Any Survivors (2008) (12 page)

‘Another important detail,’ he continued, ‘is that it is much easier to tap telephones than to listen in on ordinary conversations. With a telephone it is very simple. The listener is informed by the red light that his subject is about to speak. He picks up the receiver and hears a click. Let us suppose the subject wants to ask a friend about the interesting story the station in Strasbourg has broadcast about negotiations in Sweden. As soon as he hears the click he says, “Good morning, I'm afraid I can't make it for coffee, heil Hitler!” and hangs up.

‘It is much more difficult to set up surveillance units in private places or flats because civilians can't be trained to take their turn speaking for just their allotted five minutes. On the contrary, depending on the time of day, it's either completely silent or everybody talks at once. If you start in the city where people aren't used to being bugged you can still hear angry criticism of the regime, in which case the listener needs strong nerves. But gradually word is spreading that the Gestapo is listening in the dining room, the living room, the bedroom and the bathroom. Only nurseries are to my knowledge left untapped.

‘It is from the middle classes that most of the listeners are recruited. Lacking courage the Gestapo no longer hears any criticism, quite the opposite; instead, discussions at home focus on complimenting the regime and saying how well everything is going. One bachelor I know of who lives alone, and has no one to lead these discussions with, has found the following solution: he kneels in front of the listening device and prays loudly, “Dear God, I, Comrade Schwämerlein, beseech you to protect from harm our dearly beloved Führer, to give him strength.” He keeps to himself the final words “and enlighten his mind” as this could be construed as criticism and viewed as treason. He tries to include his own name in his prayers so that God (and the Gestapo) does not confuse his identity with someone else.’

The Baron might have gone on in the same vein for hours but I sent a signal to the Student with a discreet wink to pretend to be asleep, at which point the Baron abandoned his discourse and left the mess room in a huff.

N
OTE

It dawned on me that I wasn't dreaming. In the tiny sleeping cubicle it was so dark that I could only guess what the shadows were rather than see their source. I could just make out a bent-over figure that was reaching out for me with long skinny arms. I would have gone for his throat if he hadn't aimed the torch at his face in time. I could make out the deeply lined but childish face of the Student, who had his finger to his lips. Almost imperceptibly he whispered, ‘Are you ready?’

I didn't feel there was the option to say no and go back to sleep again. It also appeared that the sailor sharing my room was not to be involved. We tried not to disturb him but he wasn't sleeping as well as the night before. His slumber was punctuated with exclamations such as ‘Rope!’ and ‘Climb when ready!’ He was an active dreamer.

We both leaned over this restless sleeper. The Student whispered, ‘I wonder what he's dreaming about.’ His inquisitive nature became apparent. I studied the easing and tensing of his shoulder muscles, the way he gripped the blanket with his fists and the athletic rising and falling of his chest, and came to the following conclusion: ‘He's dreaming of a difficult climbing expedition and desperately trying to get a pick in the rock face whilst his feet are losing grip.’

‘We had better hope he doesn't fall off the cliff.’ I promised to do my best. I took the towel that was hanging from my bed to dry, started waving it in the air over his head and made a few guttural screeching noises to imitate the wing beating and shrieking of a jackdaw leaving the tower. Hearing these accustomed sounds, the sleeper found foot again and became calm; his breathing now regular. Since he had his arms under his neck and his knees raised, it was not possible for me to climb over his bed. If I couldn't go over him I would try to go under him. I made myself even skinnier and flatter than I was by nature. The Student grabbed me by the neck and pulled me under the camp bed and out into the corridor. I thought back to how protective I was of my underpants three days ago and here I was wiping the floor with them!

After the complete darkness of the room, the intermittent lights of the corridor seemed unnecessarily bright by comparison. I studied my mate. He was wearing working trousers, a roll-neck jumper and had some boat shoes in his hand. I went back into the room to get similar apparel and finished getting ready as I walked down the corridor. Four times I was about to ask where we were going but I stopped myself in time. The whole manner of this nightly excursion seemed to be based on meticulous planning and if I showed ignorance I would compromise my role. I let the Student go ahead and we crept like mice down the stairs into the courtyard. There we sat down and put our shoes on. It was a moonless autumn night; the clouds rushed above us in the courtyard almost as if they felt put to shame by the geometric regularity of the spotlights shining upon them. My comrade gave a deep whistle through the gap in his front teeth. From the darkness of the courtyard, a long and wide shadow came towards us. It was a navy sentry with a gun on his shoulder.

‘Is everything okay, Anton?’ the Student whispered. ‘I’ve put the light on in the barn and it is all in place apart from the one window.’

We looked up. The row of windows was blacked out. In some we could even make out the reflection of the spotlights. Only in one of the windows could the light behind it be seen. Then there was a clanking, the gap in the window widened and a glowing spark flew out in an arc on to the courtyard only a few steps away from us. I could still see the sparks. I bent down and lifted the butt end of the cigar as the Student aimed his torch on it. With there being a cork mouthpiece he decided it could only be the captain. No one else smoked this brand.

‘There is no need for you to play detective,’ said the sentry, grabbing the cigar butt and disposing of it in a makeshift ashtray. ‘This morning the old man set up an office up there. It looks like something is bothering him. I’ve already brought him up two ashtrays. These must already be full or else he wouldn't throw them out the window. You mark my words; he won't go to sleep tonight. He’ll smoke all his cigarettes and then go out on an inspection; you can look forward to that.’

I had no idea what was planned but it appeared I was the leader, since the other two were looking at me expectantly. If I had now said, ‘Guys, if we look at it like this, we may as well abandon the whole thing,’ then the Student and I could have gone back to sleep. The sentry, of course, would still have been on duty. But once I had started with something I wanted to finish it, and I was curious. The bed was small and uncomfortable anyway and my roommate noisy.

I said nothing and we continued the discussions about whether our captain was now in bed or on his restless wanderings. The Student felt it necessary to drum some safety precautions into the sentry.

‘Anton,’ he said, ‘if the captain comes down into the courtyard ready to go out, then you must warn us. I don't care how but we need to be able to hear it within a mile's distance. You could ring the church bells, set the tower on fire or start a shooting match.’

I thought this joke was a bit silly and I don't think I was alone in this. The sentry smiled grimly as if to say, ‘Don't you worry. If I need to warn you, you’ll know about it.’

We crept through the courtyard with our backs pressed to the walls, past the kitchen, wash houses, utility rooms and storage units. Everything was properly signposted on enamel signs and locked up for the night. My companion headed for one of the doors with no signage, left slightly ajar with a faint light emanating from within. As we proceeded inside we were hit by the homely smell of stables. There was only one animal, a fat brown horse with chains rattling. It was dear Ursel, whose task it was to get provisions from the bakery. She was an old mare and could sense she was no longer needed in the age of machines. She led a reclusive life and had certainly not reckoned on having visitors at this time of night.

‘Can you push this thing aside?’ the Student asked.

I could tell that he wasn't used to dealing with animals. I called its name and went into its stand, forcing it into the corner. It was a friendly thing and put up no resistance. The Student followed me tentatively and began to move aside some of the straw from the spot where the horse had been standing.

A trap door became visible, no more than 2 square feet inside, just big enough to let through two skinny sailors. There was a metal ring in the middle of the door and with a gentle pull it opened. Cold, dank air escaped from the opening. The Student rested his elbows on the floor and dangled his spindly legs into the black, empty hole. His feet took hold and slowly his upper body was enveloped by the darkness. I could hear him going down some steps. Once he had reached the bottom he switched on his torch and then it was my turn to follow.

From an athletic point of view it posed no real challenge. I had no problem gripping the top rung of the wooden ladder with my feet and mastered the descent easily. I was reluctant, however, to leave the warm comfort of the stable and the reassuring proximity of the friendly animal for the dark, cold existence in the underworld. I made sure I closed the trap door above me since I felt the animal had the right to a stable floor without a dangerous hole to fall into. I was not entirely happy with this situation. What if we needed to open the door and the creature was fast asleep over it? I could hardly move aside a full-grown horse while perched on a rickety ladder. There was hope that the horse preferred to lie on the soft straw rather than on the bare floorboards. There was no time to think through the consequences. I had to concentrate on my task of following the Student and the faint glow of his torch down the dark corridor. There was a slight danger of slipping on the wet muddy floor and bumping my head against the metal pipes.

I tried to assess the situation: we were in a disused sewer and, judging by the cables above us, only a few metres under the surface of the road above us. I wasn't sure what our aim was, but I felt certain it was not going to be buried treasure; somehow my companion didn't appear to be the type to be attracted to treasures. In fact, he seemed in no way generous, judging by the number of times he had scrounged a cigarette off me, if that was anything to go by.

The subterranean route seemed endless. One turning to the right was left unexplored as the smell indicated this could be the main sewer, which I also surmised from the sound of trickling water. I decided to put an end to things soon. A bad smell was one thing that was very difficult to get rid of, especially when there was no soap to be had. In the end no one would believe I was a decorated sergeant; everyone would think I was a sewer cleaner or the like, especially when it was dark.

At last my companion stood still and put away his torch. He fingered a grate that was obstructing the path. Did that mean we were imprisoned? Even this he removed with professional ease and we had the comforting strong whiff of fresh air, salt water and tar, and machine oil. The darkness was not quite as dense. Here and there I could make out some faint lights. The sounds were of an outdoor kind and there was no doubt we were nearing the outside world. The iron grill only appeared to be set in cement. On moving the right stones it could be opened like a door on hinges.

We crept out taking deep breaths, stepping over the bank on to a stone platform that seemed immense. A fresh sea breeze was gathering the clouds in the north. The rear end of the Great Bear was now just visible, not only as comfort and solace for those who believed in the might of the stars and their course, or whatever role they might play in the reign of dictators, but for the faint light they cast on two sailors who had grazed their elbows on walls in the darkness.

Men over the age of 40 often have to catch their breath after they have spent half an hour crawling over obstacles in the dark. This was the case with my companion, giving me the opportunity to further take in my surroundings. The platform was punctuated every twenty steps or so by low pillars of wide circumference. Behind us there was a wall with menacing spikes around 18ft high. There must have been a city behind it because we heard the sounds of a busy street: cars, a tramway and some horns beeping. Straight ahead of us in the distance the searchlights were of different colours, creating patterns in the darkness of the horizon. I knew that Kiel was not a city with a film studio or a theme park so these sharp spikes had to be something different. And because these formations were bobbing in the complete darkness of the sea, their steel cables groaning in such a way that even a landlubber like me could work out that we were in a wartime harbour. It was only in the first few seconds of our coming out of the tunnel that it seemed like an abandoned wasteland. In actual fact there was a hub of determined activity. Each light or spark was carefully concealed. Every blow of the hammer was as faint as possible. I could now make out cranes swinging in ghostly silence. It was so still, one could hear the echo of the wall of the quay as a sentry walked along in his parade-like gait. Twelve steps in one direction, halt, about turn and the same again.

My leader and companion had now caught his breath and we resumed our journey with renewed vigour. Where the platform ended we took some stony steps down on to a different path which followed the quay wall for a short while. The cold wind blew straight through my work trousers and I was cold. With further displeasure I found that the inky black mass that was gurgling at the plank at our feet was the sea, an element that I felt no sympathy towards, nor did I trust it. The Student, who was distinctly nervous upon leaving the tunnel, ducked and flayed his limbs as if in fear of an unknown predator. Then he regained his composure and innate calmness. He even put his hands in his pocket and was quietly whistling a tune which sounded a bit like the Torero March from
Carmen
. He started a conversation: ‘Do we have any tools, Gotthold?’