‘Will the Kapitänleutnant be joining you for dinner, Herr Generalmajor?’
Theo bites his lip. The stranger’s high rank shocks him. He knows naval ranks but finds those of the other services confusing. He is fairly sure a generalmajor is four ranks above him at least. In naval terms, a Vice-Admiral.
The stranger, the Generalmajor, swivels on his heel and scans Theo from head to toe. He takes in – perhaps for the first time in decent lighting – Theo’s well-worn jacket, his grubby-topped cap, his heavy serge trousers and his seaboots of soft dull leather, boots more suited to a fisherman than a Kriegsmarine officer. And his beard. A beard trimmed, not quite to perfection, by his bosun.
‘I think not, Shomburg. Show our friend to the officer’s mess. Find someone to accompany him, someone of similar rank to himself.’
‘Of course, Herr Generalmajor.’
Again the Generalmajor regards Theo. ‘Kapitänleutnant, tomorrow you will be at this very spot at seven o’clock precisely.’ There is the trace of a smile. ‘That is, of course, zero seven hundred hours. Not nineteen hundred hours.’
Theo spends the evening with youngsters, though not by choice. He is accompanied not by an officer of his own rank, but a non-commissioned orderly who guides him through corridors to the Junior Mess. The notice boards on the walls confirm his suspicions. He has been brought to a Luftwaffe training school.
In the mess he is introduced to young airmen, fresh-faced and fresh-laundered in what look to him like naval midshipmen’s blue waistcoats. The white twill trousers they wear have knife-sharp creases. He does not want this; what he wants most of all is a bath and a bed. What he gets instead is idolization and beer. And more beer. He is U-boat commander, a hero.
‘You have seen much action of course, Kapitänleutnant? We do not expect details, but can you tell us a little?’
Theo humours them, telling them what they want to hear, exaggerating the strength and the skills of his crew. He recalls how, at the end of his last mission, his gunners brought down two aircraft. What he fails to tell them is his boat was caught by surprise on the surface and one of the aircraft they brought down was one of their own – and cannon fire from the enemy aircraft tore the heads off his gunners and punctured his boat’s ballast tanks.
He wants to tell them about merchant seamen from Allied cargo ships choking on oil, screaming for help from the U-boat crew that condemned them to death. To tell such truths would be unwelcome, defeatist – even treasonable – talk. He tells them instead of the thrill of the chase, of torpedo runs in the dark, the crowds on the quay when they leave on a mission. Of the bouquets, the brass bands and the girls of the signals corps at Saint-Nazaire. Past glories, all gone.
‘Is it wise to name places, Herr Kapitänleutnant?’
Theo nods pensively. ‘It is of no importance. Saint-Nazaire and our southern ports are now in enemy hands, you surely know that.’
‘We will drive the scum into the sea, Herr Kapitänleutnant. It is our destiny.’
Their belief in the Führer is absolute. Their indoctrination is total, the result of exposure since birth to icons and emblems, symbols of magic and mystery. Most of all they believe in a faultless, omnipotent Germany. For the first time in years he is close to tears. In a few weeks so many of these youngsters will surely die.
Far too much beer. Time to go before he spoils it for them.
‘It is time for me to sleep, my friends. I have had a long day.’
They lift their glasses to him. He leaves them to their beer, and for what little is left of the night he sleeps badly, his waking hours spent listening for the drone of bombers, the thud of distant bombs and a call to the shelters – a call that doesn’t come. Tonight Potsdam is safe.
Wishing he had risen in time to eat breakfast, Theo arrives at the double doors at five minutes to seven. Today there is no smell of mown grass, just the smell of a damp morning and a thin, all-pervading smell of burnt timber.
‘I trust you slept well, Kapitänleutnant Volker?’
The question is more of an order than a question and it demands a positive answer. ‘Thank you, Herr Generalmajor, I slept well.’
Theo expected the generalmajor to be in uniform but he is dressed as before. He also expects to be picked up by a staff car, perhaps the one with the girl. What arrives, dead on time, is a canvas-topped lorry. Its arrival does not surprise the Generalmajor.
‘In these days of hardship it is not always possible to travel in the style normally accorded to one’s rank, Kapitänleutnant. I shall ride with the driver. I am sure there is room for you in the back.’
Theo peers over the tailgate and seeing the truck is empty he heaves up his kitbag and scrambles in after it. He thumps on the driver’s cab, a signal that he is on board, the sits on the tailgate, gripping a steel hoop that supports the truck’s canvas top. He sees, beyond the mown grass, rows of ancient tanks and armoured cars. Further along, holed up in bays between trees, are Königstigers – Tiger Tanks – the Reich’s finest. He wonders why they are here, rather than in the south or east, where they are needed most.
The service road they are on opens out to a wide concrete apron. On the far side of it is a concrete roofed bomb shelter with wide open doors. The truck pulls up beside them and the Generalmajor climbs down. He calls to an airman:
‘Where is Oberinspektor Krawczac? Find him. Bring him to me.’
With steel tips clicking the Generalmajor crosses the concrete and enters the shelter’s wide doors, returning minutes later with a man carrying a clipboard. Airmen in overalls, pulling handcarts loaded with wooden crates, follow the two men out onto the concrete.
Theo jumps down. He watches the Generalmajor take the clipboard, squint at it, take glasses from his pocket and put them on. As each crate is loaded onto the truck the man – Krawczac, Theo assumes – calls out the number stencilled on the crates. The Generalmajor nods. Makes marks on his clipboard.
The loading is efficient and fast. When they resume their journey Theo is no longer alone. He shares what little space remains in the truck with an elderly, uniformed guard. Theo feels in his coat pocket for his pipe and tobacco. The guard watches him silently. Real tobacco is a rarity – and this naval man has two tins of it.
‘Not explosives?’ Theo asks, tapping a crate with his fingers. ‘Am I permitted to smoke?’
The guard shrugs. He is carrying a well-worn, ancient rifle that he jams into a gap between crates, takes off his helmet and goes through his pockets. He finds, and then unrolls, a thin leather tobacco pouch. Knowing he has no tobacco, only papers for roll-ups, he watches Theo tug good-quality black twist from a half-full tin, transfer it in small pinches to his pipe and then pack it down with his thumb.
Theo passes the tin to the man, who feigns surprise and then nods acceptance. He balances the tin on his knee and picks at its contents sparingly. He rolls the strands of tobacco between his palms and transfers it to the paper.
‘Luftwaffe?’ Theo asks. ‘These days there are so many uniforms.’
The guard nods. Theo offers his lighter to the man, flicking the flint wheel as he holds it out. The lighter’s flame is orange and smoky and its wick glows red at its edges. The fuel is impure, supplied to him by his boat’s chief engineer – distilled from the boat’s diesel fuel, Theo suspects.
The guard has his roll-up between his lips. When Theo touches the end with the flame a length of the paper flares up and Theo wonders what it is made from. These days little is what it seems: They make rubber from coal, and coffee from roast acorns.
Theo taps the crate he is sitting on. ‘Vital spares?’ he asks. ‘Equipment for our glorious air force?’
The man snorts, shrugs, and draws hard on his cigarette. A third of it vanishes in a bright orange glow. He coughs, gently.
‘Treasures of the Reich,’ he says, winking. ‘Recovered from those that oughtn’t to have had them.’
Theo doesn’t look like an officer. His leather jacket has no badges of rank and
the thin braid of yellow around the peak of his cap is oil-stained and grubby. And he is in the back of the truck, not up front with the high-ranker.
‘You a U-boat man?’
Theo nods. The man takes one last pull on his cigarette before crushing the fragments that remain under his boot, grinding them around until they are unrecognisable.
‘Wouldn’t catch me doing your job. Wouldn’t get me in one of those tin coffins.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘Not me.’
Theo takes short puffs on his pipe. He is no longer used to it and it isn’t long before he bangs out its contents on the heel of his boot. He is about to crush the embers when the man shoves the boot aside, jams himself down between the crates and starts sorting through the ash with his fingers, picking out strands of tobacco. He transfers his finds to his fold-over wallet.
‘You going right through?’ he asks.
‘Through?’
‘Right through. To Schönebeck.’
‘To Berlin. I’ve got shore leave. Got a son down south. Going to see him.’
‘South? You mean Steglitz? Templehof?’
‘Near Ingolstadt. It’s north of Munich.’
‘Shit! Not a chance. You’ll not get there.’
‘Is the enemy that close?’
‘If I knew where those bastards were I wouldn’t tell you, would I? What I do know is there’s no trains. Not for the likes of you and me.’
They have reached Berlin. They pass through shattered streets, like those in Potsdam. Whole streets have vanished; women and children labour with barrows and baskets piled high with bricks; human chains of workers trail back into side streets, an army of ants passing tiles, bricks and timber from hand to hand. In the main streets are hills built from rubble, some of brick and stone, others of window frames, roof timbers and floorboards.
Time was when the enemy dropped its bombs on railway yards, docks and factories. Now it drops them on houses, hospitals and shops. To Theo, this scale of damage is not new. He has seen the devastation in the ports. But houses, hospitals and schools?
‘Do you know Berlin?’ he asks the man. ‘Do you know what station I need for Munich?’
‘Anhalter. That’s if the bastards didn’t get it last night.’
‘Where are we going now?’
‘Air Ministry, Wilhelmstrasse. Anhalter’s one block away. You can walk there.’
Ridges of rubble have realigned streets. Traffic is delayed and diverted by clearance work. The smell of smoke is overpowering and occasionally it can be seen, dense columns of black curling skywards. They rise so high their tops are cut off by the wind, thinned out and carried away.
The guard is a tour guide of devastation:
‘Brother in law’s in that lot,’ he says, pointing to a fire truck. ‘Says they can’t cope. Last year the Führer took fire units from Hamburg and Bremen, said we need them here.’ Aware of his careless words he glances at Theo. The submariner seems unmoved. ‘A wise move,’ the man adds, in an attempt to redeem himself. ‘This is our capital city.’
Theo massages his forehead with his fingertips. These are things he does not know. Hamburg, gutted by fire, fifty-thousand dead in one week. And the Führer moved the city’s fire trucks to Berlin?
They are passing the Tiergarten, woodland in the heart of Berlin. Though Theo hasn’t seen the place before, he has heard of it. If there is one place in the city that shows how bad things have become, this is it; what was once parkland is studded with bomb craters, fallen trees and shattered stumps. He gazes awestruck at the flak tower – a sixty-metre-high concrete cube bristling with anti-aircraft guns that dominates the skyline. It is surely the tallest man made structure he has ever seen.
‘Grandson’s in the flak crew there,’ the guard says. ‘Does a good job, gives the bastards something to think about. He’s a good kid. Fifteen years old next month.’
Theo nods. They fight this war with children. He gets youngsters on his boat but they are not that young, thank god. The war will soon end. Perhaps another year, perhaps another month. They will lose, he knows that too. So what then, foreign rule? Years of oppression? Will there be resistance, partisans fighting the victors, like in France?
‘Wilhelmstrasse,’ The guard says, loudly. ‘The heart of our Reich. Reich Chancellery coming up now!’
It is a peculiar, retrospective commentary. From the back of the truck they see only what they have passed, it is a half-look at everything. The guard reels off names of more buildings as the truck trundles on. Strangely, compared with others parts of the city, these buildings have suffered little.
‘Air Ministry,’ he says. ‘This is it. You ever seen a building like it?’
They pass a wall of pale stone with five storeys of windows. It is the largest office building Theo has seen – though not as large as some underground voids in the Harz mines. In Theo’s mind no building can beat those for grandeur.
The road they turn into is narrow, much less grand than Wilhelmstrasse. Halfway along it is the main entrance to the Ministry with its high railings and tall stone gateposts surmounted by bronze eagles, each twice the height of a man. Ironically the birds have closed wings; to Theo they look more like the American eagle than the more common spread-eagle of the Reich.
Staff cars litter the courtyard; armed guards in Luftwaffe uniform stand at the gates. Nervousness is a rare feeling for Theo and it comes to him now. The building was built to impress and it succeeds. He pulls himself together. Any second now the truck will stop and he will be on his way, off to Anhalter Station and the trains to his boy. He will jump down, sling his kitbag over his shoulder, walk to the truck’s cab and thank the Generalmajor for his kindness. He will salute smartly. And, sea boots willing, give a heel-click. He speaks to the guard:
‘I need directions. Which way is Anhalter?’
The guard shrugs. ‘Looks to me like most roads are impassable. Best you walk back to Wilhelmstrasse and ask somebody.’
The truck doesn’t stop at the main entrance. It drives the whole length of the building and turns down a lane.
‘Schutzstaffel and Staatspolitzei,’ the guard says, nodding at the high walled building across the street. ‘Headquarters, of course. Another of my grandsons is there. Privileged position. Good safe job.’
‘SS?’
‘No, Staatspolitzei. Still a boy. Recruited straight into the Gestapo from the Hitlerjugend. What do you think of that, eh?’
The Air Ministry is even bigger than Theo realised. Behind it, on each end of it, are massive extensions, huge wings with hundreds of windows. One of the extensions has taken a direct hit by bombs. Apart from that, the place looks undamaged.
The truck turns again and stops at twin gates. Theo stands up, holds on to the canvas and leans around to get a better view. His jacket is tugged from behind.
‘Sit down, man! Put your cap on!’
Two sentries look in, first at Theo and then at the guard. Unusually, they don’t demand papers and the truck moves on, into the ministry grounds. There are more staff cars here, not parked randomly like those at the front but lined up neatly as if for inspection, their chrome trim and chrome radiators gleaming in the sun. How, Theo wonders, can there be time for polishing paintwork in a world of such hell?
Uniformed drivers – women, elderly men and one youngster – stand smoking, huddled in a circle like peak-capped penguins. As the truck approaches they turn away. One catches sight of the officer in the cab and throws up a salute. Cigarettes vanish in well-practised moves.
The truck grinds in low gear past boarded up windows. Much of the ground floor is protected from bomb-blasts by high walls of sandbags. These, and concrete blast walls, protect the rear entrances to the building. The truck stops at one of these and the Generalmajor appears at the tailgate, surprising the guard, who jumps up and salutes. He is ignored.
‘Kapitänleutnant, we have arrived at the Air Ministry. Climb down, please, bring your bag and come with me. Your pa
pers will be checked. Please have them ready.’
The guard’s eyes widen, the U-boat man is an officer, he has been tricked, made to gossip idly. He tries to recall the things he has said but his mind swims with thoughts and he cannot concentrate. Theo turns to him, winks, and slips a tin of tobacco into his hand.
Theo follows the Generalmajor around a wall of sandbags, into the building and through high corridors. He thanks him for his kindness and hospitality and for his lift to Berlin. The man keeps walking, doesn’t seem to have heard. His footsteps make the familiar double click, except that in here there are echoes. For a man with a limp, he walks fast.
Another corridor, then down flights of stairs. The place is a warren of passages. Theo tries again:
‘I am grateful to you, Herr Generalmajor. But if I am to – ’
The man half turns his head, speaking as he walks.
‘Keep following me, Kapitänleutnant.’
Theo has his papers in his hand, but so far nobody has asked for them. He is sweating, partly from the effort of carrying his heavy kitbag and partly from fear – not the fear that comes before combat but fear of the unknown. He has done nothing wrong, he is a good officer who has served the Reich well. It is true he often says what he thinks, but only when amongst friends.
One side of the corridor is bare wall. The other is a labyrinth of rooms and side corridors along which uniformed staff scurry with papers, ghost-like figures beneath silver-blue lamps. Then another corridor, dank and deserted, bleak and unpainted. It ends at an open door, heavy steel like others. Not exactly a cell door, but very much like one.
The room beyond the door is small, lit by a sealed bulkhead lamp like those on board ship. Theo stands in the doorway but he doesn’t go in. He places his kitbag at his feet, turns to the Generalmajor and stares at him, not something he would normally dare do. He has placed seamen in custody himself, escorted by two or three ratings. Never, in his limited experience of such matters, would an officer of this man’s rank be present. Never would such a man be expected to guard a prisoner.
The Man Who Played Trains: The gripping new thriller from the author of Playpits Park Page 8