by Alex Gerlis
Then it was along the jetty, where he was hurried under the chute through which the chromium was noisily passing, and then he was walking alongside the Steliana. At the gangplank Suleiman dropped back and Prince hesitated but the cousin urged him on and they climbed onto the ship. There an officer was waiting; he and the cousin exchanged a nod of heads and the cousin gestured for Prince to follow the officer.
They climbed down a series of ladders, along narrow passageways, into a smart dining room and through a small door in the bulkhead. Once he was in, the officer left, locking the door from the outside leaving Prince alone. Moments later a door in another bulkhead door opened and another man entered.
He was a short man with a seafarer’s weathered complexion and neatly combed dark hair. He stood close to Prince and for a moment or two there was an awkward silence until Prince remembered his line.
‘I’m a traveller – from Cyprus.’
The main smiled and bowed his head.
‘I am most pleased to hear that. I prefer to sailing into Famagusta than Limassol. I am Cristian Moraru, master of the Steliana. I believe you have something for me?’
He handed over the envelope which Captain Moraru gratefully accepted, half turning his back on Prince as he meticulously counted its contents.
‘Good. I told the Greek that what he was asking of me would be very expensive and even this may not be enough. Paying my officers is not going to be cheap, and then when we dock in Constanța… and the journey from there… let’s see, eh?’ He shook his head, making it clear how expensive things were. ‘We sail in two hours, at around seven o’clock. We should dock in Constanța around…’ he consulted a large gold watch, ‘…maybe three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You’ll stay in here. I can assure you it is very comfortable.’
‘And what happens tomorrow?’
‘I told you, we dock in Constanța around three o’clock.’
‘I mean after that… with your… cargo – and with me?’
Captain Moraru sat down and indicated for him to do likewise. ‘The Greek didn’t tell you?’
‘He said he’d arrange with you for me to accompany the cargo to its destination.’
Captain Moraru adjusted his very shiny gold watch and from his top pocket extracted an equally shiny gold cigarette case. He passed a cigarette to Prince and lit both of them with an even shinier gold lighter.
‘When we dock in Constanța the Germans will check the cargo. If satisfied then they allow it to be unloaded. It’s transferred from our holds to railway wagons and then to the port of Cernavodă on the Danube where it’s loaded onto barges and then continues its journey. I don’t know where it stops or how the cargo then gets to Pilsen.’
‘So what happens with me?’
‘When the Germans release the cargo it becomes the responsibility of a chief mate, not a crew member of this ship. Their job is to look after the cargo from when it leaves the Steliana, through its journey by rail and barge and then however it gets to the factory in Pilsen.’
‘And this chief mate – he’ll know about me?’
Captain Moraru shook his head. ‘No, I told the Greek that until we dock I don’t know who the chief mate for this cargo will be. There are six or seven of them we deal with on a regular basis. I told him that if it turns out to be one of the Austrians or the Slovak then he can forget it. Even to ask them means I’d be signing my death warrant. There’s a Romanian who’d be fine, a Czech who I’d trust and a Hungarian too. Obviously they’d all want paying generously which is why I told the Greek I needed so much money. And there’s always the danger it could be a chief mate we’ve never come across before, in which case I wouldn’t say a word to them. Unless they’re Czech – I always trust a Czech.’
‘And if tomorrow… if it’s not a chief mate you can trust?’
Captain Moraru stood up and opened his arms with a ‘What can I do?’ gesture. ‘I guess you’ll have to make your own way back to Istanbul. I did tell the Greek that – a pity he didn’t tell you.’
* * *
With the exception of an officer bringing him a meal that evening along with breakfast and lunch the following morning, Prince was left on his own. It was a strange feeling of isolation. Each of the cabin’s four bulkheads appeared to have an engine behind it, yet despite the incessant noise and lighting which remained on the whole time he felt relaxed and even managed to sleep a few hours here and there. Like the prisoner in Lincoln prison, there was little he could do now about his fate. In between time he paced around the cabin and familiarised himself with the small Beretta, getting used to it in his hand, practising releasing and reloading the magazine, working the safety catch, getting used to drawing it from the back of his trousers and aiming at a point on the wall, hoping none of the Romanian officers would choose that moment to come in.
What he didn’t do was think too much about his circumstances. He realised his position was, to all intents and purposes, a pretty desperate one. He had three identities on him, all of which were frankly useless. At the compound in Istanbul he’d checked in an atlas to work out distances, and it was more than a thousand miles from Constanța to Pilsen; London was two hundred and fifty miles closer to the Czech town. London would have every reason to be furious with him. Even if the chief mate turned out to be someone Captain Moraru trusted, he realised each one of the thousand miles that lay between Constanța and Pilsen would be lined with danger.
The ship docked at three thirty, at which time the lights in the cabin went out. The engines closed down and although the ship was quieter it became noisier in another way, with the sounds of shouting and movements echoing around.
Possibly an hour later, maybe closer to five o’clock, Prince heard voices outside the cabin, raised at first, and then the sound of laughter. The lights went on and the door opened.
Captain Moraru entered, closing the door behind him. He sat down, with his now familiar display of gold: the watch, cigarette case and lighter.
‘You’re lucky.’ A long pause while two cigarettes were lit and half smoked. ‘The chief mate is the Hungarian, János.’ He nodded his head approvingly.
‘That’s good, maybe—’
‘…but…’ The Romanian was holding up his hand. ‘He wants more money, much more money than the Greek allowed for it. Do you have money on you? I can’t believe you don’t. Ideally Reichsmarks… and you’ll need to be generous.’
‘What have you told him about me?’
‘Nothing, other than that you need to get to Pilsen and will pay very well for his services.’
Prince opened his backpack and placed it on his knee, trying to ensure the captain couldn’t see into it. From the concealed compartment he took out what he estimated to be the equivalent of four pounds’ worth of Reichsmarks and handed them to Captain Moraru who took them, counted them and shook his head.
‘Not enough. He’ll want the same amount again.’
Reluctantly Prince peeled off another four pounds’ worth. It was an extortionate amount of money.
‘And the same for me… for my troubles, you understand.’
* * *
János turned out to be a taciturn but amiable man in his fifties with a ready smile and a pipe constantly wedged in his mouth. He wore oil-stained mechanic’s dungarees, a ship’s officer’s hat pulled low over his brow and an elegant if stained silk scarf wrapped around his neck like a cravat. He spoke decent German with a cultured accent and there was something enigmatic about him, as if he was someone who’d led another life. He did not seem like someone who’d spent his life ferrying cargo up and down the Danube.
The Hungarian had come to the cabin around half an hour after Captain Moraru had taken the money and explained what was happening to Prince.
‘We finish loading the train in maybe thirty minutes. We are scheduled to leave Constanța at seven thirty. It’s not far to Cernavodă but we’re in no rush – normally it can take an hour by rail but we probably won’t arrive before ten. It’s nice and
dark out there and there’s plenty of cloud but we don’t want to risk being bombed, so we go slowly with minimal lights. For the journey to Cernavodă you’ll be with me in the guard’s wagon. What identity papers do you have?’
Prince showed him the Romanian papers and János pulled a face, clearly unimpressed.
‘Where did you get these?’
‘Istanbul.’
‘Looks like it. Hopefully this won’t be a problem until we get to Cernavodă. Once we’re there I’ll put you down on the crew list. What languages do you speak?’
‘German, as you know, English too, some French and Danish.’
János puffed his cheeks out and raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. In any case, none of them are much use. Look, I’ll put you down as a Hungarian. No one else speaks Hungarian, it’s the most complex language in Europe – it’s like no other. Apparently no one has any idea where it comes from, my grandfather reckoned it originated in China thousands of years ago but there are so many different theories. With some luck you’ll be safe as a Hungarian. Just let me do the talking, every so often you can reply with “igen” which means yes and occasionally “nem” for no. They’re easy to remember.’
* * *
The train carrying the chromium and the British spy accompanying it eventually arrived in Cernavodă at around half past ten. The town was dark and silent, the only sound that of the waters of the barely visible Danube lapping against the quayside. János had told him they’d transfer the cargo at first light and then set sail.
‘We used to load the barges at night until a few months ago. One night the chief mate miscalculated and half the cargo ended up in the river. We’ll wait an hour or two and then go to the boat.’
He slept little that night. On the walk from the train to the boat he’d managed to take a few photographs with the Minox to go along with a dozen or so he’d grabbed as they’d left the Steliana. The light was poor and he doubted the quality was very good but he’d been told not to worry, a poor-quality photograph was better than none at all.
János showed him to a tiny cabin just off the boat’s engine room, little more than a narrow corridor with a bunk bed and just about enough room to stand. He took the top bunk, János below him. At around five thirty the following morning he became aware of noise, the hum of the engine now louder, and shouting outside. János came into the cabin, looking as if he’d been up all night.
‘I’ve sorted everything out – your name is István – every other man in Hungary is called István. There’ll be seven of us on the voyage, including you and me. This boat is the tug which will push the four barges loaded with the cargo all the way to Passau in Germany. The skipper’s Romanian and he answers to me. The rest of the crew are Bulgarian, which is fine. None of them know a word of Hungarian – they barely speak Bulgarian. The engineer’s called Petar. Your job is to help him in the engine room. Stay below deck as much as you can.’
The journey lasted nine long days and nights, most of it spent in the engine room where his job was to shovel coal and keep the area tidy. Occasionally Prince would go up to the deck of the tug for a cigarette and use the opportunity to grab a photograph, looking for opportunities when the tarpaulin covering the chromium might come loose for a minute or two or when they were passing through a town, trying to frame it so the town could be seen in the background.
It was an extraordinary experience, travelling through a corridor in the heart of Europe, the land ever-changing on each bank: sometimes the signs of war all too evident, while at other times they could have been journeying through the gardens of Eden. The Danube changed its colour every few miles. In Cernavodă the water had been almost black – János told him Cernavodă translated as black water – but as they travelled through Romania, into Serbia and Croatia and then north through Hungary the Danube took on, in turn, different hues of green, grey and blue.
Prince was astonished by how the Danube changed: at times it was so wide that with the mists that frequently descended over the river without warning it was hard to see the banks and it felt as if they were on an ocean. At other times the river narrowed, sometimes alarmingly. They passed through countless gorges, some as high as mountains, and through more than a dozen locks. They passed through different worlds too: he was on the deck when they sailed through Belgrade, past the confluence with the Sava which János told him marked the boundary between Eastern and Western Europe.
They travelled day and night, stopping only to take on supplies, coal and water and to allow officials to check the cargo and make sure they weren’t supplying the black market. Only once before Slovakia did anyone come below deck, a young German officer poking his head into the engine room when they’d stopped at Kalocsa just south of Budapest. Once they reached Bratislava, security became more evident; a German gunboat pulling alongside them at the point where the river felt as wide as the sea. Prince had been on deck when he spotted them, just managing to grab a photograph before they came too close.
János told him to finish his cigarette and then go below deck. ‘They’ll probably stay with us until Vienna.’
‘Why?’
The Hungarian shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s what they do. Maybe they just like company, like horses running alongside each other in a field. Don’t forget though, this cargo is very important to them, it’s vital for their war effort. They want to ensure it’s safe.’
On the Friday afternoon János called him up to the deck. ‘You see those barges there, pushed by a tug like ours?’
Prince nodded.
‘They’re chromium barges, just like ours. They’re empty, heading back to Cernavodă. This would be useful for you. Be quick though. That town on the other bank is Melk, by the way – we’re between Vienna and Linz.’
They arrived in Linz on the Saturday afternoon and János allowed the crew a couple of hours in the town. ‘I’ve told them you’re feeling unwell. You stay below deck.’
By the time first light came on the Sunday morning they were in Lower Bavaria. The Danube – which had been the Donau for hundreds of miles – was busier and quite narrow at points. It was dark when they entered Passau, pulling into a wharf on the north bank, just before the point where the Donau met two other rivers which converged on the town from the north and the south.
The port police came on board to check the cargo and the crew list, but it was a Sunday evening and they didn’t look minded to stay long; their main concern was that the cargo had arrived safely. Once satisfied they left, promising to leave an extra guard on the wharf gate. The Bulgarians disappeared into the town and the Romanian skipper was in his cabin. János and Prince were alone in the engine room, silent for the first time since they’d left Cernavodă.
‘You have family?’
Prince nodded, hoping János wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning too much. ‘And you?’
The Hungarian pulled a face. ‘Who knows? I did have family. This war…’
They’d opened the door of one of the furnaces to ward off the chill of the night and the damp of the river. ‘Tomorrow morning the cargo is loaded onto lorries and heads north to Pilsen. My job is to stay with it until it gets there. You’ll come with me. When we get to the factory, you disappear and from then on it’s up to you. I’ll return here and we head back to Romania. I always feel I’m safe as long as I’m on the river. One day we could meet again, I think my story would surprise you and I’ve no doubt your story would surprise me. I’m curious about you, my friend. I have my suspicions, and I know better than to ask, but I doubt you want to go to Pilsen just for the beer, even though it is very good. Maybe if I—’
They were interrupted by the sound of voices above them, some shouting, a door slamming and then heavy footsteps down towards the engine room. The small metal door was pushed open and two men in civilian clothes climbed in. Immediately Prince recognised something familiar about them.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ János stood up and was smiling. O
ne of the men proffered a metal disc.
‘Gestapo.’
Chapter 23
Pilsen, Bohemia
October 1943
The two Gestapo officers climbed into the engine room, bending down against the low overheads. The men wore long raincoats; one had a scarf tied round his neck, the other had a sparse moustache, possibly a poor attempt to emulate Hitler’s. Behind them Prince could make out at least one person in uniform and the worried face of the Romanian skipper.
The two officers moved close to the furnace, clearly eager to warm up. The one with the moustache asked if either of them spoke German and János sounded very calm as he replied, assuring them he’d be happy to help in whatever way was necessary. He had all the paperwork if that was what they required – maybe he could go to the wheelhouse to collect it? The officer nodded and followed him up. The other officer nodded at Prince and asked him if he spoke German and the Englishman responded with what he hoped was a blank, unknowing look and an eager-to-please grin.
When János and the moustache returned the two Gestapo men looked over the documents, fingers pointing to different parts of it, an inaudible commentary punctuated by glances up at János, the skipper and Prince.
‘So you and he are the Hungarians?’
The scarf was pointing at János and Prince. The Englishman looked away, worried he might nod or show some sign of understanding. János said they were.
‘Very well – and he’s the Romanian… yes?’
The skipper replied in broken German that he was and his papers—
‘…is there something wrong with him?’ Moustache was looking at Prince.
‘In what way, sir?’
‘There’s something that doesn’t seem right about him.’ The scarf walked over to Prince and bent down to stare into his face.