Polar Shift (2 page)

The driver cut in front of a passenger line. The steel-helmeted sentry manning the checkpoint raised his rifle to bar the way. The driver waved a sheet of paper printed in heavy Gothic type under the sentry's nose. The guard read the document, snapped to attention and pointed along the dock.

The professor didn't move. He had been watching someone on board the ship anchored at the dock throw a bundle down to the crowd on the pier. The throw was short and the bundle fell into the water. A wailing went up from the crowd.

“What's happening?” the professor said.

The guard barely glanced in the direction of the commotion. “Refugees with a baby can get on board. They toss the baby back down and use it as a boarding pass over and over. Sometimes they miss and the baby goes in the water.”

“How gruesome,” the professor said with a shudder.

The guard shrugged. “You'd better get moving. Once the snow stops, the Reds will send their planes to bomb and strafe. Good luck.” He raised his rifle to bar the next person in line.

The magic document got Kovacs and the driver past a pair of tough-looking SS officers who were looking for able-bodied men to press into duty on the front. They eventually reached a ramp leading onto a ferry crammed with wounded soldiers. The driver again showed his documents to a guard, who told them to hurry aboard.

A
S THE
overloaded ferry left the dock, it was watched by a man wearing the uniform of the naval medical corps. He had been helping to load the wounded on board, but he slipped through the mob and away from the waterfront to a maritime junkyard.

He climbed onto a rotting derelict of a fishing boat and went below. He pulled a crank-operated radio from a galley cupboard, fired it up and muttered a few sentences in Russian. He heard the reply against the crackle of static, replaced the radio and headed back to the ferry dock.

T
HE FERRY
carrying Kovacs and his tall companion had come around to the seaward side of a vessel. The ship had been drawn several yards from the dock to keep desperate refugees from sneaking aboard. As the ferry passed under the ship's bow, the professor looked up. Printed in Gothic letters on the navy gray hull was the name
Wilhelm Gustloff.

A gangway was lowered and the wounded were carried aboard the ship. Then the other passengers scrambled up the gangway. They wore smiles of relief on their faces and prayers of thanks on their lips. The German fatherland was only a few days' cruise away.

None of the happy passengers could have known that they had just boarded a floating tomb.

C
APTAIN
Third Class Sasha Marinesko peered through the periscope of the Submarine S-13, his dark brow furrowed in a deep scowl.

Nothing.

Not a German transport in sight. The gray sea was as empty as the pockets of a sailor returning from shore leave. Not even a stinking rowboat to shoot at. The captain thought of the twelve unused torpedoes aboard the Soviet sub and his anger festered like an open sore.

Soviet naval headquarters had said that the Red Army offensive against Danzig would force a major sea evacuation. The S-13 was one of three Soviet subs ordered to wait for the expected exodus off Memel, a port still held by the Germans.

When Marinesko learned that Memel had been captured, he called his officers together. He told them he had decided to head toward the Bay of Danzig, where the evacuation convoys were more likely to be found.

Not one man objected. Officers and crew were well aware that the success of their mission could mean the difference between a hero's welcome and a one-way ticket to Siberia.

Days earlier, the captain had run afoul of the secret police, the NKGB. He had left the base without permission. He was out whoring on January 2 when orders had come down from Stalin for the subs to sail into the Baltic and wreak havoc among the convoys. But the captain was on a three-day bender in the brothels and bars of the Finnish port of Turku. He returned to the S-13 a day after it was supposed to sail.

The NKGB was waiting. They became even more suspicious when he said he could not remember the details of his drunken binge. Marinesko was a cocky and tough submarine skipper who had been awarded the orders of Lenin and the Red Banner. The swashbuckling submariner exploded in anger when the secret police accused him of spying and defection.

His sympathetic commanding officer put off the decision on conducting a court-martial. That ploy fell apart when the Ukrainians who served aboard the sub signed a petition asking that their captain be allowed to rejoin his boat. The commander knew that this display of simple loyalty would be seen as potential mutiny. Hoping to defuse a dangerous situation, he ordered the sub to sea while a decision was made about a court-martial.

Marinesko reasoned that if he sunk enough German ships, he and his men might avoid being severely punished.

Without telling naval headquarters of their plan, he and his men quietly put the S-13 on a course that would take it away from the patrol lanes and toward its fateful rendezvous with the German liner.

F
R
IEDRICH
P
ETERSEN,
the
Gustloff
's white-haired master captain, paced back and forth in the wardroom, sputtering like a walking pyrotechnics display. He stopped suddenly and shot a red-hot glare at a younger man dressed in the spit-and-polish uniform of the submarine division.

“May I remind you, Commander Zahn, that I am the captain of this ship and responsible for guiding this vessel and all aboard to safety.”

Bringing his iron discipline to bear, Submarine Commander Wilhelm Zahn reached down and scratched behind the ear of Hassan, the big Alsatian dog at his side. “And may I remind
you,
captain, that the
Gustloff
has been under my command as a submarine base ship since 1942.
I
am the senior naval officer aboard. Besides, you forget your oath not to command a ship at sea.”

Petersen had signed the agreement as a condition of his repatriation after being captured by the British. The oath was a formality because the British thought he was too old to be fit for service. At the age of sixty-seven, he knew his career was washed up no matter the outcome of the war. He was a
Leigerkapitän
, the “sleeping captain,” of the
Gustloff.
But he took some comfort in the knowledge that the younger man had been withdrawn from active operations after he botched the sinking of the British ship
Nelson.

“Nonetheless, Captain, under your supervision the
Gustloff
has never left the dock,” he said. “A floating classroom and barracks anchored in one place is a far cry from a ship at sea. I have the highest regard for the submarine service, but you cannot argue that I am the only one qualified to take the vessel to sea.”

Petersen had commanded the liner once, on a peacetime voyage, and would never have been allowed to take the helm of the
Gustloff
under ordinary circumstances. Zahn bristled at the thought of being under the command of a civilian. German submariners considered themselves an elite group.

“Still, I am the ranking military officer aboard. Perhaps you have noticed that we have antiaircraft guns mounted on the deck,” Zahn retorted. “This vessel is technically a warship.”

The captain replied with an indulgent smile. “An odd sort of warship. Perhaps
you
have noticed that we are carrying thousands of refugees, a mission more fitting of the merchant marine transport.”

“You neglected to mention the fifteen hundred submariners who must be evacuated so they can defend the Reich.”

“I would be glad to acquiesce to your wishes if you show me written orders to do so.” Petersen knew perfectly well that in the confusion surrounding the evacuation, no orders existed.

Zahn's complexion turned the color of a cooked beet. His opposition went beyond personal animosity. Zahn had serious doubts about Petersen's ability to run the ship with the inexperienced polyglot crew at his command. He wanted to call the captain a burned-out fool, but his stern discipline again took hold. He turned to the other officers, who had been witnessing the uncomfortable confrontation.

“This will be no ‘Strength Through Joy' cruise,” Zahn said. “All of us, navy and merchant marine officers, have a difficult task and bear heavy responsibility. Our duty is to do everything possible to make things easier for the refugees, and I expect the crew to go out of their way to be helpful.”

He clicked his heels and saluted Petersen, then strode from the wardroom followed by his faithful Alsatian.

T
HE GUARD
at the top of the gangway had glanced at the tall man's document and handed it to an officer supervising the boarding of the wounded.

The officer took his time reading the letter. Finally, he said, “Herr Koch thinks highly of you.”

Erich Koch was the murderous
Gauleiter
who had refused to evacuate East Prussia while preparing his own escape on a ship carrying looted treasure.

“I like to think that I have earned his respect.”

The officer hailed a ship's steward and explained the situation. The steward shrugged and led the way along the crowded promenade deck, and then down three levels. He opened the door to a cabin that contained two bunks and a sink. The room was too small for the three of them to enter at the same time.

“Not exactly the
Führer
suite,” the steward said. “But you're lucky to have it. The head is four doors down.”

The tall man glanced around the cabin. “This will do. Now, see if you can get us some food.”

A flush came to the steward's cheeks. He was tired of being ordered about by VIPs traveling in relative comfort while ordinary mortals had to suffer. But something in the tall man's cold blue eyes warned him not to argue. He returned within fifteen minutes with two bowls of hot vegetable soup and chunks of hard bread.

The two men devoured their food in silence. The professor finished first and put his bowl aside. His eyes were glazed with exhaustion, but his mind was still alert.

“What is this ship?” he said.

The tall man scraped the bottom of his bowl with the last of his bread, then lit up a cigarette. “Welcome to the
Wilhelm Gustloff,
the pride of Germany's Strength Through Joy movement.”

The movement was an ongoing propaganda stunt to demonstrate the benefits of National Socialism to German workers. Kovacs glanced around at the spartan accommodations. “I don't see much strength or joy.”

“Nonetheless, the
Gustloff
will again one day transport happy German laborers and party faithful to sunny Italy.”

“I can hardly wait. You haven't told me where we're going.”

“Far beyond the reach of the Red Army. Your work is too important to fall into Russian hands. The Reich will take good care of you.”

“It looks as if the Reich is having trouble taking care of its own people.”

“A temporary setback. Your welfare is my utmost priority.”

“I'm not concerned about
my
welfare.” Kovacs hadn't seen his wife and young son for months. Only their infrequent letters had kept hope alive.

“Your family?” The tall man regarded him with a steady gaze. “Have no worry. This will soon be over. I suggest you get some sleep. No, that's an order.”

He stretched out on the bunk, hands clasped behind his head, and shut his eyes. Kovacs was not deceived. His companion seldom slept and could snap fully awake at the slightest provocation.

Kovacs examined the man's face. He could have been in his early twenties, although he looked older. He had the long head and craggy profile portrayed in propaganda posters as the Aryan ideal.

Kovacs shuddered, remembering the cold-blooded way the Russian soldier had been dispatched. The past few days had been a blur. The tall man had arrived at the lab during a snowstorm and produced a document authorizing the release of Dr. Kovacs. He had introduced himself only as Karl, and told Kovacs to gather his belongings. Then came the madcap dash across the frozen countryside and the narrow escapes from Russian patrols. Now this miserable ship.

The food had made Kovacs drowsy. His eyelids drooped, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

W
HILE THE
professor slept, a squad of military police swept the
Gustloff
in search of deserters. The ship was cleared for departure, and a harbor pilot came aboard. At around one in the afternoon, the deckhands cast off the mooring lines. Four tugs came alongside and began to pull the ship away from the dock.