by Derek Hansen
Captain Biggs allowed a small smile. He’d never commanded a ship as Christian Berger had nor engaged in the one-upmanship of business, but he recognised the tactic and approved of it. The bishop had made him wait for more than half an hour, during which time every worst-case scenario had played on his mind. Every passing minute had sapped his confidence and resolve. By the time the bishop had finally called him into his office, he’d been pathetically grateful and reduced to a babbling wreck.
When Christian entered the meeting room he strode purposefully up to the reporter and offered him his hand. ‘Christian Berger,’ he said. ‘And you are?’
The reporter shot to his feet. The speed with which he stood spoke more of a reaction to authority than simple politeness. If he’d expected the commander to be cowed by the events that had occurred outside the chapel, he soon realised his error.
‘Alun Griffiths,’ said the reporter. ‘New Zealand Herald. Pleased to meet you.’
‘You are Welsh?’ said Christian. ‘I spent just over a year in a POW camp in South Wales. Near Bridgend. I liked it there. I almost didn’t go home when the war ended. Please sit.’ He smiled inwardly as the reporter dropped back into his seat. He took up station at the head of the table. Instructions had been given and obeyed. He’d taken control. ‘Where would you like to begin?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you begin by telling me why you are here? Why have you come to New Zealand?’ The reporter seemed to almost apologise for the question.
Christian smiled. ‘To anyone else in the world the answer is obvious. New Zealand is a very fortunate country. You know, on the voyage over from Europe I shared a cabin with a survivor from Auschwitz, a Jew. Every member of his family was killed except a brother who was lucky enough to emigrate to New Zealand in 1948. The brother wrote to my friend and said, “Jichak, you must come. This country is an egalitarian paradise. It is utopia. It is a true democracy and there is nothing, nothing at all to fear.” Paradise, utopia, nothing to fear. Contrast this with Europe.’
‘That tells me why your friend came but not why you came. Weren’t you already on the ship and on your way when you met him?’
The question was floated so quietly and innocently that it caught Christian by surprise. He was aware of Captain Biggs shifting uncomfortably on his chair. ‘I was ordered down here in 1940. All I saw of the country was a glimpse of Great Barrier Island but that was enough.’ He told the reporter all about meeting Mack and how he’d dreamed about New Zealand during the war. He painted as flattering a picture as he could.
‘But why were you sent down to New Zealand?’ asked the reporter.
‘To intercept a troopship.’
‘By that do you mean sink it?’
‘That was the intention.’ Christian now saw that the reporter’s apparent meekness was a sham. Alun Griffiths knew exactly what he was doing. Christian kept his voice even but was well aware of the shift in dynamics. Despite the games he’d played, there was no doubt who was now on the defensive. He did his best to salvage the interview. ‘Fortunately the ship sailed a day earlier than we’d been led to believe so our mission was unsuccessful.’
‘You say “fortunate”. Surely from your point of view, missing the troopship was unfortunate?’
‘Yes, it was unfortunate then. I was unable to carry out the task I’d been assigned. But now the war is over I can look back and say my bad luck was a blessing, it was fortunate the troopship sailed a day early and I’m glad it did.’
‘Did you sink any other ships on that mission?’
‘Yes, off Cape Town and another off North Africa.’
‘How many ships did you sink in total?’
‘Over the course of the war? I had two commands. Together I sank fourteen ships for a total of sixty-one thousand tons.’
‘Very impressive. Did you pick up any survivors?’
‘There is no place on U-boats for survivors. Surely you know that. If it had been possible to sink ships without casualties we would have done so.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. But it was not possible. Nevertheless the casualties were regrettable.’
‘Regrettable?’
‘If that means I regret the casualties I caused, then yes. Regrettable.’ Christian realised the reporter had been deliberately provoking him and also regretted his flash of irritation. The reporter changed the subject.
‘How were you captured?’
Christian told him and went on to describe his return to the battered, bombed-out shell of a city that was Hamburg. He told him about joining the men, women and children who worked day in and day out clearing away rubble and the endless soup lines. He told him about the casualty rate in U-boats, how only one in four crew survived; how he’d helped set up the Centre to help the families of those killed and to help the survivors get back on their feet. He spoke calmly and honestly, all the while working on restoring some balance to the interview. Yes, he’d been a U-boat captain but he’d also suffered. He told how his family’s home had been flattened and his family scattered; how his sister had moved to the United States and his father had given up his post at Hamburg University to teach in the Upper Ruhr; how his parents and sister had run away from their devastated city and how he, in contrast, had chosen not to run away but to emigrate to New Zealand only after his work at the Centre was finished. Christian watched the reporter closely throughout his discourse and was convinced the man had listened sympathetically and understood the points he made. He believed he’d established a rapport.
‘Would you mind if I took a photo?’ asked the reporter. ‘Photographers are thin on the ground on Sundays. I only rang the office once the interview was confirmed. With any luck he’ll be waiting outside.’ He turned to Captain Biggs. ‘I’d like a shot of the two of you together by the chapel, if that’s OK.’ He rose and headed towards the door, pausing as he reached it. ‘One last question, Mr Berger. Do you think anything good came out of the war?’
‘Very little, my friend. But it made me aware that a country as blessed and fortunate as New Zealand existed. For that, I am grateful.’
Christian replayed the interview in his head while the photographer set up a cumbersome plate camera on top of a heavy, equally cumbersome tripod. He couldn’t help comparing it with the beautifully compact, hand-sized Leica that had gone down with his U-boat. Sometimes it amazed him that Germany had lost the war. Overall he thought he’d done well with the interview and succeeded in his objective. When the photographer asked him to smile, he smiled. He believed that when people read their newspaper the following morning they’d discover another more human side to him. He shared his conclusion with Captain Biggs as the reporter and photographer left.
‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned the troopship,’ said Captain Biggs. ‘I’d managed to keep that bit under my hat.’
Newspapers weren’t delivered to the Church Army. It was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Instead Captain Biggs and the Sisters relied upon the goodwill of neighbours to pass their newspapers on after they’d finished reading them. Some days two or three Heralds arrived this way, on other days they went without. The collection plate never produced much but that Sunday, with the congregation swollen by the curious, it had produced more than usual. Captain Biggs took three pennies and sent Sister Glorious off to the newsagency first thing Monday morning. Christian Berger awaited her return with high expectations, Captain Biggs with growing trepidation. The elderly Sisters were eager to see a picture of their chapel and their dashing young captain in the newspaper. Everyone was expecting a story and photo on page three or page five until Sister Glorious arrived back in tears. The newsagent had all but thrown the copy of the Herald at her. Passers-by had told her she should be ashamed of herself. The story was splashed all over the front page.
‘PONSONBY CHURCH HARBOURS U-BOAT CAPTAIN’, screamed the headline. And in marginally smaller print beneath, ‘Community Anger Fuels Church Walk-out’. The photo showed a smiling Captain Biggs with his a
rm around the shoulders of a smiling Christian Berger. That had been the reporter’s idea. Captain Biggs had thought he was metaphorically embracing the concept of world peace but Alun Griffiths had known exactly what he was doing. He’d got the story he wanted and succeeded in making the Church Army appear to be a division of the Wehrmacht. There was no mention of Christian’s return to Hamburg or of his work with the Centre. The only new thing the parishioners learned about the U-boat captain was contained in a separate panel, prominently positioned so no one could miss it. ‘U-boat Sent to Torpedo Our Boys’, the headline said accusingly.
‘God help us,’ said Captain Biggs. His face turned grey as it drained of blood. In the bottom right-hand corner there was a file photo of the bishop above a headline that said ‘Bishop Promises Full Investigation’.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Christian. ‘I should have taken your advice.’ The Church Army phone began ringing almost immediately.
‘Don’t answer it,’ said Captain Biggs.
‘It might be the bishop,’ said Sister Kathleen.
‘I know. Don’t anyone answer it until I’ve had a chance to think.’
‘That’s a nice photo of you,’ said one of the elderly Sisters. ‘Look, Sister.’ She passed her magnifying glass to her colleague. ‘Such a lovely smile.’
Christian Berger stared at the newspaper in dismay. Agreeing to the interview had been a big mistake but the bigger mistake was in allowing himself to be photographed. His temporary home had become a prison. Now there was no way he could set foot outside the door without being recognised.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Icy water from burst pipes soaked through the captain’s clothing and swirled around his feet, but the sheen on his forehead was the sweat of tension and fear. The U-boat levelled off and sat in the water, crew still and silent but betrayed by the agonised groaning of the hull. Up on the surface sonar and hydrophone operators would be listening, cross-referencing and plotting the U-boat’s position.
‘Depth charges launched.’ The lieutenant’s voice was little more than a whisper. He could’ve shouted for all the difference it would now make.
Captain Berger grasped an overhead pipe with all his strength. Everything depended on the depth at which the charges were set to explode. Would his adversaries believe his U-boat could dive beyond two hundred and fifty metres and survive? He doubted it. He hardly believed it himself. Was the charge that detonated beneath his hull a warning of things to come, a new type of proximity depth charge or the one-off result of a delay caused by malfunction?
The first explosion rocked the U-boat but was too shallow to cause damage. A second followed, again too shallow. The third and fourth were closer, the fifth and sixth closer still. Close enough to burst open hasty repairs, but no more.
‘What now?’ whispered Lieutenant Richter.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘DEATH OF A U-BOAT’
We didn’t get the Herald delivered, either, because Dad sold them in his newsagency and it didn’t make sense to buy papers from anyone else. It would’ve been a waste anyway. The mornings were so frantic no one had a chance to read anything. Dad usually brought home the Auckland Star in the evenings and we made do with that. It had never occurred to us that Christian Berger would give an interview. We thought the reporter would be sent on his way with a flea in his ear. None of us had the slightest inkling the story would be all over the front page, and no warning of the storm about to erupt over the revelation of Christian Berger’s mission to sink the troopship. I’d listened to Captain Biggs that Sunday before Christmas as closely as anyone but I hadn’t noticed the omission. We prepared for the day with no idea that a bomb had gone off in our midst and we were about to number among the casualties.
The first day back at school after the Christmas holidays is always chaotic. I caught up with Eric on the way and our major worry was who our teacher would be and which classroom we’d be given. By rights Mr Ingleby should be our teacher and the Standard Four classroom the same as it had been the year previously. But sometimes the school changed things for no good reason, at least none that was apparent to us. Our big fear was that we’d end up with Miss Riley. None of us liked women teachers and we reserved a special dislike for Miss Riley. She was an unhappy, embittered spinster who infected everybody with her discontent. She claimed she gave up the opportunity of marriage to devote her life to teaching. Nigel said it was because no man would have her. Apart from being crabby, bossy and impatient, she used her tongue like a whip. She didn’t reprimand kids so much as lash them with ridicule. She reduced more kids to tears than the strap ever did. Mr Ingleby, on the other hand, coached the cricket team and laughed at our jokes. Nigel claimed he could even make history sound interesting and I knew from the assignments he’d been given that Mr Ingleby came up with really original topics for essays. Miss Riley was still of the ‘Why it’s important to clean your teeth’ school.
At the best of times the teachers have their work cut out on the first day back trying to get some quiet and semblance of order. Every kid wants to know what every other kid did over the holidays and until that’s cleared up the teachers don’t stand a chance. This time there was another ingredient thrown in. The school was abuzz with news about the U-boat captain.
Gary was first to tell me about the story in the paper, although he made me promise not to tell anyone that he’d told me because he wasn’t allowed to speak to me. Clarry confirmed what Gary had said and made me make a similar promise. He wasn’t allowed to speak to me either. It only took a few minutes for me to realise that more than half the kids at school weren’t allowed to speak to me. Not that it stopped them. They made out they were doing me a big favour and taking huge risks but I knew they really just wanted to pump me for more information about the U-boat captain and his attempt to torpedo the troopship. Some kids even claimed their fathers had been on board. But what could I tell them that they didn’t already know? I was still smarting from the realisation that a lot of them had seen the Herald and the picture of Christian Berger. It was really galling that they’d had nothing to do with bringing him out to New Zealand but they knew what he looked like and I still hadn’t clapped my eyes on him. I did what I could under the circumstances. I filled the air with words, which appeared to say more than they actually did. It was something I was good at and which stood me in good stead later on in my career in advertising. The industry has an expression: ‘If you’re on thin ice, you may as well tap-dance.’ That morning I was Gene Kelly but no one can tap-dance forever. I knew the kids would stop talking to me once I had nothing to say.
The girls in my class and in the school at large were more serious about not speaking to me than the boys. Girls I didn’t have much to do with anyway made a point of giving me the cold shoulder. They’d deliberately walk towards me then veer off at right angles with their nose in the air and their lips pulled tight. It became something of a competition to see who could snub me the most dramatically. Even girls who were allowed to speak to me couldn’t resist joining in. The exception was Judith, who sort of liked me and I sort of liked back. By means and for reasons known only to girls, we’d been paired off. I didn’t mind because she was good looking and I liked talking to her. But the other girls’ posturing was so absurd I couldn’t help laughing and neither could my pals. We mimicked and ridiculed them when really I should’ve heeded the warning. The girls were simply acting out the attitudes of their parents. I don’t suppose it would have made much difference anyway had I made the connection.
The class breathed a collective sigh of relief when we were given the usual Standard Four classroom and Mr Ingleby was appointed our teacher. That done, the girls got back to the serious business of ignoring me, which wasn’t a whole lot different to normal, while the boys speculated upon the U-boat captain and what would happen to him. The number of boys whose fathers had been aboard the troopship more than tripled in the three hours up to lunch. Opinion was divided over whether Christian Berger would be deported or sent to pris
on as a war criminal. Some kids talked about nipping out of school at lunchtime and staking out the Church Army in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. Troopship or no troopship, the fact remained that we had a real live U-boat captain holed up no more than two hundred yards up the street. Imaginations fuelled by U-boat movies and storm drains ran riot. Without any doubt this was big news and, as far my school pals were concerned, just about the most exciting thing that had ever happened in the neighbourhood.
I ran home at lunchtime and told Mum all about the story in the paper. I needn’t have bothered. Dad had rung to tell her about it the moment he’d opened his newsagency and seen the bundles of papers stacked in the doorway. Mum’s first comment surprised me although I suppose I should’ve expected it.
‘It’s not “Ponsonby” church,’ she protested. ‘It’s Grey Lynn.’
When I told her how half the boys weren’t allowed to speak to me and none of the girls—except for Judith—would on principle, she became as prickly as a porcupine. ‘Who do they think they are?’ she demanded.
Nigel came home for lunch and said he’d copped much the same treatment. He laughed about it and made jokes.
‘It’ll blow over,’ Mum assured us, although she no longer sounded quite so confident. ‘You wait and see.’
Nigel and I wolfed down our sandwiches so we could get back to school in time for a quick game of cricket. Mum made us promise to come straight home after school to help out. We didn’t need reminding because we knew the score and had our own vested interest. Some time during the afternoon the teachers would give their classes a list of the exercise books, pads, notebooks, pens and pencils they needed, plus a price list Mum had supplied. As soon as the final bell went, kids would dash home, get the money from their mothers and dash back to the shop. By the time they got there, Nigel and I would’ve already helped ourselves to the stationery on our list and be ready to help Mum. Even with three of us serving the queue always extended way past the shop doorway.