by James Remmer
‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said von Menen, somewhat puzzled. ‘From Ulricht’s message I assumed the ship would be sailing on 20th January. What’s the problem?’
‘Ulricht got it wrong; she’s scheduled to sail on Thursday! You’ll need to be there when she arrives in Lisbon. If you’re not, someone will grab your place!’
Von Menen looked heavenwards and sighed dejectedly. ‘Maybe there’s a train?’
‘There is; it leaves Madrid at nine o’clock tonight, arrives Lisbon at around ten-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ve booked you a first-class sleeper.’
Von Menen’s eyes brightened.
‘The ticket’s with all your other documents. You’ve got just two and a half hours,’ said Cortes, checking his watch. ‘No time for dinner, I’m afraid. You’ll have to eat on the train.’ Cortes was halfway to the hall. ‘I must phone the shipping agency,’ he shouted. ‘They’ve given me until eight o’clock this evening to confirm the booking.’
Von Menen was in the process of extracting the three envelopes from the lid of the cardboard box when a gleeful Cortes returned to the room, waving a small reddish-brown document and a coffee-stained piece of paper.
‘Your passport, Carl, and the telegram about your “grandfather”. They’ve been under lock and key since last October.’
Von Menen tucked them inside his jacket pocket and handed Cortes the three envelopes. Over a glass of wine, he explained the finer details of his family’s proposed escape to Argentina, but said nothing about the gold and made no reference to the arms shipment. Cortes listened vigilantly and questioned nothing.
Von Menen mused about the fate of the Swiss passport and its matching birth certificate; it was too useful to discard, yet too bulky to conceal in the neat little hidey-hole vacated by the three envelopes. Cortes disappeared from the room, returning with a silver-framed photograph of his own grandfather, along with a length of black ribbon.
‘Where we Latins are concerned,’ he said, ‘observing the conventional symbols of grief is a sacred process. It’s up to you, of course, but I doubt anyone would wish to disturb a photograph like this, not with all the accompanying evidence, anyway.’
He levered back the grippers at the rear, withdrew the wooden backing and slipped the passport and the birth certificate beneath the photograph.
‘You’d best make a note of the name, Juan; I might be using it in a couple of months!’
‘Don’t worry, it’s in my head: Kurt Lindemann.’
Cortes wrapped the black ribbon around the edge of the frame and tied it off with a bow on one of the corners.
‘There you are, your dearly departed Spanish grandfather.’
Von Menen emptied his suitcase, soaked away the Made in Switzerland label and repacked the contents, ensuring to leave the photograph conspicuously on top. He looked at his watch for the third time in under a minute. Beneath the veneer of calm, a sense of urgency was building.
‘We have a bit of time, Carl,’ Cortes assured him. ‘Enough for me to tell you about your shipping passage. You’re booked on Monte Amboto, a small cargo ship, about 3,000 tonnes. She’s expected at Buenos Aires around 13th February, so you’ll have plenty of time to relax, if that’s the right word. To alleviate the boredom, I’ve put together a few books for you. I’ve also got you this.’
‘La Vanguardia?’ asked von Menen, looking at the name of the newspaper. ‘Friday 22nd December? I don’t understand.’
‘You will when you study the obituary column. Your dearly departed grandfather is in there, died 18th December. I went for the most impressive entry. As you can see, I took the family name from your Argentine passport – Menendez. Quite impressive, don’t you think, that thick, black border?’
Von Menen laughed. ‘You’re in the wrong job, Juan – you ought to be with the Spanish Secret Service.’
‘I thought it would add a little flavour.’
Von Menen pulled a wad of notes from his wallet. ‘The ticket, Juan… pesos or Swiss francs?’
‘Neither,’ Cortes shrugged. ‘Consider it your wedding present.’
His words sent a spasm of guilt through von Menen’s mind, the glaring image of a distressed Sigi Bredow, abandoned outside the terminal at Tempelhof Airport, gripping his conscience.
‘This is government business, Juan,’ he said, shaking himself free of the memory. ‘I can’t have you paying for that. Anyway, you’d best take it. I’ve no need of it.’
‘Goodness, Carl, it wasn’t that much. I didn’t buy the ship!’
‘Keep the balance on deposit for when my family arrives.’
In Madrid, the lights were burning brightly, a cosy unhurriedness reflecting inside the cafeteria at Delicias Station.
After her own tormenting ordeal, Spain remained remote and detached from the conflict raging elsewhere in Europe. No fires. No sirens. No bells. No crump of ordnance.
Von Menen climbed aboard the train and waited in the corridor, head through the window.
‘Bon suerte, Carl,’ shouted Cortes.
The train pulled out beneath a thick cloud of steam, the engine hissing and screeching, the carriages jerking and shuddering. Von Menen stuck out his arm and waved one last time. ‘Adios, mi amigo! Muchas gracias.’
At the frontier town of Valencia de Alcántara, nobody seemed in a hurry. While one locomotive was swapped for another, Portuguese customs officials and agents of Franco’s Political Social Brigade asked the same questions.
‘Your passport, please. Name?’
‘Carlos Menendez.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘El Casar de Talamanca, north-east of Madrid.’
And so it went on, foreseen and predictable, for what felt like hours. Finally, with the day still sleeping in the east, the newly changed locomotive belched out a huge cloud of black smoke, the wheels spun furiously and the train moved out.
Von Menen flopped back on his bunk and smiled. He had been awake all night, but now he was free. He was only five hours from Lisbon.
Wednesday 17th January 1945
Accompanied by a station porter, von Menen walked the short distance from Rossio Station and checked in at the Hotel Avenida Palace.
Anxious for news on the arrival of Monte Amboto, he slipped a very handsome tip to the concierge, set the man to work and adjourned to his room. He did not have to wait long.
‘She arrives tonight, señor, ten o’clock… Sails for Gibraltar tomorrow.’
Von Menen breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Saturday 20th January 1945
Monte Amboto passed through the straights of Gibraltar at first light, stopped engines and dropped anchor one mile west of Europa Point.
The war in Europe may have been raging for over five years, but von Menen had played no real part in it. Now, for the first time ever, he was about to meet the enemy face-to-face, the advice given by Werner about the British Examination Service ringing in his mind – ‘They’re not exactly the Royal Navy, but they’re just as professional. You’ll be scrutinised very thoroughly.’
A knock on his cabin door signalled the arrival of the Captain, a charming, affable figure, full of apology for the slight detour, as he humorously put it.
‘Sorry about the inconvenience, Señor Menendez, but it’s a matter of routine. The British, you see, insist on clearing all merchant ships bound for the Americas, which means that we can’t proceed any further without the requisite Navigation Certificate.’ The Captain shrugged in resignation. ‘If we don’t comply here, we’ll have to put in at Freetown. Personally, I think it’s best done here.’
‘Does it take long?’
‘No more than a couple of hours. They’ll seal the radio room and then, if they’re terribly keen, they’ll send down a couple of divers.’
‘Divers? What on earth f
or?’
‘Mines… Sometimes they check that we’re not in cahoots with the Germans. You know, towing a couple of those big prickly things to release on our way out.’
‘Surely they wouldn’t suspect you of that, would they?’
‘I don’t imagine so, señor,’ grinned the Captain, ‘but they check all the same. Then they rummage through the holds, check the ship’s manifest, cargo, crew, passengers and the rest, which is really why I came to see you.’
Von Menen’s face showed contrived indifference, though inwardly he was thinking about Werner’s offer of a submarine and wishing to hell he’d taken it. He was, after all, a German, on a neutral ship, in British territorial waters, wearing civilian clothes – a spy! The realisation of it sent a pang of fear racing through his body that nigh on screwed his feet to the floor. If they find out, will I be shot or hanged? Will they do it in Gibraltar or take me to London?
‘How can I help you?’ he asked the Captain.
‘Your passport, Señor Menendez, I’ll need your passport.’
Von Menen fished out the document from his suitcase and handed it over. ‘Will they need to see anything else?’
‘I don’t think so, señor. They’re usually very prompt. If they need to speak to you, I’ll show them to your cabin.’
Quickening footsteps approached along the narrow corridor, accompanied by the sound of voices, English voices. Von Menen stood by the edge of his bunk, heart beating wildly, waiting for the expectant knock on his cabin door.
‘Señor Menendez… His Majesty’s Examination Service, Port of Gibraltar, sir,’ called a voice in broken Spanish.
Two knocks in quick succession.
‘A moment, please,’ replied von Menen. He took a long, deep breath and pulled open the door.
Two officers in dark blue uniforms stood there; one holding a clipboard, the other, von Menen’s passport. The officer with the passport spoke first.
‘May we come in, señor?’ he asked in Spanish.‘Of course.’
‘Do you, by chance, speak English, señor?’
Von Menen shook his head.
‘Your name is Menendez?’
‘That’s right, Carlos Menendez.’
‘From Argentina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Born?’
‘7th December 1915, Córdoba.’
‘Your father – is he Argentinian?’
‘He was, yes, but he was born in Spain.’
The officer looked again at the passport. ‘It says here that you arrived at Lisbon on 6th October last year.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And the purpose of your visit?’
‘To see my grandfather. My mother received a message from my great-aunt, saying that he was dying. She thought it right that I, being the eldest grandson, should go and pay my respects. My father is dead, you understand. Apart from my great-aunt, who’s a spinster, he has no other living relatives in Spain. They’re all in Argentina.’
Von Menen pulled out the crumbled telegram from his suitcase and handed it over.
‘Mm, I see. Do you have any other evidence of this?’
Acting the role of the doleful grandson, von Menen ambled over to his bunk, picked up the copy of La Vanguardia along with the solemnly-framed photograph of his “grandfather”, and showed them to the officer. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I have,’ he said. ‘The death certificate and will are still with the notary.’
Handing the newspaper to his colleague, the officer studied the photograph like an art expert examining an old master. He turned the frame over, his eyes on the four metal clips holding in the backing. Behind von Menen’s appearance of balanced calm, his heart was thumping madly.
‘The obituary entry seems genuine enough to me, sir,’ confirmed the younger officer. ‘Ernesto Carlos Menendez, died 18th December 1944.’
The older officer puckered his lips, took one last look at the photograph and handed it back to von Menen.
‘Our condolences, señor. You’ll appreciate that we still need to search your cabin.’
‘Of course.’
The younger officer rummaged through his suitcase while the other flicked open the lid of the cardboard box. ‘A doll’s house?’
‘Yes, a belated Christmas present for my daughter. One of my grandfather’s friends made it for her.’
‘Very nice.’ The officer picked up his clipboard and handed von Menen his passport. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Have a good trip, and our apologies for the inconvenience.’
Von Menen closed the door, gasped a huge sigh of relief and fell down on his bunk.
At two o’clock, Monte Amboto weighed anchor and set course for her long, slow voyage to the South Atlantic.
31
In the Baltic, the unstoppable Soviet Army surged on towards Danzig, spreading fear, desperation and panic throughout the German community.
Through freezing cold winds and driving snow, columns of war-weary refugees trudged west, exhausted, hungry and terrified, running a gauntlet of rape, pillage, torture and death. Vengeance was the order of the day. Only the barbarity of Himmler’s brutal SS killer squads equalled the widespread wickedness.
Further south, elements of the Red Army’s Byelorussian Front had reached the River Oder, leaving Stalin poised to take the biggest prize of all – Berlin! For the Third Reich, the end was looming up fast.
*
Saturday 3rd February 1945
There was still no news of Manfred von Leiber and the von Menens were convinced there never would be.
For Eva, the strain was unbearable. Mindful that the von Menens were in the final stages of preparing to leave for Flensburg, she thought it best if she returned to Konstanz immediately. The von Menens having failed to coax her into staying another week, she set off on what would be a four-day nightmare journey to Meersburg.
Sunday 4th February 1945
At seven o’clock the in the morning, the courtyard covered with a glistening layer of frost, Katrina, heavily pregnant and teeming with emotion, said a private farewell to Jürgen.
At the Flender-Werke shipyard Andromeda was ready to sail, armed and fully loaded with over 252 metric tonnes of fuel and enough provisions for a twelve-week patrol, a secret consignment of arms, 500 kilograms of gold and the best bunch of officers and NCOs a captain could ever wish for:
Lieutenant Horst Reidel, First Watch Officer;
Sub-Lieutenant Wilhelm Meyer, Second Watch Officer;
Sub-Lieutenant Reinhard Mohle, Chief Engineering Officer;
Wilhelm Janssen, Midshipman;
Joachim Krauz, Chief Helmsman;
Manfred Schulz, Leading Telegraphist;
Bruno Krupp, Chief Diesel Mechanic;
Willi Frenz, Chief Electro Mechanic; and
Helmut Becker, Chief Torpedo Mechanic.
Jürgen Lanze waited patiently at the foot of the gangway, face turned against the freezing wind. Lieutenant Horst Reidel, the flaps of his special fur hat pulled down over his ears, remained alone on the open bridge, eyes for’ard, scanning the quay, no fluttering pennant for company. Meanwhile, below deck, conjecture was rife, the crew waiting anxiously.
Shortly after three o’clock, Reidel leaned over the bridge.
‘It’s here, Captain,’ he bellowed.
A black Mercedes crawled slowly along the quay, halting at the head of the gangway. The rear nearside door swung open and out stepped a man in a heavy dark coat and black Homburg hat.
Lanze saluted him. They shook hands and exchanged a few words, before the dour, unsmiling man pulled a large dark-blue envelope from his attaché case and handed it over. Lanze saluted a second time. The anonymous man climbed back into the Mercedes and the vehicle pulled away.
Retreating to his cabin, Lanze lock
ed the envelope in his safe, then scrambled up the tower to join Reidel on the bridge.
‘Initial course setting as discussed, Horst,’ Lanze said. ‘Orders to be opened at fifty degrees latitude.’
‘So, it’s Bergen, the Iceland-Faroes gap and…’
‘Who knows?’ said Lanze, with a tinge of conscience.
The sky darkening, the wind growing ever more biting, Lanze peered over the bridge, a mere handful of workmen on the quay below. In the distance, a dockside crane trundled back and forth like a giant giraffe on wheels.
‘Okay, Horst. Let’s go. Manoeuvring stations. Muster deck crew.’
Reidel bellowed down the pipe and the two massive MAN diesels thundered into life, a tremor rushing through the superstructure, NCOs and ratings bubbling up through the galley hatch, the quay deserted – no jubilant crowds, no “at ease” line-up on the for’ard or aft’ deck, no Siegfried-Line chorus, no symbols, trumpets or drums, no band at all. Even the Flotilla Commander was conspicuous by his absence.
‘All set, Captain.’
Lanze glanced for’ard and aft’. ‘Let go the lines!’
The gangway pulled clear and the lines snaked in. A tug, fussing on the starboard side, teased the grey hulk clear of the quay, then slinked away.
Diesels humming a steady rhythm, Andromeda moved slowly out of the Untertrave and began her short journey downriver. She cleared the southern mole, took up her position astern of the escort minesweeper and followed her into the Bay of Lübeck.
South of Gedser, Lanze detached the escort vessel and blurred down the pipe.
‘Full speed!’
Gambling with his own reckoning, the chief helmsman, Joachim Krauz, who could read Lanze’s mind like a book, sensed that they were heading for seas that would be bristling with mines beneath skies full of enemy aircraft.
Some hours later, Lanze confirmed his instincts.
‘Helmsman!’