Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘New course – two, eight, zero.’

  Krauz rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘New course, Captain; two, eight, zero.’ The Skagerrak. Mines every metre. So cheap, the RAF’s giving them away.

  Fourteen miles east of Grenen Point, Andromeda surfaced and charged for the Norwegian coast, the night black, a last quarter moon hidden by low clouds.

  ‘We’ll reach deeper water in about four and a half hours, Captain,’ Reidel calculated.

  ‘Good,’ said Lanze. ‘But don’t spare the fuel. We’ll run at high speed all night.’

  A warming mug of coffee in his hands, Lanze checked his watch – 06h30.

  ‘Where are we, Horst?’ he asked.

  ‘Somewhere off Stavanger, I reckon, passing the mouth of Bockna Fiord.’

  ‘We’ll give it another half hour, trim for snorkel and resurface at 17h00.’

  Lanze had barely closed his lips when a call blared up through the pipe.

  ‘ALARM!!! CONTACT! AIRCRAFT! Bearing one, seven, zero; range: 4,000 metres, closing.’

  Lanze and Reidel turned, caught the first drone of the Sunderland’s engines, tumbled through the hatch and almost flew down the tower.

  ‘DIVE, DIVE, DIVE! THIRTY METRES!’

  The first stick of bombs fell as Andromeda dipped into the sea, waves washing over the for’ard casing, four thunderous detonations battering the port side, the submarine shuddering violently.

  ‘My God, he’s close!’ shouted Lanze. ‘Hold on!’

  Perspiration was suddenly the common bodily function, anxiety the shared emotion. A minute later, four more deafening detonations came in quick succession – BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The boat lifted violently, valves hissing, a tympanic racket from the galley, Janssen wishing he’d joined the army. The lights flickered, went out, then came on again. Damage crews darted from compartment to compartment, tools in hand, respirators at the ready.

  ‘Number One!’ cried Lanze.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Distance to Kors Fiord?’

  ‘About eighty-five miles, Captain.’

  ‘Helmsman!’ called Lanze. ‘Hold your course!’

  He turned to Reidel.

  ‘He’ll suspect we’re running to Bergen, so he’ll think we’ll change course and try to fool him, but we won’t… Tell Mohle I want seventeen knots.’

  Reidel looked astonished.

  ‘We’ve never done it before, I know, but it’s what this lady’s all about. Seventeen knots!’

  The floor plating seemed to go ahead of them as Mohle turned up the screws, the boat responding positively, the control room steady at last. Four more detonations sounded way to port, and a minute later, four more, fainter still. Janssen smiled and finally let go of the large brass valve he was clinging to, his face awash with relief.

  An hour later the submarine rose again to snorkel level, the sky clearing as the two big diesels yawned back to life.

  The elements of mother nature were at their most unforgiving, but Lanze pressed on.

  Andromeda was mid-way between the Iceland-Faroes gap, ploughing through mountainous seas enraged by freezing, hurricane winds, the boat reacting violently, icicles hanging like trinkets from the barrels of the two twin anti-aircraft guns, the for’ard and aft’ casings encrusted with ice.

  The thought of deeper water was tempting enough, but in spite of the cruel conditions, Lanze was determined to push on, snorkelling by day, surface running by night. Eventually the storm abated, the boat making passage through calmer waters. Fifteen days after setting off, fortune smiled. Andromeda had broken out into the North Atlantic.

  Wednesday 21st February 1945

  All officers and senior NCOs had gathered in Lanze’s quarters, anxious to learn the secrets of the dark-blue envelope.

  ‘Gentlemen, for your ears only. We are heading for the South Atlantic, thirty-four nautical miles east of the coast of Argentina, borderline between naval quadrants GK9198 and GK9432,’ revealed Lanze.

  A unified sigh of relief filled the small, cramped room.

  ‘We’re not going…?’

  ‘Hunting, Janssen? No,’ reassured Lanze. ‘We’re delivering some groceries.’

  ‘Groceries, Captain?’ the midshipman replied. ‘You mean, the boxes we loaded at—?’

  ‘I mean groceries, Janssen. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a long way, Captain,’ observed Mohle. ‘Even with the Regelbunker full, we’ll need to be very frugal with fuel… I mean, do you think we’ll make it there and back?’

  Reflecting inwardly on the one part of the orders that had come as a complete shock, even to himself – ‘then recce the north coast of the Gulf of San Matias’ – Lanze shrugged.

  ‘Quite possibly not,’ he admitted, ‘but once we get back into the North Atlantic, there’s a chance we can rendezvous with another U-boat. Hopefully they’ll have enough fuel for us to see us safely back to Norway.’

  He turned to the leading telegraphist. ‘Schulz, this is a particularly sensitive mission. As we approach our final position, messages on the special key Enigma will be in triple code. Secondary one-time pads are in my safe. I’ll speak to you about that later.’

  Lanze switched his gaze to Reidel. ‘Number One, this is going to be a long patrol, and by normal standards, perhaps a fairly dull one. Nevertheless, regardless of the inactivity, we need to keep the crew energetic. Everyone must be kept physically fit and mentally alert. There’ll be lots of drill.’

  He flicked his attention to the midshipman. ‘Janssen, I think I can say with some certainty that this will be a wearisome and boring passage. Apart from keeping the men sharp, we need to keep their vitality and interest at peak levels, so I want you to organise a routine of interesting recreational events, competitions, that sort of thing. Start with a general knowledge contest, arrange a chess tournament, cards, anything. Appoint one of the junior NCOs to lend a hand. And I’d like you to start a weekly news bulletin. Invite the men to make contributions, announce birthdays and anniversaries; you know the kind of thing. There’s a lot of talent on this boat, so use it.’

  The men nodded their agreement. The long troop south had begun.

  32

  The horizon was all the proof he needed and yet von Menen could scarcely believe his eyes – Montevideo was in sight. After twenty-six days at sea, all that stood between him and Maria now was a ten-hour ferry crossing, a warm evening breeze and… Colonel Filipe Vidal!

  He disembarked at Montevideo, spent a restless night at the Hotel Pyramides followed by an even more restless day of waiting, before taking the overnight steamer to Buenos Aires.

  Wednesday 14th February 1945

  The ferry docked at Buenos Aires two hours after dawn. It was Valentine’s Day and wonderfully warm, the sky a clear pastel blue, the air fresh and clean.

  The smell of charred wood, damp rubble, gas and the nauseating stench of decaying flesh was back in Berlin. Buenos was bright, clean and alive; the buildings had walls, doors, windows and roofs; the streets and sidewalks were free of craters and debris, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours: purple jacarandas, tall and stately, lush green grass and the brilliance of summer flowers – petunias, snap dragons and marigolds.

  Von Menen walked the entire distance to the Hotel Phoenix, carrying the doll’s house by its braided handle in one hand and suitcase in the other, the encumbrance outshone by the excitement of seeing Maria.

  He checked in, placed a hurried call to Maria’s apartment and then, remembering that her phone would be tapped, hung up at the first ring. Instead, he rang the Clínicas, which patched him through to Maria’s ward.

  ‘Ward six, Sister speaking.’

  ‘Doctor Maria Gomez, please?’

 
‘You’ve just missed her. She’s doing her rounds. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, thank you, but perhaps you can tell me what time she finishes duty.’

  ‘Six o’clock this evening. Shall I say who called?’

  ‘Er, no, thank you.’

  He hung up and scribbled a brief message:

  Dearest Maria,

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

  Please meet me at Plaza Congreso, seven o’clock tonight.

  Love, C.

  He slipped the note inside the handkerchief he’d been carrying for over a year, placed the handkerchief inside an envelope, took it to a florist’s shop on Santa Fe and asked for it to be delivered to the Clínicas with fifty red roses.

  The sun was arching over the rooftops, a crimson glow fading in the west. Even the birds had retreated to the trees.

  Von Menen checked his watch. It was nine o’clock and he was beginning to think that Maria would never appear. The notion of two people hurrying to meet in a wild embrace was waning.

  Just then, a taxi nudged out of Avenida Montevideo and halted by the corner. A woman in a plain pink dress stepped out. A joyless look on her face, she seemed strangely lethargic, even hesitant, but it was definitely Maria.

  He leapt up from the bench and waved, but her reaction was negative. No smile, no haste. Thinking that he might have been led into a Vidal-inspired trap, von Menen looked around, but could see no cause for concern.

  She inched across the plaza, footsteps unwilling, face strangely severe. They were just four metres apart, von Menen sensing a dense barrier between them. He could almost feel it.

  When they finally met, his affection was promptly rebuffed. Maria was cold, austere and distant, like a stranger he had never met before. When he tried to get close to her, she began to weep loudly, snatching the odd gasp of air, like a child throwing a tantrum. He moved to console her, but she pushed him away. Von Menen was awash with doubt, confusion, shock and disbelief.

  ‘What’s wrong, Maria?’ he asked, wondering if he’d met the right woman.

  Her hands folded into dainty fists, drumming relentlessly against his chest. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ she cried. ‘Why did you leave me?’

  Confused, he reached out for her wrists. She tried to wrestle free but he held her tight, her forehead falling upon his chest.

  ‘Because I had to, Maria, I had to. You know that. We talked about it, remember?’

  Her sobbing stopped, her face a pitiful portrait of agony, sorrow and grief. He looked at her, a deep, penetrating look, thought of Templehof Airport, saw the same tears that Sigi Bredow had shed and felt the pangs of his conscience.

  ‘I had no idea where you were!’ she shouted. ‘No idea how to contact you! No inkling of when you’d come back! Nothing! And I needed you!’

  Humiliated, he looked beyond her. When he finally had the nerve to face her again, she set him another rock-hard gaze, bristling with scorn and indictment, a look that reawakened his own anxiety. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed her by the shoulders and held her rigid.

  ‘Don’t, Maria! Don’t! I don’t need this anxiety! I’m sick of it!’

  ‘You’re sick of it? How callous, how insensitive can you be? What do you think I’ve been doing these past twelve months? I’m wasted to the core with emotion. I’ve cried myself dry.’ Her fists were pounding his chest again, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘You – left – me – pregnant! Pregnant, do you hear?’

  His heart froze, an anaemic shade stretching across his face. He lowered himself to the bench and buried his head in his hands. She sat down beside him, listening to him mumbling through his fingers, his voice full of guilt and remorse.

  ‘I… God, I’m so sorry, Maria, I’m so very, very sorry. If I’d have known, I would never…’ He paused and faced her, searching for something other than forgiveness. ‘What…?’ he paused again, the question too painful.

  ‘I miscarried last May,’ she said, ‘two months after you left.’

  Von Menen sat in shame and guilt, staring at the green dome atop the Congress Building.

  ‘And your parents…?’ he asked quietly.

  She stole another quick breath, the tears welling up in her eyes again. ‘I never told them. I didn’t tell anyone. By then, Daddy was too ill. I just couldn’t burden him further. He died last October… Another heart attack.’

  Von Menen’s chin dropped to his chest. ‘I’m very, very sorry, Maria, truly I am.’

  He moved a little closer. Grudgingly, she allowed him to place his hand on top of hers and they sat quietly, neither saying anything, until eventually he placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

  ‘Whatever you think, I do love you,’ he said softly.

  She regarded him with some suspicion. ‘Really love me?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve just travelled halfway around the world to be with you,’ he said, silently begging her to believe him.

  ‘And you’re back for good?’

  ‘Yes. I won’t be returning to Germany, ever!’

  As they walked along Avenida de Mayo, an air of calm settled over Maria.

  ‘Have you a hotel?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the Phoenix, on San Martin,’ he replied weakly.

  The silence lengthened again. Then, just as they crossed Talcahuano, Maria said nonchalantly, ‘Remember Uncle Filipe?’

  Von Menen’s throat went dry. He swallowed repeatedly. ‘Er, yes, of course I do.’

  ‘He was killed in a road accident two months ago.’

  She announced the news almost as indifferently as she’d mentioned the name. Von Menen’s heart skipped a beat, his pace slackened, his mind spinning into overdrive. Perhaps he’d misheard.

  ‘Sorry… what was that?’ he asked timidly.

  ‘Uncle Filipe – he was killed in a road accident, just before Christmas. His car crashed into a ravine… burst into flames.’

  ‘A… road accident?’ asked von Menen gingerly, not daring to believe his ears.

  ‘Yes, a senior naval officer was killed with him… Ortiz, I think Mummy said his name was. The funeral was a grand affair. Everyone was there… Perón and his girlfriend. The army arranged everything. Aunt Isobella didn’t have to do a thing.’

  A ten-tonne weight of suspicion landed inside von Menen’s head. I bet the army arranged everything… the brakes, the ravine and the fire. Bet they supplied the mortician, issued the death certificate and got rid of the car, too. It was murder; murder by car accident.

  Von Menen’s mind was split down the middle – an excess of remission on one side, a surfeit of doubt on the other. The question gnawed at him: How much do the Federal Police know about me? He needed answers and he needed them fast.They walked in silence as far as Avenida 9 de Julio, von Menen thinking all the while. He chose his moment as they crossed the wide boulevard.

  ‘A year ago last January, Maria, when Argentina broke off diplomatic relations with Germany, did… well, did anyone speak to you about me?’

  ‘No. Should they have done?’

  ‘Well, I was a German diplomat and I was ordered out of the country.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, it’s only natural to assume that the authorities would want to be sure that I’d left. I mean, somebody must have told them about us – Uncle Filipe, perhaps?’

  ‘Apart from the very immediate members of my family,’ she said, noting the anxious look on his face, ‘hardly anyone knew who you were. None of my colleagues at the Clínicas knew much about you, and certainly none of my neighbours did. You told me not to say anything. Remember?’ Her last word was seared with cynicism. ‘That leaves Mummy, Aunt Isobella, my cousin Eduardo and me. Certainly no one spoke to me about you and no one spoke to Mummy about you, either. As for Aunt Isobella and Eduardo, if anyone had ment
ioned your name to them, they would have told me about it.’

  They reached the Hotel Phoenix, von Menen feeling like a condemned man waiting to be sentenced; Maria seemed friendlier, though less than happy.

  ‘So, what now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’ve been away for over a year and suddenly, out of the blue, you turn up again, thinking nothing has changed. But it has changed… I’ve changed.’ She fixed him with a searching look. ‘Believe me, I very nearly didn’t come this evening.’

  ‘Is there someone else?’ he asked, fearful of the answer.

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘It’s just that, well, a lot has happened to me this last year and I’m still trying to come to terms with it.’

  ‘I realise that. I’m not looking for clemency.’

  ‘I need time,’ she stressed, walking away towards the taxi rank. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He made his way with her along the sidewalk. ‘If you do call,’ he whispered, ‘please don’t ask for me by name… ask for room twelve.’

  She inclined her head, then got into the taxi without a backwards glance.

  It was von Menen’s turn to feel abandoned, like the unlucky child at the party – the music had stopped and there he was, in Buenos Aires, with no chair to sit on.

  His mind spinning like a gyroscope, he reached for his suitcase, poured a large measure of cognac, sat on the edge of the bed and tried to analyse the whole damn mess.

  Maria had every cause to be angry, but he felt sure he could win her over. The real test of nerve lay in the demise of Vidal and his co-conspirator, Ortiz.

  If what Maria had told him was true, his name had never entered the equation; not where the Federal Police were concerned, anyway. Maybe Vidal had said nothing. Perhaps he’d never been questioned. Given the politics of Argentina, it wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that he and Ortiz had been murdered on the whim of Buenos Aires intrigue.