The Interrogator (26 page)

Down the stairs at the double and across the inner hall with Bruns’s grip bruising his arm. He was breathless with anxiety and his knees were shaking so hard he was sure he would collapse. At the end of the long corridor another Luftwaffe officer stepped out of the shadows to signal that the coast was clear and they hurried on into the West wing of the house.

On the right of the dark passage the kitchen and the servants’ hall, the prisoners’ washroom on the left. Dietrich led them to the kitchen door. He was reaching for the handle when it opened from the inside. Someone shoved Lange hard from behind and he stumbled through the door. Bright light was reflecting off the cream tiles that covered the walls from floor to ceiling and it took a few seconds to adjust. The kitchen was crowded. He was shocked to see the faces of some twenty men turned towards him, cold and silent. The ones he recognised
he knew to be good National Socialists. The large wooden table the cooks used for food preparation had been pushed back against the wall and in its place was a single wooden chair. Sitting on the chair was a white-faced and crumpled August Heine, his eyes wild with fear. Lange looked away.

They had chosen well. The kitchen was perfect. Twenty-five foot square with a cold stone floor, one door and no windows looking on to the rest of the camp. There was a large Edwardian range to the left of the door and on the opposite wall shelves of copper moulds and pots and pans. Some ugly-looking meat hooks hung from a thick bar that ran just below the ceiling. Lange’s arrival had interrupted some sort of public interrogation – or humiliation. The second officer of
U-112
, Koch, was bending low over Heine, his face an intimidating scarlet, one hand gripping the back of the chair. But it was Dietrich who took command, his voice echoing in the tiled kitchen: ‘This swine has betrayed his captain and his comrades. He has betrayed his Führer and his Fatherland.’

For a few terrifying seconds Lange was sure he was the one – they were accusing him of treason. But Dietrich took two very deliberate steps towards the chair and sweet relief washed through him and another prayer: ‘Thank you Lord, thank you, thank you Lord.’

There was an ugly air of expectation in the kitchen and hard, hard faces. The line of Dietrich’s jaw was tight and there was a hollow look in his eyes. He was slowly clenching and unclenching the fingers of his right hand. Then he lashed out at Heine, hard, with the flat of his hand, and the noise was sickening. Heine reached up to brush his red cheek with trembling fingers, his mouth a little open, his eyes full of shock and puzzlement. A small balding Luftwaffe officer with the sharp features of a rat leant forward to shout in a high-pitched voice: ‘You deserve that, you bastard.’

There were embarrassed coughs and the shuffling of feet, but from some a murmur of approval.

‘This is a copy of the evidence collected by the Ältestenrat.’ Dietrich held a yellow file above his head to be sure they could all see it. ‘This swine volunteered important information to the British that could compromise our U-boat comrades at sea. He has . . .’

‘No.’ Heine’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘No, never.’

‘Shut up or you will get the same again.’

‘He has been examined and the evidence is clear. Now he will confess in front of you all.’

Tears were rolling down Heine’s face and his mouth and chin were trembling uncontrollably. And yet Lange could see a certain glassy determination in his eyes too. Heine was going to fight. His comrades, his captain, the U-boat arm, these were his life.

‘Please, I told the English nothing.’

‘We have proof,’ Dietrich shouted, the colour rising in his face. ‘Proof, here. Your own words and a witness,’ and he flapped the yellow file in front of Heine’s face.

‘Confess.’

Heine shook his head: ‘I’m innocent.’ He shuffled round the chair to look at the men standing on either side of him. ‘Please. I’ve said nothing.’

His words bounced emptily about the kitchen. No one spoke. Then Dietrich turned to look at someone standing close to Lange.

Bruns was wearing gloves. Heine must have noticed too. He shook his head and groaned: ‘No, please.’

And Lange was trembling. Was this what the Ältestenrat wanted? He wanted to shout, to scream: ‘No. Stop. Stop now.’ The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth was sticky with fear. It was impossible to make a sound. He stood transfixed and helpless. The first blow sent Heine crashing to the floor. For a moment he was lost behind arms and legs as he was pulled upright. Then a second blow and a third blow. And the kitchen was silent but for the clatter of the chair and the shuffle of feet and the low groans of the man prostrate on the floor.

Heine was still conscious when they hauled him upright again. There was a deep cut in his lip and spots of blood on the front of his nightshirt. His right eye was puffy and closing and his cheek blue and swollen. The pride and courage in his eyes had gone. And Lange’s face was wet with tears. He knew, yes he knew, the pain, the humiliation, and the memory of Lindsay helping him from a pool of vomit. What sort of patriots were these? How could this happen? But he was guilty too, guilty, yes. And more than just a silent witness – a sort of Judas.

Someone was holding a thick rope with a noose knotted at the end.
Koch was tightening it, squeezing, squeezing the air from Heine. He was writhing, thrashing on the chair. It toppled sideways again but this time no one helped him to his feet. They were kicking him, grunting and cursing, and Lange could hear the scuffing of boots on the stone floor.

‘Stop. Don’t kill him.’

It was Dietrich. He pushed impatiently through the shoulders that had closed over Heine’s body: ‘Get him up. He must sign.’

The rope was still hanging obscenely from Heine’s neck. Someone pressed a pen into his hand. Grazed, dirty fingers closed around it and letter by painful letter he wrote his name in the yellow file. Did he know what he was doing? Did any of them know what they were doing?

Dietrich held up the sheet of paper in triumph. Everything was in order. Justice must always be seen to be done.

‘The swine . . .’

And Heine’s confession was met with a chorus of abuse.

‘We should hang the bastard.’

‘No, the bastard should hang himself. He would if he were any sort of man.’

And someone yanked the rope beneath Heine’s chin, dragging his head from his chest.

‘There’s a meat hook in here. String the bastard up from the ceiling.’

The rope cut deeper. Heine’s lips were drawn tightly over his teeth and he gasped and whooped for air, his hands tearing at the noose. And in his tortured face there was a desperate plea for help. He seemed fleetingly to look at Lange, beseeching him, begging, ‘Please, please.’

‘Stop it. Stop it.’ The words came to Lange at last, breathless and shaking with tears. ‘Let me help him.’

But someone was holding him down, twisting his arm behind his back. It was his room-mate, Schmidt.

‘Shut up,’ Dietrich barked and he pushed his face close to Lange’s. ‘Why do you want to help a traitor?’

They were all looking at him now, angry that anyone should dare to challenge their justice with a show of pity.

‘Why? You of all people.’ Lange could feel Dietrich’s hot stale tobacco breath on his cheek. His blue eyes were mad with anger, the pupils fully dilated. Slowly, he reached up and pinched Lange’s left cheek between his thumb and forefinger, digging his nails in hard until he gasped with pain.

‘You’re lucky it’s him,’ Dietrich hissed.

‘I just, I . . .’ Lange could not speak. The words had gone again. The window was closing.

‘Take him back. We don’t need him any more.’

It was Bruns who took hold of his arm. ‘Come on.’

And Lange wanted to go with him, to escape, to run, to hide, ‘Go, go now,’ the words screaming, echoing through his mind. But he could not move. He could not move. Guilt was tearing at him, guilt and a helpless paralysing fear of what would happen when he was gone.

‘Come now,’ Bruns almost pulled him off his feet.

‘And not a word,’ Dietrich glared at him. ‘Not a word to anyone, do you hear?’

There was silence in the kitchen, a cold complicit silence as they watched Bruns bundle Lange to the door. Then a low despairing moan and Lange turned quickly to look at Heine. The rope was slack and he was rocking to and fro, his face in his hands. Dietrich was standing over him again with the end of the rope in his hands.

‘If you’re a man you’ll do it. Do it now.’

Then the kitchen door swung firmly shut and Lange was in the dark passage.

Later, he lay with his face on his pillow, chinks of light forcing their way through his closed fingers. He was alone. Soon the bell would ring for roll call and he would have to go down to the terrace. His roommates were there already. Dietrich would be there, Schmidt, Bruns and the others. He would have to look them in the eye. Twisted faces, he could see them now, the fury and the relish with which they had set about their task, the pleasure. Nineteen. Heine was only nineteen. All he had ever wanted was to be an engineer, an oily rag for his country. Why, why, why? Was it their collective humiliation, their way of coping with the helplessness and shame of being prisoners? They needed to prove their loyalty and dedication to duty even at the
expense of their own. Yes, they were all to blame. But as he lay there on his bed Lange knew he would never escape the conviction that he was most to blame. It was the yellow file. He could see it in Dietrich’s hands. He could see it in front of Heine’s bruised face. And the engineer was holding a pen in trembling fingers to make his confession. The yellow file. Lange wondered if he would ever be clean again.

33

T

‘Prayers for victory?’ he asked as she slipped into the seat beside him.

‘Yes.’

‘Wonderful.’ And he pressed his foot to the floor.

Her uncle was watching from the top of the steps with a concerned look on his face, the church emptying around him.

The Austin smelt of oil and cigarette smoke and was stuffy even with all the windows open. There was an alarming screech as Lindsay worked his way through the gears. It would take them a little less than two hours to reach Oxford. It was a perfect summer Sunday and a hamper and ice bucket were balanced carefully on the back seat. Mary was relishing the prospect of a few precious hours away from the grind and the grime of London.

But the journey began awkwardly. Lindsay looked more tired, more careworn than she had ever seen him but he was short with her when she said so. They seemed to have lost some of their old easy familiarity. He made little effort to answer her questions and conversation began to peter out between Marble Arch and Notting Hill Gate. She was relieved of the obligation when, on the outskirts of west London, he was able to open up the throttle and the wind began to whip through the car. With the sun blinking through the windscreen and the throb of the engine, she was asleep before they reached High Wycombe.

They parked on the Woodstock Road in Oxford and Mary took him into her old college.

‘This is for bluestockings, isn’t it?’ he asked provocatively.

‘For clever and free-thinking women, you mean.’

An old scout recognised her as they were ambling round the main
quad and they were obliged to listen to her litany of woes about rationing at high table and civil servants in the university buildings. It seemed to Mary that Oxford had changed very little; it was quieter perhaps but still timeless and mellow in the summer sunshine. Lindsay was thinking the same:

‘Someone must have missed Oxford off the Luftwaffe’s map.’

‘You sound sorry.’

‘No,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘no, I’m glad.’

‘Perhaps it represents something greater.’

He gave a short laugh: ‘A corner of civilisation? Do you think Warsaw or the East End of London knows? Anyway, there’s time yet.’

‘Gosh, what good company you are.’

He put his arm around her waist and squeezed it: ‘Sorry.’

It was the first time he had touched her that day.

They walked into broad St Giles past the memorial for those of the city who had fallen in the Great War, to St John’s College and on towards the neo-Gothic buildings of Balliol. And Mary told him something of the history of the Scottish college and of its founders John Balliol and his wife the Lady Dervorguilla. When John died in 1268 his heart was cut from his chest, embalmed and kept close by his widow. It was buried beside her at last at the abbey she built in his memory. ‘Sweetheart Abbey not far from Dumfries.’

‘I’ll take you,’ said Lindsay.

‘Who knows, by the time this war’s over you may not love me.’

‘I will love you,’ and he turned to face her. ‘But you’ll be tired of me. I’ll have exhausted your patience.’

He lifted her chin and she allowed his lips to brush her cheek before turning away.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, breaking free.

They walked back to the car for the hamper, then on past the gaudy High Church brick of Keble College to the University Parks. Here the war was making its mark. The railings were reduced to a few broken inches and the park to the south of the path had been turned over to allotments. Sunday gardeners were bent over their strips like the lay brothers of a medieval college. They found a peaceful spot beneath the shade of a sweet chestnut, a stone’s throw from the River
Cherwell. Lindsay had done well: a bottle of Bordeaux, duck, pickled herring, some cheese and fresh bread – even a bar of American chocolate.

‘How on earth . . .’

‘Good intelligence. For you, guvnor, a shillin’,’ he said in a Scots-cockney accent.

‘You ruthless spiv.’

‘I know how to please a lady,’ and he smiled warmly at her. ‘Pass me the corkscrew.’

He opened the bottle, then began arranging knives and glasses and food on the rug.

‘Is this a little indecent?’ she asked, rolling down her church stockings.

‘Wonderfully indecent.’

After they had eaten, they lay on the blanket soaking in the lazy heat of the day. It was humid and still, with not a breath of wind to stir the broadleaf canopy above. A college bell was tolling in the distance, and closer, excited voices and the solid clunk of bat on leather ball, laughter from the river and the splash of a punt pole inexpertly handled. And in such a place, on such a day, the battle in the Atlantic was no more than an abstraction. Eyes closed, empty of all but feeling, sun on muscle and skin, a trickle of perspiration on her throat and the grass brushing the back of her legs. She was surprised and almost sorry when he touched her again, a loving caress with the back of his hand lightly against her arm.