Any Survivors (2008) (7 page)

It didn't take long to find out what was going on, but then this was Germany where everyone was desperate to share each other's business. A U-boat had returned which had apparently won a battle with a British fleet. The crew had arrived only an hour ago with their baggage, grey and dirty with three weeks’ beard growth. They had sunk a battleship and two armoured cruisers. They were claiming it was two battleships and a whole flotilla of cruisers. The longer we stood there the more impressive the victory became. All this attention was not exactly beneficial to my task but I had my orders to follow. I made my way to the officer at the front and explained why I was there. He answered in the deepest North Sea bass tone, ‘I'm sure you would like to meet one of our heroes but visitors are not allowed.’

It almost seemed he was one of the heroes himself. I showed him my permit but he only shook his head, unsatisfied. He pointed towards the SS Kommandant who shook his head even more, but at least admitted me into the antechamber where another SS man proceeded to frisk me in search of weapons. This was most unpleasant for me because I was incredibly ticklish. He found nothing of interest apart from a tobacco pipe which he promptly dismantled, expecting to find a machine gun inside. Visibly disappointed, he handed it back to me, leaving me to put it together again. He sent an orderly to fetch the sailor but in such a way that I understood nothing of what was going on. I had to concede that the SS had the right tactic when it came to conspirators. It seemed to work because the next I knew the Kommandant was reluctantly shrugging his shoulders and shouting to the orderly, ‘Lead this gentleman to Obermaschinenmaat Griesemann!’ The word ‘gentleman’ was pronounced with such contempt he may well have said ‘individual’ and it wouldn't have sounded any less derisive. I was led to the first floor, not like an esteemed visitor but more like a prisoner being led to the gallows.

Since receiving my order this morning I had been preparing myself to meet this Unterseebootobermaschinenmaat Gotthold Griesemann. I pictured him as a tall, strong, imposing, real German sailor with an open gaze and booming voice, my future friend and helper in my fight against Nazi rabble. My escort announced my presence: ‘Your visitor, Herr Maschinenmaat,’ and shoved me into a room consisting of a metal bed, metal oven, metal washstand and strangely pungent air.

‘That will be it,’ said the sergeant with a thin whiny voice as he waved the orderly away. Now alone, we looked at each other in mutual distrust and immediate instinctive dislike. This was my friend and helper? A measly little sea rat, not a seaman! The petty officer was not even ready for visitors. He was in ersatz cotton underwear next to the washstand looking into a mirror fragment in which you could barely see both nostrils at the same time, contemplating his three weeks’ growth of dirty blonde beard. From neck to waist he dressed in a dazzling white long-sleeved bodice, evidently just thrown on. His long johns and thick socks were less dazzling and a sure indication of three weeks at sea. This was surely where the not quite fresh smell stemmed from. He carried on what he was doing and had a minute quantity of shaving soap skewered on his knife. He was deliberating how to use this precious relic in the service of this necessary shave without forfeiting the entire quantity. He began to soap his face without taking any further notice of me. As I began to break into questions, explanations and introductions, he waved me away and said abruptly: ‘Give me your passport!’

In nervous haste and somewhat anxiously, he leafed through the passport with this left hand while scraping through the unruly growth of facial hair with his other. Artfully and with an unflatteringly cross-eyed expression, he alternately looked into the fragment of the mirror and then again at the passport. Then he looked at me, ‘Why don't you take your clothes off? Come on, play up!’

Under normal circumstances it would have been quite pleasant to rid myself of coat and vest in a stuffy, overheated room. I obeyed but thought with clenched teeth, what does this bastard want from me? I was disgusted, but not frightened; confident that something he would say or do would shed light on the hitherto completely incomprehensible situation. I stared at him and that was the best thing I could have done. From under the beard stubble and soapsuds a familiar face emerged. It was the man whose photograph was stuck in my passport. If it hadn't been so hot, my brain might have worked more quickly, but as it was I could only slowly piece together the situation. It became clearer by the minute. I had been picked out only because I bore a striking resemblance to a petty officer in the German navy. He was part of the conspiracy and needed to leave the country with the help of the neutral passport that I was carrying: not a bad idea! With some palpable relief I slipped out of my trousers.

‘We’re swapping clothes?’ I enquired naively.

I must have sounded as thick as a plank as he now mocked me: ‘If you think it's enough to exchange business cards and buttonholes …’

‘And you will show me what to do in your place?’ I responded, now somewhat intimidated.

‘And what else – you stupid monkey face,’ he replied frostily. ‘Do you really think an illiterate frog like you with no brain could last in my position for more than five minutes? I'm not risking it. You will remain in bed until I'm gone. Here, take this powder. You’ll get a fever, just enough so that they take you to hospital. There you will say nothing and no one will know you. They’ll leave you alone for three days at least, enough time for me to escape over the border.’

That was all fair and well, but what was to happen to me when the fever had passed? No one seemed to have thought of that. We began exchanging our clothes. It wasn't easy to part with the lovely new suit that I was so proud of, in exchange for a uniform of unknown quality. Slowly I began to empty my pockets of my watch, money and everything else. But I misjudged my new partner. He not only saw my clothes as his, but also all that they contained. He slapped my wrist with the blunt end of the razor and hissed at me: ‘Hands off! Take your thieving paws off my things!’

This was too much for me. I couldn't just sit back and put up with it. Without letting him see how much my hand was hurting, I stared fearfully at his razor as if there was a poisonous spider or scorpion sitting on it and screeched: ‘For goodness sake, throw that thing away.’

I had judged him right; his nerves were shot. He threw the razor into the corner without thinking. It was my experience that one shouldn't attack anyone holding a knife. As soon as his hands were empty I punched him on the nose and started to sway. He was blind with rage and prepared his punch at my forehead. I had already worked out that he was no good at boxing and ducked his blow, so that he lost balance. With a sturdy kick I forced him into the opposite corner. Just then the door opened. A tall man in captain's uniform surveyed the scene benevolently. We both sprang to attention. It was hard to say who looked more guilty. But the captain was in a happy mood and not inclined to view a tussle between two half-undressed sailors with displeasure. ‘Have fun boys, but behave!’ he said with a twinkle and was gone again.

I regained composure more quickly than the sergeant, but then it wasn't my captain who had just interrupted us. I continued the fight. Capitalising on my advantage of having shoes, I jumped towards my sock-wearing adversary's stomach. I brought him to the ground. He gasped for air. It was my luck that at that point he asked for water. There was a glass of water by the sink, which albeit not fresh, would do for my purposes. I spotted the powder meant for me and quickly dissolved it in the glass, forcing him to drink it. He put up some resistance but I held his nose and poured it down his throat.

For research purposes I would love to have studied the effects of the drug but I wasn't sure if the circumstances allowed it. Although unconscious, I wasn't sure how long he would stay that way and whether his unconscious state was a result of the right dosage or the kick in the stomach. At any rate he was now peaceful and for the time being I could do whatever I wanted with him. I helped him to get dressed: braces, tie and shoelaces were the most challenging. Then I put the passport in his pocket. At this stage I could have reversed the entire transaction as my partner was putting up no resistance. I could have pocketed the passport, taken back my clothes, put him back in his uniform and we would have each gone our separate ways. But I didn't want that. My adventure had begun and I had developed a taste for it. The role of a ‘victorious hero’ was one I was eager to relish. Besides, I was doubtful that the
Geheime Macht
would have let me get away with anything other than their plans. They had me well and truly under their control.

The current situation left little time for further contemplation: I had to act and fast. My victim was now slumped on the shabby seat of the only chair, wearing my fine English travel suit which was just slightly tight on him as he was a little bit bigger than I was. Every few minutes I had to shake him otherwise he would have fallen into a deep slumber. But time was precious and I, or he as the visitor, had been in the room far too long. I fed him some rum from his bottle. I had some fine cognac in my (now his) civilian clothes but I wasn't inclined to waste it. The rum did the trick and he was back on his feet and we hobbled down the stairs together.

As little as I was accustomed to wearing a uniform, I noticed straight away the benefits it entailed. That a civilian had arrived an hour ago stone cold sober and was now decidedly intoxicated, did not raise any eyebrows and was seen as perfectly natural. One sailor shouted to me: ‘Parade at 11 o’clock, don't get too drunk!’

I could only wave back good-naturedly. He seemed to know me well but I knew neither his name nor what our relationship was. VIPs were arriving in a constant stream so it was not difficult to find an empty taxi. I pushed the bumbling passenger into his seat and instructed the driver to make the journey as smooth and slow as possible. The interlude with the sailor, who may have been my mate, had made me realise that I was ill prepared for my role. I made the most of the last precious minutes we had. I asked one question after the other, much faster than he could answer:

‘Who's your best friend? Do you have family? Will anyone visit you, how does one salute a passing officer from a car, do you get an advance on your pay?’ Whenever he threatened to slip into oblivion I started shaking him until he started to talk again. The question and answer game didn't yield very much. It all went so quickly I could only remember half of what he said. Although we were travelling at a snail's pace we were already approaching the hotel. Twenty metres away from the hotel I stopped the car and deposited my victim on the street. The porter was standing in the entrance. My patient approached him hoping for a bed for the night and some well-earned rest. I shouted from my hiding place: ‘Watch out, he's had his fill!’ I then asked the taxi driver to turn around and drive me back.

I didn't get very far. At the first junction we were stopped by a red light. As the taxi waited with its engine running I heard commotion and shouting from the direction of the hotel. As more and more people ran towards the hotel I couldn't help myself, despite it being close to eleven o’clock. I paid the driver, jumped out of the taxi and joined the crowd and the dramatic scene that was unfolding. The crowd was now so close to the entrance that I couldn't make out anything. I could not see beyond the heads of the people bigger than me. I was wary of getting so close to the building that I would be recognised, considering I was wearing neither a mask nor a false beard. I couldn't ask what was going on. The others seemed to know as little as I did. Only once I had crawled through the legs of a bow-legged fisherman was I able to survey the scene properly.

The same civilian who had only been Wilhelm Andersen for less than an hour was now held by the shoulders between two SS men. The Kommandant was holding up the familiar Danish passport. People were shouting: ‘Let him go!’

The Kommandant responded: ‘Back off, mind your own business, anyone who doesn't will be arrested!’

The crowd consisted of workers, market women and a few members of the Hitler Youth who started jumping up and down delighted that something was finally happening, and also so they could see more easily. The porter stood distraught in the entrance of the hotel repeating the same thing over and over: ‘The gentleman came highly recommended to us by the organisation of ethnic Germans’, but no one paid any attention to him.

The scene was not yet complete. Christine, the woman I had previously kissed for eight minutes, came rushing down the steps fearing that her lover had come to harm and wanting to help. Elbowing her way past the crowd, the force caused the men to let go of their victim who, finding himself free, made his way towards the entrance of the hotel in search of the long-awaited bed for the night. He paid little heed to the words of the unknown woman who was calling to him to ‘Run away! I’ll help you.
Run
! I won't let them arrest you.’

But the leader of the SS patrol was in no mood for fun and games. With routine movement he disengaged the firing pin of the heavy pistol and aimed the barrel at the fugitive. The sound of two faint blasts was almost lost in the noise of the crowd that was rapidly dispersing. Cyclists mounted their bicycles, drivers of heavy-load vehicles started up their engines and drove off. Then the crowd gathered again; there was something else to see now. A soldier was approaching the scene towering amongst the masses. It seemed as if he was riding a horse, but no, he was only incredibly tall: a grey-haired Reichswehr Major. He was now confronting the SS Kommandant: ‘Why don't you pick a different victim? A Czech, Pole or Jew maybe, but shooting down harmless German civilians will not go unpunished!’

The answer was cutting: ‘Herr Major, I thank you for your advice but the Gestapo does not require it. We are expert at finding traitors in our midst whether they are in civilian clothes or wearing epaulettes.’

What impressive and bellicose personalities these Germans were. It would have been an ideal place to enact
Julius Caesar
or
Coriolanus
! The SS man gathered his patrol and withdrew. Others marched off with their faces set in soldier-like expressions, their backs straight. No one would have thought that a woman had nearly knocked them off their feet only moments ago. No one paid any further attention to the dead body. The poor little man was a sorry sight, lying in a dusty heap on the ground with a dark stain on his back that was gradually getting bigger.