Remember Me

by Derek Hansen

  Christian smiled. He’d freely admitted he was German but was cautiously relieved when further questioning was halted by the arrival of the first course—tomato soup, which he was certain was tinned and had been diluted. Their common dismay increased with the main course: thin slices of grey roast beef; watery mashed potato and tinned peas, which had been boiled into the consistency of mush. Nobody wanted to be the first to be negative and it took the eight-year-old boy to say what everybody was thinking.

  ‘Papa, do we have to eat this?’ His English was uncertain but nobody had any difficulty understanding the sentiment.

  ‘Yes,’ replied his father. ‘I don’t know what they’ve done to it but we better get used to it.’ He smothered his meal in pepper and salt in the hope of making it palatable. As he passed the salt and pepper to Christian he noticed Jichak was already almost halfway through his meal, eating mechanically without reservation. ‘Well, it seems one of us has no complaints.’

  ‘I eat worse,’ said Jichak.

  Christian had no reason to doubt him.

  Dessert was apple pie and custard, unexciting but acceptable. It was the only dish the two Dutch children finished.

  ‘If you want tea or coffee, it’s over there,’ said their steward as he cleared away the dishes. ‘You have to get it yourself.’ He pointed to a table against the end wall.

  Christian approached the table with trepidation. There were two enormous metal urns. The label on one said ‘Hot Water’, the label on the other said ‘Coffee’. Alongside them were stacks of trays, rows of aluminium teapots, sugar casters and milk jugs, and a phalanx of white cups and saucers so thick they appeared bulletproof. The name of the ship was stencilled on one side. If the ship was torpedoed he had no doubt the cups would survive intact. Christian tentatively depressed the lever on the coffee urn and groaned inwardly as a dark liquid spluttered into his cup. His nose told him instantly what the liquid was. He poured a second cup for Jichak and carried them back to his table. The Dutch couple with the children had already left.

  ‘Is good?’ asked Witek, the Polish man.

  ‘Coffee and chicory essence,’ said Christian. ‘Its only virtue is that it’s hot.’

  ‘My stomach has suffered enough for one night,’ said Witek. ‘Please, excuse us.’

  The remaining Dutch couple also left, leaving Christian and Jichak alone. Across the dining room passengers at other tables celebrated leaving port, their laughter and voices emboldened by alcohol.

  Jichak tasted his coffee. ‘Maybe we ask, they bring real coffee.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Christian. They’d been almost painfully polite to their steward but made no impression on the man. Christian recognised his type—a career steward, probably alcoholic, probably homosexual and demonstrably xenophobic. Christian guessed he’d be in his mid-fifties.

  ‘In Auschwitz one day we try make our own coffee,’ said Jichak. ‘Cook grains of wheat and barley, grind with stones.’

  ‘Good?’ asked Christian.

  ‘Terrible,’ said Jichak. ‘What you think? Of course is terrible. But, better than nothing.’

  That night the pitch and roll of the liner brought back memories of the years Christian had spent in U-boats, although the movement of the big ship was slower and more predictable. The dreams he’d had then came back to him as familiar as yesterday. Images of the green island he’d glimpsed so many years ago surfaced. He slipped into sleep with a smile on his lips as he recalled Gustav’s words. It was true. All through the war he’d unconsciously made the island his haven, a place to go where his mind could escape and find comfort. He awoke only briefly as his remaining two cabinmates staggered in. They were trying to be quiet but failing miserably. Christian stayed awake just long enough to note that they were young, from the north of England and very drunk.

  The following morning Christian rose early, dressed, pulled on his overcoat and left the two Englishmen snoring on their bunks. The cold that greeted him as he stepped out on deck reminded him of early morning watches when spray formed into ice on his beard. He pulled up his collar and let the wind push him towards the stern, determined to do as many laps as possible before breakfast.

  ‘Good morning.’

  Christian recognised the accent immediately. Jichak was standing on the aft deck sheltered from the wind.

  ‘I come to see the last of Europe. Years I have waited to see this, the last of Europe.’

  Christian glanced astern but saw only empty sea. ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. So what does it matter? Nothing. Is enough we leave behind. OK I walk with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The wind hit them, bitterly cold and damp, as they turned portside towards the bow. Neither man uttered a word as they braced themselves, eyes narrowed, lips tight. Christian was suddenly aware of the thickness of his coat compared to his companion’s. They walked as far as they could before opening a door and stepping into a corridor linking one side of the ship with the other. The sudden increase in temperature made their faces burn.

  ‘I have the Red Cross undershirt,’ said Jichak, as though guessing Christian’s thoughts. ‘The Red Cross shirt, Red Cross trousers, Red Cross coat and hat. The Red Cross gloves I give away. Who needs? I go to the sun.’ They stepped back out onto the starboard deck. ‘You see? Not so cold already.’

  After three laps of the deck they decided to call a halt, drop their overcoats back in their cabin and make their way to the dining room for breakfast. They were first to the table. Breakfast was only marginally better than dinner. Half a grapefruit was followed by a choice of porridge or shredded wheat, followed by one or two eggs, boiled or poached, with toast, butter and jam. To Christian, the shredded wheat tasted like straw, even with milk and sugar. His eggs were like bullets. But Jichak ate without complaint, scraping his porridge bowl clean and the shells of his eggs, so Christian kept his dismay to himself. They were finishing their toast when the Dutch families arrived at the table.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Christian. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Finally,’ said Theo van Stomm. ‘It was very noisy. First night at sea, I suppose it is only natural some people want to celebrate. They kept us awake laughing and banging doors.’

  ‘Jichak and I share a cabin with two young Englishmen. They came in very late and very drunk.’

  ‘They woke you?’

  ‘Me? Yes, but not for long. Did they wake you, Jichak?’

  ‘No, I sleep. Two years Auschwitz, six years refugee camps. Two boys get drunk, make noise, so what? I sleep. I sleep anywhere.’

  Christian smiled, enjoying the camaraderie. ‘I know exactly what you mean. After five years crowded in a U-boat with fifty other men I, too, can sleep anywhere.’ He looked expectantly around the table but suddenly no one was smiling back. They just stared at him, especially their steward who’d come to take the latecomers’ order. He was the one who broke the silence.

  ‘Your bloody U-boats sank the Rotorua.’ His accusation hung in the air like an obscenity. ‘You killed my best mate.’

  There were never any secrets on U-boats and, although the Rangitiki was more than ten times the size and carried more than ten times the personnel, Christian soon discovered there were no secrets aboard the liner either. And no place to hide. People stared at him when he went to the ship’s library to find a book, stared at him when he sat down in the lounge to read it, looked up from their card games when he walked past and pointed to him when he went out on deck to escape. Christian cursed himself for his error of judgement. Just because he’d made the effort to put the war behind him didn’t mean everyone else had. Even so the reaction had surprised him. In Germany the prejudice against former U-boat personnel had given way to tolerance and even respect. In his business dealings it had been the same. Some of the former U-boat men he’d helped had managed to return to a life at sea. It was something he and Gustav had discussed at length. But clearly not everyone followed that pattern. As painful as it was, he had to accep
t he had not yet finished paying for the years when U-boats terrorised the oceans.

  With lunchtime looming he decided to return to his cabin to freshen up. He discovered his suitcase in the corridor outside, his overcoat, suit and the contents of his drawer scattered on top of it. He opened the cabin door expecting to confront the two young Englishmen but the cabin was empty. He gathered his things together and packed them all in his suitcase, and pushed it back under Jichak’s bunk. There was no point in putting anything back into the drawer or on hangers. His crews in the U-boats had never lacked imagination in dealing with shipmates who’d done the wrong thing. Christian knew at the very least he could expect to have his toothpaste tube emptied over the contents of his drawer, or tea poured over them or even urine. He had to change cabins. He had no alternative. At least his suitcase was packed ready for the move.

  He sat down at his place at the lunch table, not to silence as he’d expected but to forced civility. When soup was served the steward slammed his bowl down on the table in front of him. Everyone pretended not to notice.

  ‘Chicken soup,’ said Peter, the eight-year-old. ‘My favourite.’ For some reason he’d been given less than everyone else, something he couldn’t fail to notice. ‘Anna,’ he called hopefully to his little sister, ‘change bowls?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. She placed an arm protectively around her bowl.

  ‘Here, you have mine,’ said Christian. ‘Chicken soup has never been my favourite.’ He exchanged his soup for the boy’s.

  ‘Say thank you,’ said Theo.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter delightedly. ‘Thank you very much.’ Just as the boy was about to dip his spoon into the soup the steward snatched it away.

  ‘I’ll bring you another,’ he said brusquely.

  Christian’s shoulders slumped. That was something else they did on U-boats. When the main course was served, fish in white sauce with boiled potatoes, Jichak immediately reached across Christian and took his plate, exchanging it with his own.

  ‘Spit in food, I eat many times,’ he said. ‘Is nothing. Not kill me then, not kill me now.’

  ‘I’ll take that.’ Again the steward swooped and removed Jichak’s plate. He stormed off back to the kitchen for a replacement.

  ‘What was your job in the U-boat?’ asked Peter in halting English.

  Christian sighed. If anyone else had asked he would’ve avoided the question. He didn’t feel he could do that to the boy.

  ‘My job?’ replied Christian. ‘I was the captain.’

  ‘The captain?’ Peter was obviously impressed.

  ‘Yes. My job, as you put it, was to sink enemy ships and not get sunk myself.’

  ‘Did you sink many ships?’ It was the question everyone wanted answered.

  ‘More than some, not nearly as many as others. Sometimes we went months without sighting a single ship. In September 1944 my boat was severely damaged by depth-charging and finally sunk by aircraft. Most of my crew were killed. I was one of only ten to survive.’

  ‘We must talk some time,’ cut in Theo. ‘When the war began I escaped to England. I flew in bombers. I was the bomb aimer. In 1943 I was transferred to Coastal Command. Maybe we have met before.’ He paused as the steward brought back a replacement meal for Jichak. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Theo grabbed the steward’s sleeve. ‘Perhaps you would inform the kitchen that one of us will always exchange plates with this man. That way you will not be inconvenienced.’

  Christian turned to Theo as he watched the steward march off, beaten but unrepentant. ‘Thank you. That is one problem solved. Now all I have to do is move to another cabin.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Jichak. ‘Where you go? Who want you? Only me. Only Jichak. The English, they don’t like, they move.’

  Christian smiled but his smile belied his apprehension. The five weeks of the voyage stretched ahead of him like a lifetime. Yes, he had friends at his table but they could not spare him all the indignities that lay ahead—the snubs, the silences in his presence, the muttered insults. He’d seen men under his command break down under similar strain.

  On his return to his cabin he threw the suitcases belonging to the English boys out into the corridor, much to Jichak’s amusement. He threw their belongings on top. Christian had fought the English for almost five years and didn’t think another five weeks would make much difference. With any luck he thought they might agree to a truce of sorts once they realised he was prepared to stand up for himself. Perhaps it would all end in a fight. It was not a prospect he relished but he was determined not to back away from it, either. What were two boys compared with the hard men he’d confronted in the dark, desperate lanes and alleys of Hamburg’s docks? He shook his head wearily. This was not how he hoped his new start would begin. His only consolation was his conviction that his ordeal would end once he reached New Zealand.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The first time he’d taken his sub down to two hundred metres the groans of the hull plates compacting under pressure had terrified the crew. Now there was comfort in the sound. The groans announced that they’d dived below the pre-set detonation depth of many of the depth charges. But not all. The U-boats’ deep diving capability, once a secret, was now well known by their enemy.

  The first explosion rocked the U-boat from stem to stern, forcing it to heel hard over to starboard. Men fell. Unsecured equipment showered down on them. Pipes burst. Screams mingled with shouted commands.

  ‘Silence!’ ordered the captain. The enemy had grown smarter. He’d expected the first charge to explode at one-fifty metres. It had exploded closer to one-seventy-five. The game kept changing, becoming harder to win.

  AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’

  Our world was turned upside down that Sunday but it took us a while to realise it. Mum and Dad made me sit down and go through the whole chain of events leading up to the drama in church. If Captain Biggs had been amazed by the part I’d played, my parents were doubly so. Mum and Rod were impressed but Dad grew unhappier the longer I went on.

  ‘Why’d thee get involved?’ he kept asking. He foresaw repercussions, as yet unspecific, but repercussions nonetheless and his reversion to thee instead of you was a clear sign of his concern. Dad was a big man, an inch over six foot and fourteen and a half stone, and liked to confront trouble head-on. The problem was, he wasn’t certain what form the trouble would take. In war movies U-boat captains were always portrayed as ruthless, diehard Nazis who stood by watching as the men from the ships they sank drowned, and I’d allied myself with one. Even worse I was instrumental in bringing him to New Zealand. Dad couldn’t see any good coming out of that. He turned to my oldest brother, hoping, I suspect, to be proved wrong. ‘What do thee think?’ he asked.

  Having read Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels I always imagined Rod had modelled himself on the Houyhnhnms, those horses that thought very carefully before they spoke. ‘A lot of people walked out,’ he said. ‘I was surprised by how many. There’s a lot of ill-feeling.’

  ‘Might surprise thee, doesn’t surprise me,’ said Dad. ‘What the hair oil was Captain Biggs thinking? A blinking U-boat captain?’ Dad never swore or blasphemed. Instead he used euphemisms; hair oil for hell, blinking and blooming for bloody, bar steward for bastard, the latter only ever when he was trying to be funny. ‘Someone should tell him to wake his bloomin’ ideas up.’

  ‘I think you’ll find a lot of people will boycott the Christmas service,’ said Rod.

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t boycott shop,’ said Dad.

  Suddenly I understood Dad’s concern. Blood drained from my face. Christmas was a very expensive time of the year and Mum counted on extra business to pay for it. Christmas was her payday, the busiest time of the year for the shop. A boycott would be disastrous. I had visions of Christmas without presents, without the new fishing reel I’d been hoping for, without the stovepipe jeans Nigel wanted, without the wristwatch Rod desperately needed. My head spun. Christmas without presents! And it was all my faul
t.

  ‘Let’s just wait and see,’ said Mum grimly.

  The fact that money was tight and times were tough cushioned the fall. A lot of people bought things on lay-by and paid off the outstanding amount with Christmas bonuses and holiday pay. Whether people wanted to or not, they were committed to giving us their business or going without. Of course all the gossip centred around the coming of the U-boat commander, the walk-out from chapel and Captain Biggs’s stupidity. In those days there was no TV and the information overload had yet to happen. Any scandal or deviation from the norm was seized upon. Everyone and their dog felt entitled to an opinion and claimed an inalienable right to express it. The prevailing conservatism precluded debate. Opinion swung from selfrighteous indignation to self-righteous hostility. Fortunately most customers suppressed their feelings about the part I’d played, although some were a little less diplomatic, making it clear they were only in the shop on sufferance. Mum copped it all on the chin. The important thing was that takings were in line with expectations, much to everyone’s relief. On Christmas Eve she shut up shop for two weeks as normal. Nobody had any money left after Christmas Day so there was no point in opening up. Besides, we always went away on holiday the day after Boxing Day. We were going to take the Chev and go camping, working our way slowly up to Ninety Mile Beach and back again. Another family were coming with us in their Humber Super Snipe. They had daughters Nigel and I were expected to play with but, in the scheme of things, that was a small price to pay. Mum was convinced by the time we got back everything would’ve blown over.

  She warned me to give Captain Biggs a wide berth until we went away. Club had finished when school broke up so I had to make a special effort to sneak off to talk to him. I waited until the Tuesday morning. He seemed pleased to see me. I don’t think he’d had many visitors since he’d sprung his little surprise. He told me he’d gone around to see the Gillespies to make peace with them but Mr Gillespie had refused to listen or even let him in the door. He’d been to see other members of the congregation who’d walked out and they hadn’t let him in either. Captain Biggs was one of those people who wore a funny little half-smile-half-bewildered look on their face when they were hurt. It was something you expect to see more in kids than adults but Captain Biggs was hopeless at hiding his emotions. He also confided that the bishop had asked him up to All Saints for a meeting and he was expecting to be hauled over the coals. There was even a possibility he’d be relieved of his duties and transferred. If that happened, he said, he’d leave the church altogether. He made me promise to keep this information to myself. ‘I bet you wish you’d never written that letter,’ I said.