Any Survivors (2008) (6 page)

The hotel had more visitors, although it was more of an inspection: an SA official from the regional management of the Nazi Party – a tall, rude man with a face like a wolf. The conversation he was having with the hotel owner was somewhat one-sided; he was swaggering and swearing, and when the old man dared to say anything in response, he shouted at him saying he should keep his mouth shut. As soon as the old man was silent for a while, he grabbed him by the collar and yelled: ‘Why are you not saying anything, don't I deserve to be answered?’ The old man tried to appease him by offering one schnapps after another but every glass seemed to add to his fury. The SA man did not even notice me. He looked straight through me with his bloodshot eyes. I pushed up a chair as if I was about to watch a circus act and listened carefully.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ the official continued. ‘Don't feign innocence now. We all know what your wife was saying in the steam room, criticising the system. We have to stamp out the vermin that are protesting, all of them, get rid of them! Do you understand? We have to break the resistance, do you hear me? These brazen Czech students, even when they were lined up against the wall, they still proclaimed their paroles. If I had been in charge I would not allow this to happen, I would not tolerate such defiant behaviour. They would be humbly grateful for the merciful execution. One man was so grateful to me that of his own free will he made me his sole heir only fifteen minutes before he died. Only unfortunately he turned out to be plunged in debt. Keep your mouth shut, I wasn't asking your opinion. Where is your portrait of Hitler? All I can see is an oil painting of Venice, the Marcus Square and gondolas; away with this Jewish nonsense!’

With a wide stance he took out a heavy pistol and aimed it at the poor innocent print that was hanging high in the corner. He would have had a perfect shot if I had not just then brushed his elbow when I walked past. The bullet hit some pipework leading to the floor above which immediately started to leak slightly. I hoped it wasn't the wastewater from the toilet upstairs. The SA man stared at me in disbelief, slightly sobered by the incident.

‘Herr Andersen from Denmark,’ the hotelier introduced me. ‘A gentleman from our neutral neighbours is on holiday here because he is sympathetic to our aims. I am sure he is very sorry to have bumped into you while you were preparing to shoot.’

‘On the contrary,’ I ventured in my convoluted German. ‘It's our custom in Denmark when we are happy to interrupt the person just as they are about to shoot. It is easy to aim well when there is no interruption, but a true marksman will always hit their target even when they are disturbed! Come on, I’ll show you, you try hitting this dear old man while I keep bumping into you. You will see you will not hit him.’

I wanted to be alone with the SA man; perhaps he would share some of his secrets in his state of drunkenness. I would not have taken such drastic measures otherwise, but it worked; the old man gathered his things and disappeared as quick as a shot, leaving behind half a bottle of Griotte. The SA man with pistol in hand stared at me stupidly in the middle of the hallway. I would have liked him to use up his munitions so as to be out of danger but I felt the hotel did not deserve it because it would be they who would have to call a plumber to fix the pipe. After half an hour the bottle was nearly empty and we were on first-name terms.

‘
Prost, mein Junge
, to your health!’ he said, with every glass he finished. We had taken off our jackets and I was wearing his cap. It was much too big. He had smoked nearly all of my cigarettes and was now showing me pictures of his girlfriends, the current and the two most recent. From my experience as a dentist, I knew that once the confessions start, for example when the anaesthetic kicks in, it usually goes on and on. I was trying very hard to pay attention even though the furniture in the hallway was starting to spin.

‘Dear boy, have you heard the latest? Our secret weapon isn't the mines. I’ll tell you what it really is.’ I think it was my fate as a conspirator, just when I thought I was getting close, it all went up in smoke. ‘Now you listen to me,’ he said. ‘I saw this at the drill ground, a type of ammunition that never needs to be replaced. The bullet hits the enemy and then comes back to the person shooting, slips back into the casing and lines up in the cartridge belt ready to be used again. If the bullet hits a Jew it goes through a rigorous process of disinfection. But don't tell anyone you heard it from me or else I’ll end up in Buchenwald. Ha-ha.’ He was so knocked out by his sense of humour that he fell and crashed under the marble table, his legs and arms askew. I finished the last glass of Griotte and slipped out of the hall. The stairs to the second floor were heaving up and down as I climbed. I had to hold on tightly to the banisters so as not to fall headfirst down.

The
Geheime Macht
was an unpleasant master. I was going through a similar experience as a friend of mine who had joined a foreign legion,
not
the Austrian. In the barracks he ended up the only person without a charge; all other officers and sergeants were his superiors. As there was no one else to rule over, they spent all day training, guiding and generally ordering him about. It was the same for me. The whole city was full of agents of the
Geheime Macht
who seemed to have nothing better to do than feed me instructions – by word of mouth, whispered secretly in the dark streets of the city, or by letters and furtive notes. And, as would later become clear, by drastically interfering in my private affairs. I had to ask myself, if the city was really so full of dissidents, why do they restrict their activities to secret radio stations and other similar simple feats? Why don't they just seize power instead? The instructions I received from my superiors were not consistent. One note said: ‘walk straight, don't drag your feet. Don't keep turning around, you’re arousing suspicion.’ Ten minutes later another note arrived saying quite the contrary. ‘Not so bold. You are an unassuming, foreign civilian, strongly impressed by the superior military force.’ It was hard to do the right thing! And I felt I didn't deserve such criticism. I thought I was doing really well on the whole, apart from a few minor slip-ups. For example, there was the matter of the Danish national anthem in the coffee house. They were playing it in my honour as word had spread that a young man from Denmark who was favourably inclined was here on holiday. Of course I didn't recognise the tune and remained in my seat. Was I to stand to attendance at the sound of every piece of music that may have had relevance? I noticed the stares, but thought they were only out of sympathy for the neutral neighbour. By the time I had realised what was going on I was in no position to read any of the many notes I was receiving from all directions because I had become the object of everyone's attention.

Most of the instructions were in connection with my lovely, but still sadly unknown, neighbour. ‘Do not take up contact with the lady in the room opposite.’ This note had been deposited in my toothbrush yesterday, but I only discovered it the next morning because I only brush my teeth in the morning. Then on the breakfast menu: ‘Lady in Room 21 most likely a spy from the other side.’ The menu itself was less exciting: lentils with bacon, and bacon with lentils, that was the extent of my choice for the morning. There were further warnings not to engage, but all equally vague. It seemed a wasted opportunity for only a slight suspicion.

By now it was the third evening in the hotel and I still hadn't really spoken to her and only caught rare glimpses of her. Up until now we had made do with the briefest of nods of recognition, nothing more. One morning I had purchased two small bouquets of violets and left them in front of her door: one in each shoe – flowers were damned expensive in these parts. Later that day I found a gingerbread heart in my room, which much have been from her. It was very dry and lacked honey and spices, but on it was written
Ich liebe Dich
, I love you.

One shouldn't underestimate one's enemy, especially if they are German, a people of martial tendencies. I was prepared for everything: a furtive attack on the flank, for example, but that was not what she had in store for me. In the hotel all was still and dark and I was feeling my way down the corridor when I noticed a strange object moving in front of my door. I aimed my torch in its direction. There she was cowering on my doorstep, crouching down in a blue corduroy jacket with a deep v-neck. Her blonde hair was held back with a band and her smooth face was turned towards me. At first I didn't know where I had seen this face before, and then I remembered: it was the face, neck and arms I had seen on the poster in blacked-out London at the precise moment my fate had changed.

The girl was holding her dog with her left hand so he didn't roll off her lap. The other hand was held out towards me in an exaggerated manner of a beggar. In her clear, deep voice she implored: ‘This poor old girl would be grateful for some comfort.’

Now would have been the right time for another warning from my colleagues, something like ‘look into her eyes and you are lost’ would not have gone amiss. Her eyes were like a mountain stream, forging its way through cliffs and down ravines. Eyes that grabbed, conquered and coerced. Those eyes were now looking at me and all I could do was throw caution to the wind as I was usurped by the rapids and carried away. I was ready to face whatever danger was heading my way, possessed as I was by the beatific sensation of a commander of a light cavalry facing batteries of enemy cannon: knowing the end was nigh but it would be a damned good fight all the same.

I knelt down and picked up the girl. She was incredibly heavy, much more so than I expected, and if she hadn't thrown her arms around my neck, we would have both toppled over. I am athletic, strong and perfectly capable of holding a girl in my arms who is bigger and stronger than I am, but if it had been the other way around, if she had been carrying me, then that would have looked more natural. The dog slid from her lap to the ground and snapped ungraciously at my trouser legs. For a moment we both didn't speak, for my part because I was gasping for air and she because she was trying to placate the dog. Then she began to stroke my arm saying, ‘My, what lovely fabric this is!’ In the hallway a floorboard creaked, a sure indication that someone was there. We both held our breath. She whispered to me, ‘Someone is spying on us, come into my room. And bring your flute.’ I lowered her on to the ground and she slipped into her room, pulling the dog in with her.

I couldn't find the flute straight away because I wasn't allowed to turn the light on before drawing the blinds. Just as I pulled the cord, I heard footsteps coming towards my room. The key that was in the door was turned and pulled out. The steps moved away; I was locked in.

After a while I received a note through the door: ‘Where are you, why don't you come over?’ I responded that I was locked in and shoved the note back under the door. After a few minutes the second note arrived: ‘Be patient. I love you and will wait.’ Initially I added, ‘Be strong’, but then I thought she might misinterpret this and be offended. She was strong, particularly around the hips, as I noticed when I picked her up. So I crossed the words out vehemently and wrote instead: ‘Good night.’ And that was the end of our correspondence.

It was a wonderful night, full of dreams of the girl. In the morning I woke up to the sound of another note being pushed through the door. My first thought was that it was from her and immediately rushed up to retrieve it. Sadly it was from the
Geheime Macht
. The word
Befehl
(order) was the heading and further instructions followed:

Report to Obermaschinenmaat G. Griesemann at daybreak: Old Sailor's Home, North Quay 27. Follow his orders unconditionally. Do not wear Danish badge. Permit is enclosed.

That was my contract – a grey paper sealed with official stamps and signatures. Fair enough – I would show them. I tried the door to my room; it was now open. Which one of my numerous superiors was responsible for playing the part of providence and censorship, I was not to find out. I got dressed with more haste than usual. As I got to the door of my neighbour's room I put two chocolates in her going-out shoes, one in each shoe. It was all I could offer in terms of a gift. I hoped she wouldn't put them on without checking first. I must have stood there a moment or two, contemplative and indecisive, when suddenly the door opened and a pair of strong arms pulled me into the room. Like a fawn in the clutches of a boa constrictor, I was helpless in her arms and found myself entwined in a long kiss. My room looked out on to the courtyard; hers had a view of the market. As it happened I could see very little past her rosy cheeks and well-formed ear but I had full view of the church's clock tower. Eight minutes into our kiss I was getting nervous on account of the urgency of the instructions in my pocket. There was so much I had to ask her before my departure. She showed no signs of letting me go on her own accord so I prised away my mouth and asked her, ‘What is your name?’

‘Christine.’

‘Are you working for the German counter-espionage movement?’

‘Yes, that's my occupation, but I'm currently not on duty. I'm on holiday here.’

‘That's okay then.’

‘Yes, my darling, everything is okay.’

Lovely as it was, I really could not justify a moment longer in her presence since it was long after daybreak. As I was walking down the stairs feeling light-hearted and uplifted, like after a full German breakfast, I remembered too late that I had meant to warn her about the liqueur pralines in her shoes.

The old sailors’ home was no more than ten minutes away and was a rambling decrepit building with an old-fashioned gable roof. There was a sign over the door, decorated with a garland of pine twigs: ‘A Warm Welcome to our Heroes!’ A crowd of people surrounded the building in a boisterous and exuberant mood, which was a rare sight here as one usually sees only sullen faces. The SS guarded the inside of the building and municipal police were cordoning off the street side to keep away the curious masses.