the police to evict them; past the squatters themselves, the lost souls from a lost war, the dispossessed, the desperate and the mentally and physically broken. It took a special kind of fool to venture there alone at night and the inhabitants jostled each other in their haste to strip the intruder of his possessions. But Christian Berger was not unprepared. He was a man on a mission and his mission had prepared him to expect the worst.

  He stopped in the pool of light from a street lamp, one of the few unbroken, pulled a Luger pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat, ostentatiously cocked it and fired two rounds into the air. The third he aimed squarely at the face of the man closest to him.

  ‘I have come to see Walter Harmann. Take me to him.’

  His attackers stopped dead in their tracks, pulled up as much by the sound of Christian’s voice as the sight of the pistol. It was the voice of authority, of commands that demanded to be obeyed, and left no doubt as to the consequences for those who chose to ignore it. The voice, the boots and greatcoat were the last reminders of Christian’s previous occupation. The Luger was a later—and necessary—acquisition.

  ‘Walter Harmann?’

  Christian Berger took a step closer to his would-be attacker, his pistol rock-steady in his hand. ‘Walter Harmann. I’m told he lives here.’

  ‘He means Vincent,’ said a voice. A man wrapped in a stinking horse blanket stepped forward, eyes over bright, teeth missing, nose twisted, his podgy red face framed within a wild tangle of hair and beard. ‘You mean Vincent.’

  ‘Vincent?’ Christian Berger studied the man but kept his pistol fast on its original target.

  ‘As in van Gogh,’ said the target. ‘I’ll take you to him but it’ll cost you one hundred marks.’

  ‘You’ll take me to him or it’ll cost you your life.’

  The small crowd that had gathered laughed.

  ‘Why do you want to see Vincent?’ horse blanket asked.

  ‘His name is Walter. Why do you insist on calling him Vincent?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  And Christian Berger, to his horror, did see. The breakdown that had threatened his hydrophone operator had finally overwhelmed him. The ears that had brought him the terrifying sound of attacking destroyers and of launched depth charges, the source of his nightly visions of destruction, were no longer attached to his head. In a futile, alcohol-fuelled attempt to curtail his nightmares, he’d hacked them off with scissors.

  Since that first night Christian had tried to help Walter but his old comrade-in-arms was beyond rehabilitation. Christian had dragged him kicking and screaming to a mental hospital where his friend could recover and overcome his addiction, but one morning Walter walked out and returned to the street and to the bottle. There was no reasoning with him because his addled mind no longer accepted reason. Instead, once a week Christian brought him the bare essentials: food, cigarettes and a bottle of schnapps. There was no point bringing anything else because it would only be sold and the proceeds converted into alcohol. The food helped keep him alive, the cigarettes brought him calm and the schnapps kept his demons at bay, at least for a while.

  Now as he walked down Hafenstrasse Christian returned the shouts of the squatters with a dismissive wave. They knew why he was there and the contents of his bag. They also knew his visits would soon be coming to an end. Walter had begun a final descent into oblivion but it was debatable whether his mind or his wasted body would give out first. It never failed to strike Christian as ironic that Walter Harmann was officially classified as a survivor.

  His hydrophone operator failed to recognise him or even acknowledge his presence. The end was closer than Christian had expected. He glanced over at the woman he paid to look after Walter, although ‘look after’ in such appalling conditions was a relative term. She was also an alcoholic, her mind a casualty of the war. She’d defied all odds to be pulled out alive from the ruins of bombed buildings on no fewer than three occasions. The first time had been following the devastating bombing of July 1943 when Hamburg had become the first city in the world to endure a bomb-induced firestorm, an inferno in which over forty thousand had perished. The bomb that destroyed her home killed every member of her family except her brother, who’d already lost his life on the Eastern Front. The second occasion came when a flakdamaged RAF bomber jettisoned its bombs as it turned back towards England. The bombs destroyed her billet, killing her roommates but sparing her and the buildings on either side. On the third occasion she was pulled from the ruins of the hospital where she worked as a nurse’s aide, but not until three days after the bombing. A deranged patient had interfered with her for much of the time she lay trapped and helpless.

  The woman cleaned Walter when he fouled himself, washed him daily and fed him what little food he’d eat. She shrugged in response to Christian’s glance towards her. What was there to say? Walter’s death would be a double tragedy. The money the visitor gave her to look after his friend wasn’t much but it was a lot to lose when there was nothing to replace it.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend.’ Christian squeezed Walter’s hand for what he was certain would be the last time. He stood and approached the woman. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He passed her a small wad of folded notes. ‘Come and get me at the Centre when he dies. I will see he is buried with appropriate dignity.’ Christian would’ve liked to give the woman more money but he couldn’t look after everyone, and others claimed priority. Hafenstrasse was mostly silent as he retraced his steps. Death commands respect even among those whose lives have lost all value.

  He walked back towards the fish market and the partially destroyed building that housed the Centre for U-Boat Personnel. Light rain began to fall, driven and chilled by a breeze streaming south from the Arctic. Alongside him the lifeblood of Hamburg, the River Elbe, flowed grey and sluggish to the North Sea. Hamburg was blessed with mild winters—mild for northern Europe—but cursed with summers that never amounted to much. Christian yearned to feel the sun on his back and the breath of dry, desert winds, anything to drive away the cold that never quite left his bones. September had ushered in autumn and he was already in his greatcoat and grateful for it. He could remember when being cold and wet was a normal state and his body had adjusted to it, when enduring freezing North Atlantic spray and bitter ocean winds had been all in a day’s work. Times had changed but the cold and damp remained.

  Christian turned left up a narrow lane towards the Centre. Light and argument spilled from a seamen’s bar at the end of the lane. Doubtless something important was being discussed, the merits of one footballer over another. Prostitutes and the homeless had already claimed doorways offering shelter from the rain, the latter huddling on the concrete, shapeless beneath low tents of cardboard and newspaper. He stepped over a prostrate body into the hallway leading to the stairs up to the Centre.

  ‘Keep warm,’ he said. The homeless man just grunted. Christian always made a point of being courteous and considerate. The streets were littered with former sailors and soldiers, all of whom he believed deserved better. He opened the Centre door and entered, immediately grateful for the warmth from the kerosene heater, one of the office’s few luxuries. Naked light bulbs hanging from plaster roses revealed drab green filing cabinets leaning against walls damp with mould. Two abutting metal desks filled the centre of the room, the tops of both tidy with files in trays, pads centred and pens alongside them in military orderliness. The room’s only occupant, Helmut Koenig, looked up as Christian entered. He’d been dozing, his head resting on his arms alongside the telephone.

  ‘Busy night,’ said Christian with a smile.


  ‘A quiet night’s a good night,’ said Helmut. ‘And we’re getting more of them. Perhaps it’s a sign our work here is finally drawing to a close.’

  ‘There will always be someone who needs help,’ said Christian.

  ‘But thankfully fewer and fewer.’ Helmut Koenig had been a latecomer to U-boats, taking up his first posting just before the war ended. Though grateful to have survived that most dangerous period he always regretted missing out on the glory days when U-boat packs ruled the Atlantic. He’d been with the Centre since its inception and Christian had to concede it was the younger man’s flair for organisation and sense of discipline that kept the office running.

  ‘How is Walter?’ asked Helmut.

  ‘Walter is dying. There is nothing more we can do for him except organise his funeral.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Christian, really sorry.’

  ‘I think for him death is a kindness.’

  ‘Are you still going to Blankenese?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Christian had intended to catch the train down to Blankenese to visit the widow of his chief engineer, Friedrich von Wiebe, but the plight of Walter Harmann—as inevitable as it was—had left him feeling as though a part of himself was also dying. The carton of food stored beneath his desk and the thin envelope of money inside his greatcoat could wait. Soon his visits to Blankenese would also cease. If Walter Harmann was one of his failures at least he could count Friedrich’s widow as a success. On his repatriation, the widow and her two small children had been the first of many families Christian had called upon. He’d done what he could to help them overcome their loss and, as circumstances had improved, had helped them more tangibly. The Centre had paid to repair the bomb damage to their little cottage and provided parcels of food, small enough compensation for the debt he felt he owed his friend. While he would always be welcome in the household, Christian knew it was time to withdraw. There comes a time when help once eagerly received becomes an embarrassment and Christian felt that time had come. The food in the carton was not the stuff of survival but of celebration—bacon, tinned ham, a tin of real coffee, one of nuts, dried fruit, a bag of precious icing sugar and a single bottle of champagne. It was a wedding present from the Centre and its constituents who’d dug deep into pockets. Juta, Friedrich’s widow, was about to remarry.

  ‘If you prefer I could go to Blankenese for you,’ said Helmut.

  ‘I would appreciate that. Apologise for my absence and reassure Juta that nothing on earth will prevent me being there on Saturday to give my support.’ He handed Helmut the envelope from his pocket. ‘And give her this. Make sure she takes it. Understand?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Helmut had lost count of the number of times he’d tried to stop Christian giving his money away, and lost count of the times the Centre had to step in at the last minute to pay his rent. Christian went without so that others wouldn’t. It was a compulsion in danger of devouring its own future.

  ‘I’m sure…and Helmut?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I told you about Walter because you are entitled to know, but there is no need to inform Juta until after the wedding.’

  ‘I understand.’ Helmut rose and walked over to the coat stand by the door. ‘There is little for you to do here except stay close to the phone in case someone rings. There is some coffee in the cupboard, not good but I’ve had worse. Once again, I’m sorry about Walter.’

  Christian passed him the carton of food.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Helmut paused in the doorway. ‘A letter came for you. It’s in the tray with the rest of the mail. It’s from New Zealand. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Christian turned away from the door and headed for the far corner of the room where an ill-fitting bench with a basin and single cold-water tap passed for a kitchen. He filled the kettle with just enough water for one cup of coffee. Electricity was expensive and the Centre saved money every way it could. The fact he’d received a letter from New Zealand surprised him a little, but no more than that. He’d become accustomed to receiving letters from far-flung corners of the earth. Those who’d been able to leave his ravaged country had done so. Mostly the letters came from South America, Canada and the United States. But wherever they landed, families still needed to know what had happened to sons, brothers, fathers and husbands whose war had ended beneath the waves. They looked to Christian and the Centre for answers. Sometimes he was able to report that men believed dead had actually survived, been captured, interned and temporarily ‘lost’ between the various displaced persons’ agencies, but those occasions were rare and becoming rarer.

  He took a sip of his coffee. Helmut was right. It wasn’t good but better than some they’d had to put up with. On the way to his desk, he rifled through the mail tray. The tray was filled with recent and unclaimed letters. It served as a post box for former U-boat crew who, like Christian, couldn’t guarantee a permanent address elsewhere. There was the usual assortment of letters: some conveyed information about former comrades to add to the files, most were personal but many were bills the intended recipients were anxious to avoid. One letter stood out because of the red and blue airmail markings around the border of the envelope and the stamps bearing the likeness of the young Queen of England. A slow smile crept across his face when he read the words printed beneath Queen Elizabeth’s profile. New Zealand.

  Christian was immediately reminded of his wild-goose chase to that far-off land and the man he’d encountered there. As he sat at his desk sipping his coffee, warm memories flooded his mind. He tried to remember the man’s face, but the moment had been too long ago, too brief and belonging to another time and circumstance. He smiled when he recalled the fish the man had given him in exchange for diesel and the glimpse he’d provided into his life. The man had described an idyll, a sanctuary blessed by nature and untroubled by a far-off war. The fisherman’s name formed on his lips.

  Mack.

  The following morning Christian trudged in his greatcoat through steady rain to the office where he spent ten hours every weekday and four hours every Saturday, the letter from New Zealand tucked snugly in the coat’s inside pocket. He’d read the contents with interest at first and then with gathering concern. On the surface the request it contained seemed straightforward enough, but the more he thought about it the more it troubled him. He decided to seek the advice of his boss, his former lieutenant and comrade, Gustav Richter.

  Christian had come home to nothing. His parents had fled from the bombing. They now lived near Heidelberg, his father happy to spend the rest of his life quietly, teaching and fly-fishing. The bombing that had destroyed their home had also crushed their aspirations. His sister had fallen in love with an American army officer serving with the occupation forces and now lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They exchanged cards at Christmas. Gustav had come home to little more, but, to the enterprising young officer, little had proved enough. He’d become part of the ‘economic miracle’ that was the reconstruction of West Germany. As cynics liked to observe, the miracle touched some sooner than others but Christian had seen enough to understand that appearances often masked a somewhat different reality. Gustav also had his share of burdens.

  Gustav’s home was one of his family’s few assets to survive the bombing reasonably intact. Built on the shore of the manmade lake Aussen Alster, in what the citizens of Hamburg liked to refer to as the ‘Millionaire’s Coast’, the house was the only remnant of a once-thriving trading dynasty. He’d returned from the war to find the family company no more than a shell, a paper entity as precarious and desolate as the bombed-out, derelict warehouses that had once been the company’s heart. He’d taken over the reins from his ailing father and set about restoring the family’s fortunes with nothing but determination, contacts and a history of goodwill. In a destroyed city in need of everything, Gustav saw only opportunity. How could he fail when there was always someone desperate for whatever he could provide?

  Gustav worked hard on rebuilding the company b
ut never lost touch with those who’d stood by his side in the dark days. It was his money that had established the Centre and helped fund it. He couldn’t ignore the fact that not so long ago he and the men with whom he’d served had all been equal in the eyes of God and the enemy.

  His parents had both survived the war but not unharmed. Ill health, lack of medicine and inadequate heating had caused his father to slide inexorably into his grave. He survived just long enough to see the company to which he’d dedicated his life once more raise its standard. His mother had retreated into another age when Germany rode the crest of a wave, when her home was filled with gaiety, guests and servants, when music was the prime topic of conversation and her friends were still alive to enjoy it with her. Gustav was now her sole link with that world.

  She always ambushed him the instant he entered his house, regardless of the hour or the demands of his day. His mother insisted on holding off dinner until he returned. Time was immaterial to her, which was why after dragging himself home in the small hours of the morning Gustav often found himself facing a threecourse meal. Dinner was the only occasion that still meant anything to her. She’d sit at one end of the dining table, he at the other, almost shouting distance away, and regale him with stories of bygone times as though relating the events of the day. Her old, frail body became animated and her face radiated her joyful delusions. How could he deny her this respite? They were the only times his mother was happy.

  Gustav’s first task in reviving his family’s company was to track down former employees who’d had the good fortune to survive the war. Together they’d trained a new generation of management. The former U-boat men who enjoyed positions in the company held them on merit. The times were too tough for sentiment. Among the former U-boat men Gustav employed was his former commanding officer. Despite the reversal in roles, the two men were comfortable with the arrangement.