by F. R. Tallis
‘Oh?’
‘I’d like you to find out about a professor who used to have a chair at the University of Oslo. He’s dead now. Bjørnar Grimstad—an archaeologist. He may have been involved with the Norwegian resistance.’
‘What do you want to know, exactly?’
‘I want to know what he studied: I want to know if he was regarded as an authority on anything and I want to know what sort of a man he was.’ Glockner looked over his glasses, sensing that Lorenz hadn’t quite finished. ‘And . . .’ Lorenz lowered his voice, ‘I want to know why the SS were interested him.’
‘Ah,’ said Glockner. ‘I see. Perhaps it would be wise to give me some background—a little context?’
Lorenz had not intended to disclose the full story of his involvement with the Schutzstaffel’s special operation, but already he could see that total candor was necessary. He hunched his shoulders and leaned forward. ‘We’d been sent up north to provide a weather report—idiotic use of a U-boat—and we were on our way south again when we received a triply encoded message from headquarters.’ He continued, describing Sutherland and Grimstad’s transfer, the shooting incident, and Dönitz’s reluctance to discuss the matter, and ended with an account of his meeting with Friedrich in the Scheherazade Club.
‘Intriguing,’ said Glockner. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of the tablecloth, ‘How very intriguing.’
‘But tread lightly, Leo.’ Lorenz walked his fingers around his coffee cup. ‘Friedrich was almost certainly telling the truth. His orders came from very high up.’
‘I always do.’
‘Even so . . .’
‘And what do I get in return?’
Lorenz studied his friend’s badly ironed shirt and crumpled tie. ‘Steffi is setting me up with a pretty school teacher—I’m meeting her tonight. I’ll ask her if she’s got a friend, someone who likes opera and reading foreign poetry. Will that do?’
It was sad how little it took to make Leo happy.
THAT EVENING, THERE WERE TWO dinner guests: Monika, the school teacher, and an elderly doctor called Hebbel. Monika was young, attractive, and respectful. She wore her blond hair in traditional alpine braids, and there was something about her appearance that suggested fresh-faced innocence, wholesome country living. Hebbel, a widower, was Elias’s mentor and a longstanding friend of the family.
When they had finished eating, Lorenz was encouraged by Hebbel to step outside in order to sample one of his ‘strong’ cigars. The doctor claimed that the smoke that they produced was so pungent it would almost certainly irritate the delicate mucous membranes of the female nose. It was, as Lorenz suspected, a somewhat transparent pretext for a man-to-man discussion about submarine warfare. The doctor was particularly interested in the routine deprivations of everyday life on a U-boat: the moldy food, the damp and stink—the cramped space and poor sanitation. He shook his head sympathetically and said, ‘The nation owes you a great debt.’ A limousine festooned with pennants rolled down the road and a face appeared in the black rear window. The vehicle slowed for a few seconds before accelerating into the night.
‘A curious thing happened on our last patrol,’ said Lorenz, affecting an attitude of casual disregard. ‘We were transporting a British prisoner who unfortunately died before we could get him back to base for questioning. Shortly after, one of my mechanics had an accident—he banged his head on a diesel engine—and from that moment onward he kept on babbling about having seen the dead man.’
‘The brain is a remarkable organ,’ the doctor responded. ‘But uniquely vulnerable. The slightest concussion is sometimes all that it takes to disrupt its functioning.’
‘Indeed. It’s just . . . I was wondering . . .’ Lorenz rotated his cigar in the air, producing a floating white hoop that gradually dissipated. ‘Are hallucinations always connected with insanity?’
‘Your mechanic suffered a brain injury. He didn’t go mad, as such.’
‘He was acting as though he was mad.’
‘Yes, because of a lesion in his brain.’
‘Don’t all hallucinations come from the brain?’
‘They do . . .’
‘Then what’s the difference?’
‘You raise a very interesting point, my friend. Doctors have been arguing over such philosophical distinctions for a hundred years or more. I suppose, medically speaking, all hallucinations must be the result of some kind of lesion, but some lesions—such as those that are likely to result from banging one’s head against a diesel engine—are more readily determined than others. Are you worried about this crewman?’
Lorenz ignored the question. ‘Then you would say that hallucinations—if not always associated with insanity—are always associated with a . . . brain problem.’
‘Well,’ said Hebbel, his face showing the first portents of that singular form of irritation professionals are prone to exhibit when subjected to persistent questioning by laypersons. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. There are some who have proposed other possibilities, other accounts that do not assume structural damage.’ The doctor sucked on his cigar and when he exhaled, his features vanished momentarily behind a vaporous haze. ‘I used to know a psychiatrist called Simmel. He founded the Tegel Palace Sanatorium not far from here. It was a very fine institution in its day.’ Hebbel seemed to be engaged in the effortful process of forming a mental picture of those persons and places he was remembering. ‘Simmel was a disciple of Freud, and on those occasions when Freud came to Berlin, he usually came as Simmel’s guest. I attended one of Freud’s talks.’ Hebbel’s eyes became more focused. ‘You know of Freud?’
‘I’ve heard of him, of course.’
‘His work has since been vilified for being un-German.’ Again, Hebbel paused to draw on his cigar. ‘I had many fascinating conversations with Simmel and the members of his circle. Some of his associates suggested that hallucinations have special meaning, and, like dreams, merit interpretation. Indeed, they spoke of hallucinations as if they were escaped dreams . . .’
‘Escaped from where?’
‘The unconscious: that part of the mind that is not accessible to introspection. Deeper and wider than any ocean you have explored, my dear fellow, infinitely deep. It is a concept that has become associated with Jewish psychiatry, but actually our own German philosophers have been discussing the hidden depths of the mind since the eighteenth century.’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Doctor, my question . . .’
‘Which was . . . ?’
‘Are hallucinations always a symptom of insanity?’
‘In most cases, yes, but in others—perhaps—hallucinations might represent some kind of communication from the unconscious.’
‘I don’t understand: communication? What kind of communication?’
‘That rather depends on the circumstance. But if a person were, let us say, in some kind of danger, then the hallucination might be construed as a warning.’ The doctor dropped his cigar stub and crushed it beneath his heel. ‘Come now, shall we go inside? It’s cold and I am of the opinion that Fräulein Monika is eager to become better acquainted with you.’ Hebbel smiled. ‘You shouldn’t be standing out here discussing philosophical aspects of psychiatry with an old man like me when there’s a pretty girl like Fräulein Monika anxiously awaiting your company. That would be madness!’ The doctor laughed at his own joke, and resting a solicitous hand on his companion’s back exerted just enough pressure to encourage movement. Lorenz tossed his cigar stub aside and said, ‘In which case I had better prove my sanity before you call an ambulance.’ Opening the front door he bowed and gestured. ‘After you, Herr Doctor.’
LORENZ WAS SITTING OUTSIDE A café on Unter den Linden, sipping his coffee and flicking through the evening papers. The unseasonal mildness of the preceding day had caused him to doff his overcoat and drape it over an adjacent chair. After twenty-seven months, Germany was finally at war with America. Yet this momentous news had had no noticeable effect on life
in the city: civil servants clutched their leather briefcases and marched briskly toward the Brandenburg gate; well-dressed secretaries checked their makeup in hand mirrors as they clicked past on high heels; crowded trams rattled along tracks, and Mercedes drivers honked at cyclists. The bustling capital seemed unchanged.
Leaning back in his chair, Lorenz estimated the size of the US navy, and made some rudimentary calculations. It took up to 300,000 man-hours to build a Type VIIC U-boat—and the newer models took even longer. German shipyards would never be able to meet revised targets, not unless some of the work was given to steel mills and factories. Pressure hull sections and plating would have to be assembled by subcontractors. The task was colossal.
‘Kapitänleutnant.’ Lorenz turned to see who had spoken. The voice belonged to a boy of about fourteen years of age, dressed in the winter uniform of the Hitler Youth: a blue tunic, cap, and black shorts. He was accompanied by an identically accoutred and smaller companion. ‘Kapitänleutnant, we would be greatly honored if you would sign our autograph book.’ The boy produced an imitation-leather volume chased with gilt involutions.
‘What?’
‘Your autograph, Kapitänleutnant?’ The boy signed the air to make his meaning clear.
‘Listen,’ said Lorenz. ‘Why don’t you run along to the nearest theatre, where I’m sure you’ll find a gamesome actress who’ll be only too pleased to sign your book. That would be a much better use of your time, believe me.’
The boys shared a moment of confusion before their simmering excitement came to the boil and they both started asking questions simultaneously: ‘Where are you based?’ ‘What is the number of your boat?’ ‘What type is it?’ The taller boy stopped talking but his friend continued. ‘American sailors will be no match for our navy.’ He looked somewhat moist and overwrought. ‘Our group leader says that they have left it too late to enter the war, that the Americans are inexperienced and unprepared.’
Lorenz was relieved to see Monika approaching. When she arrived she smiled at the boys and said, ‘Who are your friends?’ Lorenz stood up and drew a chair out from under the table. She sat down and the taller boy said to her. ‘We’re collecting autographs.’ When Lorenz sat next to Monika the boy placed the book and a pen on the table directly in front of him. Lorenz stared at the blank pages.
‘Siegfried?’ Monika prompted.
‘The book contains the names of many heroes,’ said the smaller boy encouragingly.
Lorenz recoiled. Observing his discomfort, Monika said, ‘Kapitänleutnant Lorenz is a very modest man.’ Then, catching his eye, she queried again: ‘Siegfried?‘
‘I’m not . . .’ Lorenz began an abortive sentence and then immediately failed to complete another. ‘It’s just . . .’
Monika stiffened. ‘Siegfried, they’re waiting.’
He didn’t want to make a scene. Picking up the pen he scrawled his name and said, ‘There!’ The delighted boys gave him the party salute and said in unison, ‘Good hunting, Herr Kapitänleutnant,’ before rushing off with their prize.
‘Why didn’t you want to sign their autograph book?’ asked Monika.
Lorenz shrugged. ‘Where shall we eat?’
They found a pleasant, traditional restaurant in Kurfürstendam but the tasteless, rubbery food was somewhat disappointing. Lorenz made a comment to this effect, and Monika said, ‘Well, nothing’s quite as good as it was.’ There was no awkwardness and their conversation flowed easily. Monika talked about the school where she worked, her love of teaching, and her hobbies, which were all, predictably, either healthy or meritorious: mountain walks, swimming, painting watercolors, and singing in a choir. As the evening progressed, Lorenz realized that he had not fully registered the magnitude of her beauty. Her perfectly balanced features conformed to a classical ideal and her clear, powder-blue eyes were like those belonging to an antique doll. She was a sweet-natured creature, solicitous and sympathetic. Suggesting that they book a room in Hotel Fuerstenhof for the night was not going to be acceptable.
‘That boy,’ said Monika, ‘the shorter of the two who wanted your autograph. He was right, you know.’
Lorenz tried to make sense of the non sequitur but was unable to do so. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You are heroes.’ Her expression changed, quite dramatically, as though her features had suddenly been cast in a different light. Her elevated jaw suggested Stoic pride and her striking eyes became filmed with emotion. Lorenz smiled politely. Heroes. A part of him was still standing on the bridge of U-330, watching men burning and screaming in an infernal sea. Monika reached across the table and covered his hand with her own, and he noticed that her skin was remarkably soft and cool. ‘You do your duty. And I am prepared to do mine.’ There was no doubting her meaning.
Lorenz was shocked and for a moment quite speechless. In his mind, sex and patriotism were very separate entities, and he wanted to keep it that way. ‘You are most kind and I am genuinely touched by your generosity of spirit.’ He captured the attention of a passing waiter and ordered another bottle of wine. ‘But please . . . tell me more about your school.’
THE FOLLOWING MORNING LORENZ WANDERED into the kitchen and found Steffi sitting at the table. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’
‘How did what go?’
‘The district baking competition—what do you think?’
Lorenz was amused by her sarcasm. ‘It went very well.’
‘So, do you like her?’
‘She’s extremely good company.’
‘But . . .’
‘Could we continue this conversation after I’ve had a cup of coffee? I’ve only just woken up.’
The telephone rang, and Steffi left the kitchen. She returned almost immediately.
‘It’s for you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Someone calling from Brest.’
Lorenz went to the drawing room and picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’
‘Good morning, Lorenz, it’s Cohausz.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this early hour but I have some bad news concerning your boat.’ Cohausz hesitated before continuing. ‘There was a battery explosion.’
‘My crew,’ said Lorenz anxiously. ‘Were any of them injured?’
‘No. But two electricians were killed and two firemen.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Lorenz. ‘Do you want me to come back now?’
‘No,’ said Cohausz. ‘There’s nothing you can do—your return would serve no purpose. U-330 will be in dry dock for at least four or five weeks. What with it being so close to Christmas we’ve decided to extend your leave.’
‘Thank you, sir. What caused the explosion?’
‘We don’t know as yet.’
‘Is the boat very badly damaged?’
‘I’ve been assured that everything can be put right.’
They speculated about the possible causes of the explosion for a few minutes before Cohausz said, ‘Incidentally, we’ve found replacements for Hoffmann and Richter.’
‘Are they experienced men?’
‘Be realistic, Lorenz.’ Cohausz didn’t elaborate. ‘And you’ve been allocated an extra crew member—a photographer.’
Lorenz sighed. ‘They get in the way. Do we have to take him?’
‘Yes. Enjoy the rest of your furlough.’
When Lorenz returned to the kitchen Steffi looked wary. ‘What’s happened?’
‘An accident—a battery explosion on my boat—some people got killed.’
‘Crew?’
Lorenz shook his head. ‘Maintenance and firemen.’
‘Must you go back?’
‘No. I can stay in Berlin until after Christmas.’
Steffi stood up and embraced him tightly. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this—not given the circumstances—but that’s wonderful.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
After eating a light breakfast Lorenz walked to the lake. Had the
batteries been leaking chlorine? And for how long? Poisonous fumes could cause hallucinations; that was common knowledge. He was still searching for answers, explanations for his bizarre experiences, common-sense explanations that didn’t implicate brain lesions or esoteric psychology or the reality of ghosts. The degree to which he wanted to believe that everything could be attributed to the pedestrian expedient of poisonous fumes was, he realized, a measure of his desperation. But the very fact that there had been yet another accident made the superstitious agitation of his crew seem less ridiculous—even warranted, perhaps. Lorenz picked up a stone and made it skip across the water.
‘YOU KNOW,’ SAID LORENZ, AS he tied a glass ball to one of the lower branches of the Christmas tree. ‘I have a Christmas tree on my boat. In the control room there is a complicated assembly of pipes and red wheels. All U-boat men refer to this structure as the Christmas tree.’
‘Do you hang things on it?’ asked Jan.
‘No. That would be dangerous. The red wheels are the flooding and bilge valves. We need to get to them quickly—decorations would slow us down.’ Pia handed Lorenz a carved wooden angel blowing a trumpet. ‘Last year,’ Lorenz continued, ‘when I knew that I was still going to be at sea on Christmas day, I made sure that we had an artificial Christmas tree on board. We put it up on Christmas Eve and the cook made us a special Christmas dinner.’
‘Did Father take a Christmas tree with him to Russia?’ asked Jan.
‘He didn’t need to,’ Lorenz replied. ‘They have plenty of Christmas trees in Russia. I had to make special provision, you see, because Christmas trees are rather hard to come by in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.’
When they had finished decorating the tree, they sat on the floor and admired their handiwork. Lorenz pointed out how their reflections were distorted in the silver baubles and the children laughed. He wanted their laughter to last forever, because when they stopped laughing, another minute would have passed, and every passing minute brought him closer to the end of his furlough. A familiar dread rose up inside him, bringing with it memories of the torpedo room splattered with blood and brain tissue; a cold hand on his shoulder; Richter saying, He tried to strangle me. While I was asleep. Hoffman’s severed safety belt; and a face—as white as alabaster—momentarily illuminated by the sweep of a flashlight beam.