by Derek Hansen
Christian arrived early and made his way directly to Gustav’s office. He hoped he’d be able to conclude his conversation before normal working hours began. While their friendship had been forged in the most extreme circumstance, Christian was loath to take advantage of it. They were both busy men. Gustav had given him the responsibility for handling imported goods, from the ships that landed them to delivery to the warehouses and subsequent distribution to customers. While it was a job beneath his abilities it still demanded time and commitment. He was aware—as Gustav was—that his job could have led to bigger and better things if the demands of the Centre had not impinged. But there was never any doubt where his priorities lay. Gustav came to regard the older man’s commitment to the Centre as part of his own contribution and gave him all the leeway he needed.
Christian knocked on the timber panelling alongside the open door to Gustav’s office to attract his attention.
‘You must have smelled the coffee brewing,’ said Gustav. ‘Come in. By the way, I’ve finally found a ship for that consignment of coffee beans from Kenya. I confirmed it just this morning. Sometimes I find myself wishing we’d sunk fewer boats. We’ve made quite a rod for our backs.’
Christian smiled as he dragged a seat over to Gustav’s desk and sat down. His former lieutenant had a knack of bringing the camaraderie of the wardroom into his office.
‘Have you come for a reason or just for the coffee? Mind you, the coffee is reason enough.’
‘Both,’ said Christian. ‘I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Take a look at this.’ He handed Gustav the airmail envelope with the letter inside.
Gustav glanced at it and did a double take. ‘New Zealand? The New Zealand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Extraordinary.’
‘It is rather.’
‘No, I mean extraordinary because I’d almost come to believe it didn’t exist. I mean I know it exists. Of course it does, it’s on the maps. But you made it sound like Never-Never Land. Especially that island, Great Barrier Island.’
‘I did?’
‘Oh come on! You must know you did. How many times did you tell us about it as we clung on scared out of our wits while we waited to see if the destroyers were going to take another run at us?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘For God’s sake, Christian, it became a litany. You described a land of milk and honey, a land apart where war was just an ugly rumour. You said that if you survived the war but became a casualty of peace, that was where you’d go. You claimed it as your bolthole.’
‘Perhaps I may have mentioned it once or twice.’
‘You really have no idea, have you? Let me tell you something. We caught a glimpse of the coast of Africa. That reminded you of Great Barrier Island. The Canary Islands, they also reminded you of Great Barrier. The hills around our POW camp in Wales. Great Barrier. Then Ireland…Do I need go on?’
‘I apologise…’
‘No, don’t apologise. There is nothing to apologise for. Your stories calmed us, gave us hope, a dream, something to look forward to, a promise of better times when the war was over. Nobody tired of hearing them, nobody. That long night in the life raft, the men even asked you—no, begged you—to talk to them about your island. And you did. It even soothed poor Walter. But there’s something I don’t understand. How did you manage to get so close to this island of yours and escape detection? You must have got very close to know so much detail.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I saw it only briefly by day, through the periscope and at some distance. By night it was just a dark shadow.’
‘So how…’
‘Please, in my ramblings I must have told you about the fisherman.’
‘Yes, you exchanged fish for diesel. Mostly you talked about the fish.’
‘Ah, fresh food, the submariner’s obsession. The fish were only part of the price the fisherman paid for his diesel. I asked him to tell me about his home, which brings me back to the letter. Please read it, Gustav.’
Gustav scanned the letter quickly, his familiarity with the English language one of few positives to come from his internment. His secretary brought in their coffees as he read.
‘My God,’ he said.
‘You see, Gustav, the island is real and so is the fisherman. And now the fisherman needs my help.’
‘What’s stopping you giving it? Put the man out of his misery. Your U-boat wouldn’t have been equipped to carry mines.’
‘It wasn’t. We neither carried mines nor had the means to deploy them.’
‘So write back to this Captain Biggs. Tell him the mines could only have come from one of the raiders.’
‘I could.’
‘Like I said, what’s stopping you?’
‘Would a letter be enough? This man has carried his guilt for sixteen years and needs unequivocally to know the truth. Why should he believe a letter?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘Given the nature of this request, ask yourself this: if my U-boat had carried mines and I had deployed them, would my response be any different?’
Gustav’s coffee paused halfway en route to his mouth.
‘In such circumstances,’ continued Christian, ‘wouldn’t I be expected to lie? Wouldn’t you lie?’
Gustav took a thoughtful sip of his coffee before replacing the cup in its saucer. ‘Yes, Kapitan. Now that you put it that way, I can see the problem. Yes, I would lie. And, yes, you would be expected to lie. There could be no denying the possibility that your reply would be a lie. Unless…’
‘Yes?’
‘Unless you provide full details of the type and model of submarine and show conclusively that your U-boat was incapable of carrying mines.’
‘Gustav, they have no way of checking. It would only raise the suspicion that I am anxious to cover my tracks. There is an English expression about protesting too much. I fear too much explanation would fall into that category. It is a case of the greater the detail, the greater the suspicion.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Gustav handed the letter back to Christian.
‘I don’t know. Not yet. I was hoping you’d have an idea.’
‘I’ll give it some thought. It is not as though you must respond immediately.’
‘No, but I can’t let it slide either.’
‘I’ll see what I can come up with and we’ll talk again. How are things at the Centre?’
‘Winding down. Walter is dying. There is nothing more I can do except organise the funeral.’
‘Do what you can and send me the bill.’
‘Thank you.’ Christian had been counting on his friend’s generosity and loyalty. ‘Are you still coming to Juta’s wedding?’
‘Of course.’ Gustav stood to indicate the meeting was over. ‘One more thing—your greatcoat.’
‘Yes?’
‘Its time has also come, Christian. Perhaps it would be appropriate if Walter was buried in it, no? Here, exchange it for my coat. I have several.’
‘I can’t take your coat.’
‘Oh, yes you can, because if you don’t you won’t have a coat. You keep giving your money away so how are you ever going to buy another? Please, I insist. If not for me, do it for Walter.’
Christian reluctantly agreed. His coat had links with the past but even he could see that the time had come to move on. He’d lost his own coat when he’d lost his submarine. Juta had given him one of Friedrich’s.
‘Is there anything I can do for the woman who looked after Walter?’
‘Yes,’ said Christian with a vehemence that surprised them both. ‘Make Germany strong again so it can compensate people for shattered lives and broken promises. Make Germany rich, Gustav. Only money can buy a worthwhile future.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Fast-moving contact at 185 degrees!’ The shrill pitch of the hydrophone operator’s warning cut through the U-boat. Terror given vo
ice.
‘On target!’
‘Fire number three.’ Accuracy had ceased being an issue. Captain Berger lowered the periscope and established that the torpedo was clear and running. Twenty-five thousand Deutschmarks heading nowhere. ‘Full ahead. Bow planes down twenty, stern up ten. Crew to diving positions!’
Walter Harmann, the hydrophone operator, had served with the captain through two commands but this latest patrol had taken its toll on his nerves. Every attack brought a counterattack by destroyers. Every night brought risk of detection by anti-submarine aircraft while they surfaced to re-charge their batteries. The hunters had become the hunted. Nowhere was safe any more.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’
Christian hung up his new coat and scavenged some discarded brown paper from the warehouse to wrap his old one. He felt unsettled and distracted. There were many possible causes and his mind played with each in turn while avoiding the one that most mattered. Now that he’d shed Friedrich’s coat for the last time he became embarrassingly aware of its shortcomings. The cuffs and hem were fraying. In places it was threadbare; in others it was stained. Worst of all, it smelled. The fact that he’d let things deteriorate so far shamed him. In his compulsion to give he’d sacrificed his dignity. He thought briefly about getting the coat cleaned before the funeral but still found it hard to justify the cost. What mattered was what the coat represented, not its condition. He had better uses for the money.
His rent was overdue and once more he had no means of paying it. What cash he had he’d given to the woman who’d cared for Walter, and to Juta as a wedding gift and final discharge of the debt he owed the Chief. He was loath to ask Gustav for an advance on his wages because he’d already drawn too often from that well; besides, his friend had been generous enough for one day. He was equally reluctant to take money from the Centre’s dwindling reserves even though Helmut would insist he did. How many times had they debated that point, arguing in circles until he’d finally given in and accepted the money? For one who dispensed charity so readily, Christian was curiously unwilling to receive.
Instead of facing up to the main issue he immersed himself in his work. There were shipments to see through Customs, transport to arrange and customers to notify, procedural problems demanding time, persistence and patience. He skipped lunch, which he couldn’t afford anyway, and kept working until evening when the rumbling in his stomach insisted he find something to eat. He stuffed Friedrich’s greatcoat into his leather bag, suddenly aware of how scuffed and marked it had also become, and set off for the small family restaurant halfway between his office and the Centre. The restaurant was run by an elderly couple who’d lost both sons in the war. It was tiny, with just eight small tables but did good business. The old couple served the kind of home cooking Christian liked and it was rare for any table to remain unoccupied for long. When he arrived at the restaurant he found the door boarded up and a sign announcing the site was scheduled for demolition. Christian knew it had been coming, yet it still caught him unprepared. The whole block was being redeveloped, as was the whole city centre. The piles of rubble and bombed-out buildings were disappearing as Hamburg once again renewed itself. It had been happening all around him yet he’d chosen not to notice. Times were changing, moving on, and he was finally forced to confront the thought that he’d been trying to avoid all day.
At thirty-nine years of age, he’d reached the crossroads of his life. It was time to face reality. Time to realise that the obligations he felt as a commander to the men who’d served under him and the others like them had run their course. Walter was dying, Juta remarrying and the phone at the Centre bore silent witness to the changes taking place. Germany’s accelerating economic miracle had generated jobs even for former U-boat men. The Centre’s efforts were now directed towards the hopeless cases like Walter but government sponsored services had even begun assuming that responsibility. It was time for him to shed the past, discard it, bury it like he was about to bury Friedrich’s greatcoat, to move on, to change and to embrace the future—whatever it may be.
Christian walked on until he came to a waterfront bar he knew. He entered, somewhat self-conscious in his new coat, but there were few people to notice. It was too early in the evening. He sat at a table near the open fire and ordered the meal that had made the bar popular with dockworkers and seamen—thickly sliced pork with potatoes and sauerkraut, awash in a puddle of fatty gravy. It was the fat the men came for; fat for energy, fat to ward off the cold. Christian ordered a beer to drink while he waited for his meal.
His naval training had taught him how to analyse problems and make decisions, skills further developed and honed when there was nothing less than his life and the lives of his men at stake. His choices were easily identified. Either he became master of the known or stepped into the unknown. Gustav’s business was thriving and there were opportunities that were his for the taking. This was the logical course, to finally commit to the corporate life, become a businessman, settle down and maybe even marry. A comfortable life stretched ahead of him, one many of his contemporaries could only envy. But Christian’s reluctance was as tangible as the beer stein in his hand. He didn’t know why it failed to appeal, only that it did. The alternative was to start afresh doing something completely different, though exactly what he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
He’d had to start from scratch on repatriation and knew exactly how difficult that could be, especially for former U-boat crew. Those who tried to continue careers at sea on merchant ships soon discovered they were unwanted. Officers and crew were made up of many nationalities, almost all of whom had bitter memories of sinkings and no love at all for the men who’d caused them. Even ashore there was resentment. Hyped by Hitler, Himmler and High Command, the German people had been encouraged to believe U-boats ruled the oceans. Their destruction was seen as failure to protect the Fatherland and surviving crews bore disproportionate blame for Germany’s defeat. The only opportunities that had opened up for him were from former U-boat men. One wanted to involve him in his salvage business. Christian had been interested until he discovered that most of the salvage work took place under water. The prospect renewed his nightmares, filling his dreams with recurring visions of flooding companionways, of being swept helplessly and inexorably to the point where bursting lungs inhaled sea water and the final surrender took place. He’d lost count of the number of times in his sleep the Chief had barrelled helplessly past him, desperate, imploring but always just beyond reach. Christian had decided then and there that he wanted nothing more to do with the sea. In the end he’d taken what work was available just to survive. He’d joined the gangs of men clearing away rubble, salvaging what materials they could, working all day in exchange for a meal. Gustav had rescued him then but now the problem had reversed. What could rescue him from Gustav?
To his surprise Christian discovered he’d not only finished his beer but also his meal. He hadn’t even been aware that it had been served and regretted he hadn’t taken the time to savour it. When he reached into his pocket to pay the bill, his hand touched the envelope from New Zealand. His mind flicked instantly to that green and distant land. Was the arrival of the letter at this decisive point in his life just a coincidence or something more? He shrugged, took out his wallet and counted money out onto the table. What did it matter? New Zealand was so far away it might just as well be on Mars.
The letter from New Zealand remained in his pocket through Juta’s wedding and Walter’s funeral the following Tuesday. It was there every time he reached for his wallet. It rustled when he put his coat on and rustled again when he took it off. He thought of his sister who’d made a new life for herself in Albuquerque and all the crewmen and their families who’d sailed away to new lives in the new world. Despite everything he couldn’t help speculating on his prospects in New Zealand, if that country were to become home to his new start.
He knew nobody there other than Mack and, in truth, knew little more about t
he man he’d met so fleetingly than the letter told him. And how much did he know of New Zealand? Virtually nothing. He had no idea whether his impressions of Great Barrier Island were an accurate reflection of the rest of the country or even if they were real and not fantasy, a product of his imagination, born of need and wishful thinking. His speculations were pleasant but he always ended up regretting them. Those who’d left for distant lands had had the means to do so. He hadn’t. He had nothing. New Zealand was as unreachable as a dream. His speculations left him dissatisfied and wanting, like a thirsty man offered a fine wine only to find the cork still stuck tight in the neck of the bottle.
One evening as he sat alone at the Centre by the silent phone he took the letter from New Zealand out of his pocket and finally began drafting a reply. It was as brief as he could make it, sticking to the facts and stating with blunt certainty that his U-boat carried no mines and was in no way responsible for the sinking of the Niagara. Yes, he wrote the letter for Mack, to provide him with the assurances he needed to finally shed his feelings of guilt, but he also wrote it for himself as a catharsis. Once done, he could purge New Zealand and all thoughts of New Zealand from his mind, and sever whatever ties—however tenuous—linked him with that country. It was time to accept his future lay in Hamburg, in accepting the inevitable, and not in some farflung land. The moment he’d copied Captain Biggs’s address onto the envelope he threw the letter from New Zealand into his waste bin. It was an action that should have been liberating but instead brought only the most intense feelings of unhappiness.
As though privy to the workings of Christian’s mind, Gustav summoned him to his office the following day. After exchanging the usual pleasantries he got straight to the point.
‘An opportunity has arisen, Christian, and I want you to take it. I know we’ve been down this road before but then the Centre was always an issue. It isn’t any more or, at least, won’t be in a few months’ time. Before I offer it to you I need to know it’s what you want. It will require commitment and dedication. It will determine your future. So tell me, are you ready to commit?’