The Passenger

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Yes, Herr Kaleun.’

  ‘You seem a little . . .’

  ‘Too much to drink last night, sir.’ The swiftness of Wilhelm’s trite justification betrayed an absence of thought.

  Lorenz climbed through the hatchway, walked over to his nook, and pulled the curtain back. He was about to open his cabinet but was conscious of the fact that Wilhelm hadn’t moved. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking those sacks up to the bridge?’

  The bosun’s mate didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, ‘I haven’t looked in there. I assumed that you wouldn’t leave anything behind.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lorenz. ‘I’m grateful that you are of the opinion that my rank entitles me to greater privacy than the rest of you, but I’m a member of the crew, just like everyone else, and you are equally obliged to remove any of my possessions if I fail to take them away.’ Lorenz opened the bedside cabinet and felt along the shelves. Wilhelm remained standing in the same position.

  ‘Kaleun?’

  Lorenz closed the cabinet door. ‘What is it, Uli?’

  ‘I . . .’ Wilhelm put his hand into his pocket. ‘I found this.’ When his hand appeared again he was holding a coin between his thumb and forefinger.

  Lorenz took it and studied the relief image of Britannia, the warrior queen, wearing her plumed helmet and tilting her trident forward in a manner that suggested casual belligerence. The date beneath the personification was 1937.

  ‘A British penny,’ said Lorenz. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In the torpedo room,’ Wilhelm replied.

  Lorenz flicked the coin over. The head of King George VI was shown in profile, surrounded by a Latin inscription.

  ‘Yes, but where exactly?’

  ‘On the linoleum, sir.’

  ‘In full view?’

  ‘Yes. In front of the tubes.’

  Lorenz held the coin up to the overhead light. ‘Why wasn’t it noticed before? I wonder.’

  ‘He—the British officer . . .’ Wilhelm offered his faltering hypothesis with an accompaniment of awkward gestures. ‘He must have lodged it somewhere—between the pipes—and eventually the coin must have worked itself loose.’ He shifted as though the deck plates beneath his boots were becoming hot. ‘I think I heard it fall out.’

  ‘Did you?’ Lorenz drew back.

  ‘No, perhaps not: I heard something.’ Wilhelm immediately looked as if he regretted this admission. ‘But I don’t know what it was, not really.’ After picking up the half-full sack he had left in the hydrophone room, Wilhelm squared his shoulders and said, ‘Permission to continue clearing the boat, sir?’

  ‘Permission granted,’ said Lorenz.

  The bosun’s mate saluted and stepped through the hatchway and into the control room.

  Once again, Lorenz studied the image of Britannia on the coin. The patriotic British anthem sounded in his mind: Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves. He had visited London many times in order to improve his English, and, when attending public events and ceremonies, he had thought nothing of joining in when the chorus came around. Now those same words were like a bleak prophesy.

  Lorenz put the coin in his drawer and sat down on the mattress. Uli, he thought. You are such a bad liar. He could hear Wilhelm collecting the sacks together before making his departure. The rapid rattle of the mate’s ascent up the ladder communicated his eagerness to get out of the boat. He was clearly very frightened.

  LORENZ WAS USHERED INTO A regal room with a high ceiling where he found Dönitz standing by a window, his profile silhouetted against the strong light. Glittering motes floated around his head like the stars mounted on the metal halo of a religious statue. The vice admiral gestured toward a semicircle of chairs that had been arranged in front of the impressive fastness of his oversized desk. Lorenz sat down and his superior began pacing back and forth before finally stopping to say, ‘The need for sacrifice continues, but this need will not continue indefinitely.’ It was as though Dönitz were participating in an ongoing conversation that only he had been able to hear. ‘Our new boats, when they come out of the shipyards, will be lauded as miracles of advanced engineering. It’s just a question of holding on until then. A little longer, that’s all.’ He sat down behind his desk and tapped a pile of papers that he had evidently been reading. It was Lorenz’s war diary. Not the scrawled original, but a more legible typescript prepared by Ziegler. Dönitz turned the pages, slowly, one by one, stopping occasionally in order to look up and ask Lorenz a question. The vice admiral was capable of exceptional pedantry. He was not content to wage war from the safety of the U-boat command center, moving small blue flags around a map; he wanted to feel close to the action and he could only achieve this by perusing war diaries and interrogating the men who wrote them.

  Lorenz was aware that Dönitz was approaching the point in the diary where he, Lorenz, had acknowledged receipt of the triply encrypted special order. He felt a frisson of excitement and hoped that he would soon discover more about Sutherland and Grimstad. Yet he was also braced for a reprimand on account of having failed to return the prisoners safely to Brest. The SS would almost certainly have registered a complaint. He sat up straight, ready to defend himself, but Dönitz passed over the relevant sheets and became somewhat preoccupied with the malfunctioning torpedoes.

  ‘What do you think went wrong?’ Dönitz leaned forward, hawkish.

  ‘I don’t think we missed,’ Lorenz replied. ‘We were in close. The most likely explanation is firing-pin damage.’

  ‘Due to high pressure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’

  The vice admiral continued reading the diary and discussing technicalities; however, the flow of conversation halted when he arrived at a page that seemed to cause him some concern. Ominous creases appeared on his forehead. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Dönitz pointed to an entry. As Lorenz craned forward the vice admiral began to recite: ‘Resound, then, foaming waves, And coil yourselves around me . . .’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘It’s from a poem by Ludwig Tieck, sir.’

  ‘Let misfortune rage around me,’ Dönitz continued, ‘And let the cruel sea roar!’

  Lorenz sat back in his chair. He had forgotten writing these lines in the solitude of his nook. It hadn’t seemed a particularly odd thing to do at the time, but now that he was sitting in front of Dönitz, he regretted having been so flippant. ‘I’m sorry, Admiral. I hadn’t had much sleep.’ He attempted to trivialize his idiosyncratic behavior by laughing. ‘The lines came into my head when I was making a note of the conditions—after we surfaced—stupid of me.’

  Dönitz was not amused. ‘If the swell was moderate—then please write moderate swell. That is quite sufficient.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lorenz, ‘My apologies, sir.’

  When the last page of the war diary had been turned, a lengthy silence followed. Dönitz drummed his fingers on the table. He was absorbed by his own thoughts and his gaze was distant and unfocused. The end result of the vice admiral’s extended period of concentrated thought was a single word, murmured rather than spoken: ‘Unlucky.’

  Lorenz was unsure how to respond. ‘Yes, Admiral,’ he said. ‘Losing Hoffmann was very unlucky.’

  ‘I was thinking more about the air attacks,’ Dönitz continued. ‘Wherever you went, you seemed to run into the British air force.’ Motes winked around his head.

  ‘It was as though they knew where we were,’ said Lorenz. ‘And where we were going, sir.’

  Dönitz’s eyes narrowed and his expression became disapproving. Lorenz’s suggestion accommodated too many challenging possibilities, and the vice admiral was loath to engage in speculative discussion. ‘You were unlucky, Kapitänleutnant,’ said Dönitz, stressing each syllable with deliberate emphasis.

  Lorenz decided that it might be wise to change the subject. ‘Sir, may I ask a question?’ The vice admiral made a permissive gestur
e. ‘The prisoners that we took on board . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘You were told, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was told that Sutherland was a British submarine commander, and Grimstad a Norwegian academic. But who were they? Why were they important?’

  ‘That need not concern you, Lorenz. Thank you for returning the professor’s notebook, by the way.’

  ‘And the stone, sir?’

  ‘Ah yes, the stone. It was marked, wasn’t it?’

  ‘With a rune, I believe.’

  ‘The notebook and the stone have already been dispatched to Wewelsburg.’

  ‘The British commander was armed. He was carrying a Walther PPK.’

  ‘I know. I’ve read your diary.’

  ‘How did the SS react when they learned about what had happened? If I may ask, sir?’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about, Lorenz. No one has suggested you were at fault.’

  ‘I’m surprised, Admiral.’

  ‘You may well be; however, that is—thankfully—how things stand. Now, I would suggest we move on.’ Dönitz suddenly appeared uncomfortable. He sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘Look: between you and me, Lorenz, I wasn’t happy about this escapade. There’s no such thing as a spare boat, and I wanted U-330 elsewhere at the time. Be that as it may, I was not able to refuse the request. Do you understand?’

  ‘It wasn’t good for the crew, sir,’ said Lorenz. ‘They’re sailors, they don’t like Fridays and they touch their collars for luck. Sutherland killed a man and then took his own life—on our boat! The men were . . . unsettled, Admiral.’

  Dönitz lifted the war diary and turned it over so that the title page was facing upward: a clear indication that the matter was closed. Twitches around his lips resulted in an unconvincing smile. ‘Thirty-one thousand tons, all things considered a good total. But I know that you can do better.’

  ‘I’m sure I can, sir.’

  ‘Another twenty-eight thousand, Lorenz, that’s all that stands between you and a Knight’s Cross. I trust that when you return from your next patrol, you will have given us good reason to celebrate.’

  ‘Thank you for your confidence, sir.’ The sun edged into view, and the window pane behind Dönitz’s head was instantly transformed into an oblong of white brilliance. Lorenz shaded his eyes.

  THE HOTEL CAFÉ ASTORIA FUNCTIONED as an unofficial social club for the 1st U-boat flotilla. It was patronized largely by those who eschewed the dubious pleasures of the Casino Bar and tended to attract the higher ranks: officers, warrant officers, and very occasionally a visiting commodore. Conversations took place against a constant background roar of battle reenactments and immoderate, drunken hilarity, while the statutory chanteuse, whose ruined voice resembled a foghorn, competed for attention with the assistance of a surprisingly energetic trio of elderly musicians.

  Lorenz was standing at the long, brightly lit lounge bar, stooped over his beer, eyeing his own reflection: a well-groomed man with a clearly defined jaw and dark slicked-back hair. Behind his shoulders, the mirror revealed a large, crowded space of peeling gilt and threadbare fustian receding into hazy obscurity. Overhead, an ostentatious chandelier manufactured miniature rainbows.

  ‘How was it in the Lion’s den?’ asked Graf.

  ‘He growled a bit,’ Lorenz replied. ‘But on the whole he was perfectly civil.’

  ‘Did he say anything about—you know—our little errand for the SS?’

  ‘Not a great deal. It’s as though the whole episode never happened. Or at least that’s how they want it to appear now.’

  ‘Perhaps someone important blundered.’ Graf raised his glass and after taking a few sips, licked the foam from his upper lip.

  ‘That seems very likely,’ Lorenz nodded.

  ‘I’d still like to know what it was all about, though . . .’ Graf was distracted by a loud crash. A chief petty officer had fallen to the floor and his companions were trying to get him back on his feet again.

  ‘Where are you taking your leave?’ asked Lorenz. He was glad of the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘My wife’s coming here at the end of the week,’ Graf replied. ‘And then we’re going to spend some time at the chateau.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘De Trévarez. Have you been yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s right out in the Breton countryside, overlooking Châteauneuf-du-Faou—rolling hills—beautiful.’ Graf seemed to be absorbed by recollections of the picture-postcard retreat, where, between patrols, U-boat men could stay and relax with their wives or paramours. Embarrassed by his temporary absence, Graf excused himself and added, ‘Then we’re going back to Dresden. The children are staying with my mother-in-law until we get back.’ Tilting his head to one side, he inquired: ‘And you, Kaleun?’

  ‘Paris.’

  Graf gave a sly smile and nodded knowingly. For a brief, passing instant, Lorenz was tempted to disclose something more, but he found that he could not speak openly about his private life. Consequently, their conversation became disjointed. Graf yawned and said that he was going to bed. Lorenz stayed on, drinking alone, thinking of Paris and Faustine—her little apartment in the Marais, and their intense, desperate lovemaking. When he finally stumbled out of the Hotel Café Astoria at an hour much later than he had originally planned, he discovered that he had drunk too much and the cobbles felt springy and buoyant underfoot. He needed to walk in order to sober up and he found himself, without much consideration, heading off in the direction of the naval harbor.

  THE MASSIVE STEEL DOORS OF the bunker were wide open. Painted over the cavernous entrance was a stylized, angular eagle clutching a swastika in its talons and beneath this totemic emblem was a slogan, rendered in blockish, utilitarian lettering: THROUGH STRUGGLE TO VICTORY. Two armed guards acknowledged Lorenz’s approach and an administrator wearing a uniform decorated with silver trim looked up from his clipboard.

  Once inside, Lorenz marched along a corridor that passed between workshops. The air was permeated with dust and the stench of burning rubber. Men in dungarees operated lathes and milling machines—acetylene torches hissed, sparks fell in glittering cascades, and carpenters sawed, hammered, and hollered: the din was unremitting. Near the firefighters’ room a throng parted respectfully to allow Lorenz through, and he continued to penetrate the bunker complex until he arrived at the entrance to pen ‘A.’

  The dimensions of the structure inspired a reaction akin to religious awe. Lorenz registered converging perspective lines, huge planes of damp concrete, and an inestimable volume of empty space. There was something about its size, its airy vastness, that invited comparison with a cathedral, even though the interior was entirely functional and without ornament. High above the wooden crates on the quayside the ceiling was covered with panels of corrugated steel and spanned by the gantry of a mobile crane. Two hinged, overlapping metal doors provided defense against the sea and upward of these was an opening through which Lorenz could see a slab of black sky.

  U-330 had been lowered onto stocks and the harsh glare of the surrounding lights exposed every detail of its distempered skin, eruptions of blistering paint and florid outcrops of rust which, like soft-tissue ulcers, appeared to be producing runnels of brown discharge. A stab of pity caused Lorenz to catch his breath. To him, the boat did not look like an inanimate object, but rather a great wounded leviathan. Schmidt and Krausse were guarding the footbridge: fear of sabotage had become so great that only crew members and authorized personnel were permitted on board. As Lorenz approached, Schmidt saluted. ‘The repair team was called away, Herr Kaleun. Some kind of emergency in the next pen, and they needed extra hands.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lorenz, ‘there’s no hurry. We’re not going anywhere for a while. Anything I should know about?’

  ‘Nothing specific,’ said Schmidt. ‘They say there’s a lot to do.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Lorenz resp
onded. ‘We took a few knocks this time, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sir—we certainly did.’

  Gesturing toward the boat, Lorenz continued, ‘I’m going to take a look.’

  He set off down the footbridge, and craning over the hand rail observed that the floor of the pen was still mottled with puddles of seawater. He also noted some conspicuous dents in the bulging fuel tank. On reaching the other side of the channel that separated the deck from the quayside he climbed the conning tower and lowered himself through the hatch.

  The fetid odors that lingered from the patrol were finally beginning to dissipate, and other smells, such as cleansing agents and wood polish could now be detected in their place. Portable lamps had been fixed on tall tripods in the control room but only one of them had been left on. Its reflective silver dish was directed at the numerous dials surrounding the hydroplane wheels. Lorenz walked from compartment to compartment, switching on lamps and trying to work out what problems the repair team had uncovered. Several deck plates had been lifted, exposing cables and accumulators. Both of the boat’s batteries had been disconnected, and abandoned tools and toolboxes confirmed that the electricians had made a sudden departure. Lorenz found the absolute quiet disconcerting. At sea there were always noises: pounding engines, humming motors, voices, creaks, waves slapping against the tower. Now, there was only a solid, unyielding silence. Lorenz drifted through the diesel room, past the tiny galley and between the tiers of bare bunk beds.

  In his nook, Lorenz sat on the mattress, opened his drawer, and gazed down at the British penny. If it had been concealed between pipes, as Wilhelm had suggested, then it would have almost certainly become dislodged while depth charges were exploding around the boat. How, then, could it have been passed over in a busy torpedo room? How could it have been ignored until Wilhelm chanced to find it? Lorenz’s troubled contemplation of the coin was succeeded by more diffuse anxieties. Why, he asked himself, did I decide to come back here tonight? The absence of ready answers heightened his discomfort, yet eventually he concluded that he had returned to clarify matters—although what he truly meant by this remained imprecise. Gently, he pushed the drawer and the penny disappeared from view.