The Passenger

by F. R. Tallis

  Graf put his spoon down and said, ‘That’s all right then.’

  No one smiled.

  ‘The flak-cannon teams are working well,’ said Falk, ignoring the irony of his superiors. ‘We’re ready to respond to an attack at any time—at least, theoretically.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Graf. ‘It’s always reassuring to know that—at least theoretically—there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Falk would not be baited. He turned away and stared into the eyes of the portrait of Vice Admiral Dönitz.

  Later, the majority of the crew, made lethargic by Werner’s generous portions of stew, loosened their belts and retired to their bunks. The red dark-adaption lights were switched on and the boat became hushed and womblike. Conversation was unusually restrained. Quiet speech was succeeded by intermittent whisperings which were finally lost in the slow buildup of huffs and wheezes preceding sleep. Soon the air was resonating with snores and mumbles.

  Lorenz was recumbent in his nook, passively observing a mental slideshow of Faustine: her feral eyes, her seductive smile, her slim wrist circled by a simple silver chain, the classical proportions of her nose, the vertical seams of her stockings that divided her calves and connected the hem of her skirt with the heel of her shoes. He remembered the mellow, lilting musicality of her voice, her books and her perfume, the scarlet impression of her lips on cigarette paper, and the paradox of their ecstatic union which always contained elements of anguish and despair.

  Sleep washed over him in immense slow waves and he was carried onto the deck of U-330 and into a dream that replicated reality. The boat was trapped in a frozen sea and the sky was rippling with green light. He looked in wonder at the 8.8 cm deck gun, which appeared to be buried in a large viridescent gemstone. Among the ice floes in the middle distance he saw the raft approaching through black channels. He saw Sutherland and Grimstad in their customary positions—one standing, the other seated—and a third figure, a woman, pressing her body against the British commander. When Lorenz raised his binoculars he recognized Faustine. Her right arm was extended across Sutherland’s chest and her fingers were splayed over his heart. One of her legs was raised and the angle of her knee had made her skirt ride up to reveal her garters. She rested her head on Sutherland’s shoulder and gazed at Lorenz. The coruscations in the sky found chromatic resonances in the beryl of her eyes and she looked demonic. Attached to her back were two black wings that arced so high they almost met above her head. She opened her mouth and a scorpion crawled out.

  Lorenz awoke. He pulled the curtain aside and looked across at Ziegler. The radio operator was sitting forward, elbows on the table, his chin supported by his interlocked fingers. Lorenz let go of the curtain and his privacy was restored. The boat was not entirely silent. There were men talking in the control room, and he could hear drops of water falling into the bilges—a constant, regular beat. The hull was creaking like a sagging floorboard. He recollected standing outside his sister’s house, smoking a cigar and talking to Hebbel. What had the doctor said? Something about dreams meriting interpretation . . . Lorenz couldn’t remember precisely. What did this dream mean? Why had his brain cast Faustine as the Angel of Death and delivered her into the arms of Lawrence Sutherland?

  Suddenly there was a loud bang—a sharp detonation. Lorenz sat up, and his first thought was that they had finally been discovered by the British or Americans. He quickly changed his mind. There was no strafing or gunfire, the lookouts were silent, and more important, there were no further ‘explosions.’ He got up and stepped into the gangway.

  Ziegler looked startled. ‘Sir? What was that?’

  Lorenz ignored the radio operator’s question and entered the control room, where he found Schulze and Krausse standing by the periscope, looking like stuffed shop mannequins. They had been conducting some routine maintenance work, and Schulze was clutching a large wrench.

  ‘You heard it?’ Lorenz asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Schulze.

  Lorenz climbed to the top of the ladder and opened the hatch. The cold flayed his face. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Müller peered down, his sou’wester silhouetted against a luminous mist. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘Only the fireworks. Why?’

  Lorenz shook his head—it doesn’t matter—and closed the hatch again.

  As soon as Lorenz was back in the control room there was another loud bang. The sound seemed to have come from the forward end of the boat. Lorenz exchanged puzzled glances with Schulze and Krausse before he swung through the bulkhead and marched past the hydrophone and radio cabins. He ducked under a hammock, stepped over a pile of discarded clothes, and when he straightened up a slimy side of ham slapped against his cheek. Men were stirring in their bunks. He arrived in the torpedo room and noticed that the chains of the lifting gear were swinging slightly. A torpedo had been pulled out for servicing. Lorenz sniffed the air. He couldn’t smell burning, only a foul combination of body odor and grease. He studied the swaying chains. There was no draft, the boat hadn’t rocked, and no one could have tampered with them before his arrival. He reached out, grabbed the links and released them when they had stopped moving. Once again, there was another bang. It was close enough and loud enough to make his ears ring.

  Falk, Juhl, and Graf appeared.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked the chief engineer.

  Lorenz paused before answering. ‘Perhaps the ice is fracturing.’

  He made his way back to his nook, donned his cap and leather jacket, and ascended to the bridge. Looking over the bulwark he saw that some of the ice around the bow was uneven. Jagged pavements had risen out of the water at an angle. He addressed Müller. ‘Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?’

  ‘The fireworks,’ Müller replied. ‘Only the fireworks.’

  ‘How about you Arnold?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything . . . unusual, Kaleun,’ Arnold responded.

  ‘The ice . . .’ said Lorenz, pointing beyond the cable cutter. ‘It seems to have moved. You haven’t seen it moving, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Müller’s expression was perplexed.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Arnold.

  ‘What did you hear, Herr Kaleun?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Three loud bangs,’ Lorenz replied. ‘I suspect the sound was transmitted through the hull. Odd though: odd that you didn’t hear anything.’

  When he dropped back into the control room a small crowd had gathered. In addition to Falk, Juhl, Graf, Schulz, and Krausse, he also saw Schmidt, Sauer, Pullman, Voigt, Fischer, and Danzer. They were looking at him expectantly.

  ‘There has been some displacement,’ Lorenz informed them. ‘Some cracking and lifting, but none of it conspicuous enough to attract Müller and Arnold’s attention.’

  ‘Well,’ said Graf. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the boat. Everything seems to be in order.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Lorenz. ‘You might as well go back to sleep.’ His gaze traveled around the ring of faces. ‘All of you.’ The ‘all’ was emphatic.

  Back in his nook, Lorenz could hear the men quietly conferring. It took them a long time to settle, and the boat was not returned to its former, satisfied, tranquil silence. The new silence was brittle and uneasy. Tensed beneath their fetid blankets, the men were not sleeping but thinking, and Lorenz suspected that most of them were thinking much the same thing. The noises that they had heard did not sound like breaking ice. They sounded much more like gunshots.

  THE TEMPORARY TWILIGHT AT MIDDAY was accompanied by a rise in temperature, and fissures began to infiltrate the ice field surrounding the boat. It became easier to scrape the rime off the flak cannon, and curling strips fell away from the barrel like decorative paper. Darkness returned but the fog continued to reflect and refract the flamboyant sky.

  After eating his lunch, Lorenz went up to the bridge and surveyed the eerie desolation. It seemed as if the boat had been plucked out of the sea by a mischievous
giant and deposited in the middle of a lifeless salt plain. He turned to Falk and said, ‘I’ll take over. I want you to check the torpedoes and fire-control systems. If the thaw continues we might get away sooner than we thought.’

  ‘Sir, isn’t that rather . . .’ Falk hesitated before he found the courage to add, ‘Optimistic?’

  ‘You sound surprised, Falk,’ Lorenz responded.

  Falk returned an uncertain smile, saluted, and disappeared down the hatch. It wasn’t really necessary for Falk to check the torpedoes and fire-control systems. The first watch officer had been quite right to raise the issue of prematurity, and Lorenz could just as easily, and more properly, perhaps, have given the same order to the chief torpedo man’s mate. In actuality, Lorenz had wanted Falk to leave the bridge so that he could be alone with Sauer.

  Sauer was responsible for the crew’s clothing, the daily cleaning rotation, and—during surface attacks—the entry of data into the boat’s computer. He was also expected to perform custodial duties: supporting the younger sailors, offering them paternal guidance, and resolving any disputes before they came to the commander’s notice. If Lorenz wanted to gauge the mood of the crew, then there was no better way of doing so than to discuss it with Sauer.

  ‘So . . .’ said Lorenz. ‘How are they?’

  Sauer raised his hand and tilted it from side to side. ‘Not bad. But not good either.’

  ‘Jittery?’

  ‘Yes, largely because of Wessel. And last night didn’t help, Kaleun.’

  ‘What has Wessel been saying?’

  ‘That he saw a man walking on the ice.’

  ‘Does Wessel think he saw anyone in particular?’

  ‘When he talks like that it reminds the men of Richter.’

  ‘Yes—yes . . .’

  ‘Last night,’ said Sauer, his voice acquiring a concerned tone. ‘It was peculiar, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Lorenz touched his ear. ‘Listen.’ The ice field was groaning softly. ‘I remember going for a skiing holiday in Austria a few years ago, and at night the glaciers were almost singing.’

  ‘Did you see anything, Kaleun?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘When you were up here with Wessel?’

  ‘No. Not a thing.’

  ‘The boy must have been tired.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘Not used to the cold.’

  ‘Who of us is?’

  ‘I try to reason with them, Kaleun. But they get such ideas . . .’

  ‘I know, Number One. I know.’

  The two men fell silent. After a lengthy interlude, Lorenz cleared his throat and said, ‘Pullman?’

  ‘What about him, Kaleun?’

  ‘Is he fitting in?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, for a new officer, which is to say—no—but the men tolerate him. He can be irritating at times and he gets under our feet, but what can you do?’

  ‘Has he converted any of the heathens yet?’

  ‘He’s been working hard on Berger and Wessel.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Anybody else?’

  ‘Well, he’s raised the subject of politics with pretty much everyone except the officers, of course. But I don’t think he’s making much progress.’ Sauer indicated the swirling mist. ‘We’ve been lucky with this cover, Kaleun. I heard an aircraft fly past about half an hour ago. They had no idea we were here.’

  The ice stopped groaning, and the silence that followed was curiously gravid. They both held their breath as if waiting for something to happen—but nothing did.

  Lorenz exhaled and folded his arms. ‘Will you have a word with Wessel?’

  ‘I already have. But I can do so again if you wish—and I can be a little firmer, Herr Kaleun.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  PERPETUAL NIGHT AND SILENCE MADE it difficult to keep track of time. Lorenz looked at his wristwatch but the hours of the day had lost all meaning. There were no more card games and singing competitions. When the routine maintenance jobs had been completed the men went back to their bunks and slept. Eating was the only activity that brought the crew to life. Half past six: breakfast; midday: lunch; 5.15: light dinner. They would talk and joke, but most attempts at humor were forced and feeble; behind the fixed grins and artificial posturing lurked boredom, nervousness and suspicion.

  Brandt was sitting in the radio shack, leaning forward and listening intently.

  ‘Any change?’ asked Lorenz.

  The radioman shook his head and offered Lorenz the earphones. Lorenz took them and covered his ears with the speaker pads. The sounds were identical to those he had heard before, a rushing noise like wind, constantly changing to suggest a repeating cycle, interrupted by sudden flurries of high-pitched whistles and tweeting. It was while he was listening to the rushing sound that he imagined he could hear again the inflections of speech. The low mumbling suddenly clarified and a voice declared in measured English, ‘How often do opportunities like this arise? How often do we get a chance to speak with our opposites? What harm will it do—a little civilized conversation?’ He recognized his own words. They no longer sounded cordial, but like a taunt. Lorenz wanted to rip the headphones off his head and stamp on them. Even so, he forced himself to remain still. The rushing continued, becoming louder and softer, and as it diminished he heard, very faintly, as if the speaker were receding rapidly, ‘A penny for your thoughts.’ It was a British idiom that he was familiar with. A woman he had once met in London had been overly fond of employing it. Like an automaton, Lorenz removed the headset, handed it back to Brandt, and said, ‘Tedious, I know. But stay vigilant.’

  Lorenz collected the British penny from the drawer in his nook and went up to the bridge. Juhl and Thomas were standing like bookends, staring into featureless embankments of mist. Lorenz brought his arm back and hurled the coin over the starboard side of the boat and onto the ice. ‘My thoughts are not for sale,’ he whispered in English.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Kaleun?’ Juhl asked.

  The world was still and silent. Throwing the penny had been an act of defiance but Lorenz did not feel stronger or more resolute as a consequence. In fact, he felt the very opposite: deflated, defeated, overcome by doubts—as if he had made some final and irreversible surrender, as if he had pressed a coin into the palm of the ferryman and paid for the transport of his soul across the black water of the Styx to Hades. ‘I’m sorry?’ Juhl repeated. A large icicle fell from the radio antenna and shattered on the deck.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Promising . . .’

  LORENZ COULD HEAR PULLMAN PREACHING to his disciples but he wasn’t listening to what the photographer was saying; instead, he was thinking about the night he had spent with Monika in the Hotel Fuerstenhof and wondering whether Glockner had found the courage to telephone Monika’s friend, Lulu Trompelt. There was something about Pullman’s pulpitry that seemed to demand more attention; it kept on insinuating itself into Lorenz’s consciousness until eventually he was forced to attend more carefully to the content. As soon as he did so, Lorenz understood why the monotony of the photographer’s ecclesiastical cadences had been so distracting. Pullman was talking about runes. ‘The Sonnenrad or sunwheel is the Old Norse representation of the sun, and it is used by the Waffen-SS divisions Wiking and Nordland and the Danish branch of the Allgemeine-SS. The Tyr-Rune, also known as the battle rune, is used to represent leadership. It is commonly used by the SS as a grave marker instead of the Christian cross. Tyr was—of course—the god of war.’ Lorenz stepped out of his nook and walked to the crew quarters. Pullman was sitting on the edge of a bunk with Berger, Wessel, and Thomas at his feet. The photographer was holding up an open notebook in which he had drawn the symbols he was describing. As Lorenz approached, Pullman stopped speaking and the others turned their heads. They all stood.

  ‘You know about runes?’ Lorenz asked.

  ‘Yes, Herr Kaleun,’ Pullman replied. />
  Lorenz held out his hand, indicating that he wanted to look at the notebook. He flicked through the pages and saw various angular symbols. ‘Have you studied Norse literature?’

  ‘No,’ said Pullman, affecting modesty. ‘I’m no scholar.’

  ‘You must have learned all this from somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve read books—that’s all.’

  Lorenz jerked his head to the side, inviting the photographer to join him in the officers’ mess. ‘What books?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What books have you read?’

  ‘Guido von List’s The Secret of the Runes, the works of Karl Maria Wiligut . . .’

  ‘Have you read Grimstad?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Professor Bjørner Grimstad?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Tell me, what does this mean?’ Lorenz opened the notebook on a clean page and drew the symbol that he remembered from Grimstad’s stone.

  ‘I believe that is Thurisaz. A very powerful rune—it represents a reactive force, or the direction or channeling of power. Are you sure that you have drawn it correctly, Herr Kaleun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’ve drawn it upside down, which alters its meaning somewhat. When a rune is reversed it is described as a merkstave.’

  ‘Merkstave?’

  ‘The literal translation is “dark stick”.’ Pullman traced his fingertip over Lorenz’s penciled figure. ‘You have drawn a vertical line and a triangle pointing to the left. Usually the triangle of Thurisaz points to the right. This reversal signifies a darker meaning, the channeling of malice, spite, hatred. Where did you see this, Herr Kaleun?’

  ‘What do you mean by that? “Channeling” . . .’

  ‘Many people—educated people—believe that runes can be used to release powers. Some believe that these powers are nothing more than dormant human potential, but others believe that they are objectively real.’ Pullman repeated his question. ‘Where did you see this rune, Herr Kaleun?’