Twilight of Gutenberg

by Hitoshi Goto

  Khachmaz, that must be his hometown. By some happy coincidence the pronunciation of my hometown’s name, Hachiman, had apparently reminded him of it. Then there was a loud gunshot to the right of me. The Soviet soldier shook my hand, and ran off in that direction.

  Feeling I’d had a narrow escape, I picked up the key, and put it into the heavy lock. There was a click and the lock opened. I quickly removed the key, opened the door to the basement, then shut the heavy door behind me and took a deep breath. It was pitch black inside as I gingerly made my way down the staircase.

  After a while I came up against a door. This one wasn’t locked, and swung open with a creak.

  Inside here was pitch black too. As I took a step into the room, my foot touched something. A torch. I picked it up and switched it on, lighting up the room. I silently thanked the Swedish art dealer.

  The room was about twenty metres square. What surprised me the most was that the water came in about halfway. In other words, this was water drawn from the River Spree.

  I shone the torch on the other side, and saw double wooden doors firmly bolted from the inside. Their bottom edge was barely submerged in the water. This had formerly been a type of jetty for personal use for landing wares brought in by the river.

  And floating right in the middle of the water was an unfamiliar sight. It reminded me of what Kenichi had told me about Kaiten human torpedoes, but it looked like a canoe.

  So this is a Sleeping Beauty!

  A closer look revealed a diving suit and oar placed on the floor.

  I didn’t hesitate any longer. I hurriedly stripped down to my underwear and put on the diving suit. It was the first time in my life to wear one. It fitted snugly, covering me completely from head to foot, with only eyes, nose and mouth exposed. There wasn’t a mirror to check my appearance, but I’m sure I looked just like a ninja.

  I put on the goggles. There was something stuck around my shoulders. A plastic tube. It looked like one end fitted in the mouth. I tried it, and as I’d thought, it fit perfectly. I felt it with my hand. The tube was about fifty centimetres long and pointed straight up at the ceiling. It was for breathing underwater, I finally realised. I really was a ninja now!

  I shook my head. What was I thinking?

  First I undid the bolt over the double doors and pulled them open inwards.

  Suddenly there were red flames accompanied by the ear-splitting scream of shells, and an unpleasant stale smell assailed my nostrils. This was different from gunpowder, a lot more nauseating… was that what burning flesh smelled like?

  I put my legs into the canoe, and my whole body followed smoothly after. It seemed simple enough to operate. I could see the steering wheel and pedals to move it left and right, and up and down. So other than that, was it just a matter of paddling with the oar?

  All I could do was try it. It was nothing compared with Commander Yagyu swimming towards England, dammit!

  I took a deep breath. Along with oxygen, I breathed in the stench.

  Let’s go for it!

  Summoning up my courage, I started paddling. Surprisingly the canoe kept its balance as it slipped easily into the water. Hastily I slipped the breathing tube into my mouth. Air began reaching my lungs weakly.

  The canoe submerged about fifty centimetres into the water. My head must have been barely skimming the surface of the water. The diving suit was black, and the canoe was dark coloured too, so it must be fairly well camouflaged. I was surprised to note that although the canoe was in the water, the water resistance was not as strong as I’d thought. It must have been designed to reduce resistance.

  I slowly, slowly turned the canoe left and started paddling.

  After a while, the sounds of the Soviet tanks gaining on the riverbanks and the violent explosions of trace bullets and missiles rang in my ears. With my head so close to the surface I could clearly hear the squeals of the tanks’ caterpillar treads turning.

  Now and then I felt wood and metal debris falling into the river as a building collapsed. This was what Hell looked like, I thought as I paddled furiously.

  Sometimes I poked my head above the surface to take a look at my surroundings. Judging from the scenery on my left, I must have gone past the Tiergarten by now. I would soon be reaching the Charlottenburg district.

  The river went around two large curves. There was just as much sound and light from a fierce battle as before, as Soviet forces focused on the ground battle with German troops. I proceeded carefully, avoiding the debris from wrecked bridges and broken floodgates.

  Apart from me, there were a lot of other people in the river, but most of them were already dead and being carried by the current. In any case, I had to at least get past the city centre before it got light. Ignoring the cramps in my hands, I paddled as hard as I could.

  Eventually I went round a sharp curve to the right, practically at a right angle. I’d reached Charlottenburg.

  I kept paddling. I mentally checked the map in my mind. Ah, so now I must be passing by the Olympic Stadium on the left bank. I could never have imagined when I was there nine years earlier that I would one day be escaping from Berlin in this manner.

  There was an abrupt change in the flow of the river. That meant I’d reached Spandau, where the River Spree flowed into the River Havel. I was still quite some distance from my destination. I had to follow the flow of the Havel towards Potsdam.

  It was getting light. Gatow Airport must be on my right. I could still hear the sound of fighting. The Grunewald would be on my left. I carefully poked my head above water. Up ahead near the forested bank I saw a small island, and headed for it.

  There were withered, thick reedlike grasses on the bank. I cautiously manoeuvred the Sleeping Beauty alongside them, crawled out, and collapsed on the ground. I was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. The Soviet forces wouldn’t come here, to a small island in the river. Feeling relieved, I fell fast asleep.

  When I woke up, I could no longer hear the sounds of battle from Gatow Airport. I looked at my watch. It had stopped at just after three o’clock, probably from having been submerged under water. I suddenly felt a raging pang of hunger. For the time being I crawled to the water’s edge and drank some river water. It tasted a bit strange, but I gulped it down anyway. I probably wouldn’t die from it. But the water didn’t assuage my hunger. It suddenly occurred to me to crawl over to the Sleeping Beauty and check inside.

  There was something stuffed in the corner behind the seat, wrapped in several layers of oilpaper to keep it dry. With shaking hands I opened it up to see some military provisions. Hooray! I mentally toasted the Swedish art dealer.

  I gobbled it all up in one go. It didn’t taste of anything at all, but it was enough to allay the hunger pangs in my stomach.

  After a long time, the sun went down. I felt as though I’d never experienced sundown anywhere else but here.

  I made up my mind to get moving again.

  I passed through Potsdam before dawn, submerging the canoe as I passed under the bridge.

  After paddling for some time more, my destination finally came into view. There on the left bank were two linden trees. My hands had gone numb a while before, but the sight made me paddle faster.

  Reaching the bank alongside the two linden trees, I realised that here I was in a blind spot from the embankment. Even so, I was extremely cautious as I clambered out of the Sleeping Beauty and gave her a quick kiss before crawling over to the trunk of the nearest tree.

  What the—

  There was something in the trunk. It was cleverly camouflaged, but part of the bark had been peeled away and the trunk hollowed out. Inside there was a message painstakingly wrapped in oilpaper.

  It gave directions to a house about a hundred metres inland. Regardless of the time of day or night, I should knock five times on the door. When I heard someone inside ask in German, “Who is it
?” I should answer “Schiller.”

  I crouched down low and ran towards the house, making my way in the faint predawn light. I came across a footpath, and after checking there was no one in sight I ran across it. Then I saw the house just a little further ahead. It was in absolute darkness, with no lights on. It was a typical suburban two-storey house, only it was surrounded by woods and not other houses.

  I stood before the door for a few moments catching my breath, and then I knocked lightly five times.

  “Who is it?” came a man’s voice.

  “Schiller,” I replied.

  There was a clatter and the door opened.

  I was safe. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. But then I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  A Soviet officer stood pointing a gun straight at me.

  1 May 1945

  Oslo

  It was a warm night for these northern parts. The crew were on a mountain near the port, sitting around a fire under the falling stars. The firewood popped pleasantly as it was engulfed by red flames. Sparks danced up into the night and smoke hung over their camp.

  They were passing around a bottle of strong proof schnapps, but the mood was not festive.

  The crew had already heard about Hitler’s death, and there were rumours that Dönitz had become supreme commander and would continue to direct the war from here in Norway. The Grand Admiral had declared he would fight to the end, but most of the country had been occupied and they were doubtful of any prospect of victory.

  Furthermore, the VIP passenger called Romulus still hadn’t arrived, having apparently met with an accident along the way. However, Grand Admiral Dönitz himself had given them substitute orders: they were to attack Southampton Port in England: moreover, they were to depart in the U977 as planned, and carry out the mission to the very last man.

  Whether they sailed to South America or attacked a port in England, there was little hope of returning alive.

  It was before dawn when the flames died down and the last dinner before their departure came to an end.

  Memorandum

  I must have had my heart in my mouth any number of times since I’d embarked on my series of adventures the summer before last. I’d been taken by surprise by British, German and Russian soldiers, and now by a Russian officer.

  To be honest I’d thought it was all over when the officer suddenly smiled and put down his gun.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Hoshino,” he said in English.

  “Who are you?”

  “An agent from British intelligence.”

  My legs almost gave way with relief.

  He introduced himself as Cavendish, from MI6, then took me straight to the shower room. It was my first shower in ages, and I felt as though I was coming back to life. Afterwards, I put on the bathrobe I’d been given and returned to the living room to find a beer waiting for me. It was a little warm, but it was the most exquisite taste I’d ever experienced.

  Once I’d eaten the sandwich that came with the beer, I finally began to feel like myself again. Cavendish sat the other side of the table watching me in amusement.

  “Well, then, Mr. Hoshino. I’m afraid your little adventure hasn’t ended yet. We are bang in the middle of Soviet territory here, which is why I’m dressed like this. We have to head northwest and cross the Soviet frontline before we can reach the British frontline at the point where the River Havel meets the River Elbe.”

  “Are we using the Sleeping Beauty again?”

  Cavendish roared with laughter. “Don’t worry, this time we’ll go in a Soviet Army jeep on loan from the Americans. But I have to ask you to wear this,” he said, handing me a Soviet Army uniform.

  But I couldn’t have asked for more.

  An hour later, we got into a jeep that had been skilfully hidden in a garage behind the house, and set off with Cavendish driving. I was supposedly a Mongolian soldier unable to speak much Russian.

  Cavendish followed the Havel northward, avoiding built-up areas as much as possible. On the way we met a Soviet patrol near a town called Rathenow and another near a small town or village called Wust, but Cavendish shouted something imperiously at them and was waved on without any further ado.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told them that if they didn’t conduct their patrol properly, I’d report them to Comrade Stalin and Marshal Zhukov. That’s enough to make me look like a high-ranking officer, although I’ve got the necessary permit too,” he said waving a paper that had something written in Russian on it.

  Finally the bridge over the River Elbe came into view. A group of Soviet soldiers stood guard on the east side, but once again Cavendish barked something at them and showed them the permit. And with much grovelling they immediately waved him past, as if they were vassals prostrating themselves before the shogun.

  Cavendish drove onto the bridge and headed to the other side.

  “What did you say this time?”

  “It’s a permit to go to the Allied district signed by Marshal Zhukov himself. That’s because I’m an actual colonel in Soviet intelligence.”

  “What if the real one comes along?”

  “Don’t worry. Once we’ve reached safety, he’ll be released,” Cavendish said, laughing heartily.

  Gradually the other end of the bridge with its barbed wire barricade came into view. Were those steel helmets really British? Suddenly my eyes misted over. Hurriedly I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand.

  Cavendish stopped the jeep before the barricade and said something to the soldier standing guard. The guard sprang up and ran to the barracks.

  We got out of the jeep, and when the guard came back he politely showed us through.

  There waiting for us was a familiar face.

  “Simon!”

  “Yasuo, welcome back.”

  Simon Walker and I hugged in silence. Our hug communicated our feelings more effectively than words. We still belonged to enemy countries, but we felt a strong bond. The tears I had just wiped away now wouldn’t stop, and I didn’t try to stop them.

  I was back where I belonged.

  2 May 1945

  Oslo

  On the night of 2 May, the U977 slipped out of the submarine bunker and immediately submerged, engaging the snorkel.

  The enemy was all around. Especially now the base on the French coast had been lost, they were forced to take this route through a good hunting ground for the Allies.

  The radar detected approaching enemy planes immediately after setting sail. A veteran could tell by the pitch of the alarm or flashing of the alarm lamp whether or not the enemy had picked up on the submarine.

  When the enemy approached it was dangerous to use the snorkel as it left a white wake on the surface of the sea. All they could do was go as deep as possible and hold their breath.

  Eventually a report of the defeat came through on the wireless. Had Admiral Dönitz really surrendered unconditionally? That was unthinkable. It was probably an enemy trick. With such limited information, though, there were generally conflicting opinions on the situation.

  On the U977 the defeat was taken as fact, and the crew were offered a democratic choice: did they want to go back to Norway, surrender, and ask to return home, or did they want to go to Argentina in South America? For many of them, Argentina was a great country blessed with natural resources and many German immigrants, and held the promise of unlimited possibilities.

  After returning to Bergen to drop off those crew who chose to stay, the U977 embarked on sixty-six days of submerged sailing. By the time the submarine surfaced and the crew were again able to fill their bodies with oxygen, they were far to the south, off the west coast of Africa.

  †

  17 August 1945. It was reported on the radio that Japan had accepted the Potsdam Declaration and surrendered unconditionally to the Allies. The
war that Hitler started six years earlier had ended two days earlier.

  After a long, tough voyage, the U977 floated up into the brilliant sunlight off the Argentine coast. The hatch opened, the crew poked their heads out and filled their lungs full with the salty air. It was damp, but it was the best gift from nature.

  They were three nautical miles from the shore, but sent a message in Morse code that a German submarine had arrived.

  Eventually a small Argentinean naval ship approached.

  As he watched the ship approach, Schäffer wondered what on earth these hard three months at sea had been for. Knowing that Germany had lost the war, was there any meaning to sailing all this way to Argentina? Was it just the pride of a submarine sailor? Or was it just a sense of adventure like the British explorer Shackleton traversing Antarctica?

  He didn’t know the answer. But deep down he felt some sense of achievement and fulfilment, and exhaled in satisfaction.

  Thus the U977 arrived in Argentina, and would later attract attention worldwide for the theory that Hitler had survived.

  A Request

  And so my long journey came to an end.

  During a world war that lasted almost seven years, I had been to Paris, Berlin, and the Channel Islands, and had ended up in London, England. I had also met my wife, Catherine. When I asked her to marry me, she wanted to know why and I told her honestly that I’d first been attracted to her hand, to which she took offence and said archly, “To say nothing of my looks or style, I suppose!”

  My father-in-law Gilbert Tellier had also endured the terrible air raids during the Normandy Landings, and is still in good health today.

  I managed to solve a number of puzzles.

  It all started in Dresden, when Eva Braun gave birth to Hitler’s son. I don’t know his real name, but his code name was Romulus.

  Hitler had entrusted Bormann with the mission to raise Romulus, and Bormann shrouded the existence of the child in a veil of top secrecy.