Any Survivors (2008) (25 page)

I was tempted for a second and thought,
here is finally something I can use my money for
, but I decided against it. It was a cowardly solution.

‘Dearest,’ she continued. ‘I will never leave you again. If you do not want me to kiss you now then we will find somewhere to disembark, not here of course, but just over there. There's a landing spot not far from the path leading to the
Gotzenalpe.
There's a little clearing and we can rest on the grass. It will be a little chilly and I will surely catch a terrible cold and it will be the death of me, but I don't care. That's a sacrifice I am willing to make for you. I love you so much that I cannot exist without you.’

It was time for me to interrupt her flow of words as I was starting to get a little uncomfortable. I did not have to wait long; we both saw it at the same time. A motorboat was heading towards us at great speed. I was sure that there were not supposed to be any speedboats on the lake. Two SS men from the
Leibstandarte
were standing upright – one of them had a blow-horn:

UNTEROFFIZIER GRIESEMANN REPORT FOR DUTY IMMEDIATELY!

Aha
, I thought.
I assume it is time for us to meet the Führer and they have come to pick us up.

‘They’re only looking for that sailor Griesemann,’ Christine said. ‘Coincidentally, that is the name of the man I am meant to be following. Don't worry too much. They should not concern you. As a Danish prince you are ex-territorial, are you not? Could you make sure they do not come too close to us? I do not want anything to do with them.’

‘You are demanding too much,’ I answered. ‘I have no intention of scuttling the boat. The temperature is no more than 9 degrees and I am wearing brand new clothes that cost me 250 marks. I think it is more sensible to get up and do as they say. What will they think of us if they find us both lying here? I know well that I have behaved honourably. The boat was not very stable for one but I wouldn't want anyone to think badly of me.’

The motorboat was now at our side. ‘You must report for duty immediately!’ one of the men said to me – he knew me from sight. ‘You must all be ready at 5 p.m. There will be a car waiting for you. Just jump over into our boat!’

I climbed carefully into their motorboat as it was quite unsteady. ‘You sailors are always very funny,’ said the other, ‘but hurry up! We haven't got time for your jokes.’

‘Who knows if he is having a laugh,’ said the first one. ‘I don't believe he is pretending, I think he really has got shaky knees. Have a closer look at the girl; you’ll see why.’ It was a cheeky thing to say and Christine went bright red. She was a little indignant that we were not giving her a lift, but there was nothing for it. She had to row all the way back on her own. ‘Bye bye, sailor boy!’ she called after me. ‘Say hello to your mates!’ It would be highly embarrassing for her to admit that she had been that close to her target without realising it. I doubted she would take action against me. Besides, she would be busy for a few hours rowing back, possibly taking even longer against the stream. Hopefully, by the time she was able to do anything I would have already spoken to the Führer. The two guardsmen hurried me along so much I nearly forgot to pick up my uniform.

I was lying on my back in the rear of the car trying to change into my uniform trousers. The car flew ahead, and with it my thoughts. My entire life passed in front of my eyes. I had been in several life-threatening situations in the past few weeks but never noticed my past speeding along via my thoughts; I was sure it had not happened before. As a result I have come to the following simple conclusion: when I am moving very slowly, say climbing a mountain with a heavy pack or behind a slow-moving plough, then my thoughts were equally slow. If I am in a fast-moving vehicle, then my thoughts are transported like a flash. I remember once knowing a poet who was only able to compose his poems in a taxi. This led to his financial ruin in the end.

With my life passing before my eyes, I was currently going through my childhood and youth, a state I was still familiar with. I was standing with my dear mother in the laundry room, 15 years old and on my holidays. I will not say where or which country so as not to give away any details that might endanger my mother. Laundry rooms and schools can be found almost anywhere in the world. I was helping my mother voluntarily, as I didn't normally have to do any work in the school holidays. My mother had sent me to the shops earlier on to buy some washing powder because we had run out. It was during the time when a particular advertisement was very popular throughout Europe (this much I can give away, we were in Europe). I will call it ‘Pursol’.

The shopkeeper was trying to sell me some of this Pursol. ‘It washes whiter,’ he said. But my mother had told me to get the washing powder we always had. So I said, ‘No thank you, I would like the usual soap flakes.’ The shopkeeper was forced to concede.

As we were doing the laundry, there was a loud droning in the air. The laundry room was in the courtyard and had a covering but no walls, so you could go outside and look at the sky without having to open any doors. It was an airplane, not unusual in those days, but it was an old rickety model. It was pulling a banner. We could not tell what it was as it was the wrong way round, so we continued with our task. After a few minutes we heard the noise again. The airplane had come back and this time we could read the writing: ‘Pursol washes whiter’ were the words we could now read. ‘What will people invent next?’ my mother said, shaking her head. But at that moment in time we both lost our faith in the old soap flakes. We felt that our washing could indeed do with being a little whiter. ‘May I light a cigarette?’ I asked my mother. I was only 15 but I was on holiday and they weren't very strong. My mother answered, ‘Just for once, but make sure that none of the ashes land on our washing.’ I took out my matches. On the packet I found the words: ‘Pursol washes whiter.’ Since it was a fine day, we hung the washing out to dry in the courtyard. My mother said, ‘That's enough hard work for today, let's go inside and you can read the newspapers to me.’ We were both feeling a little discontented. I opened the paper and the first thing I could see was a full page with giant letters and a picture: ‘Pursol washes whiter.’ My mother had had enough of the paper and turned on the radio. We heard a few beats of dance music and then a voice said, ‘Pursol washes whiter’. My mother sighed and looked outside where the washing was swaying in the breeze, commenting: ‘Son, I don't think our washing looks particularly white today.’ And I said, ‘Mother, we don't know the maker of the soap flakes personally and we don't owe him anything. Do we have to resist any longer? Why don't we just go with the flow?’ And my dear mother said: ‘You are right, my son, the next time we do a wash, I will get you to buy some Pursol.’

This is the way advertising works, whether it be washing powder, toothpaste or laxatives, and this was how the Führer and his regime crept into our consciousness. He advertised himself and his ideals for so long and so consistently that no one dared swim against the stream and everyone just went with the flow. But let us not dwell on this now, the man is in power and could do as he pleased. If I manage to persuade him to rethink his ideals, then that would be true victory for humanity. As it stands the man is answerable to no one. I convinced myself that I would be successful. The forthcoming events presented themselves clearly to me in my mind. The structure was in three clear parts with a central image and two side panels, like an Italian altarpiece, a triptych. Only my mental pictures were much nicer than the old images since they were thoroughly modern. They were moving images and spoke to me clearly as in a film.

The first panel: I get separated from my comrades, evade all the policemen, sentries and the lifeguards. Crawling, creeping through corridors and slipping through doors, I reach the inner sanctum of the Führer. I'm not sure what his office looks like; light wood panelling with green carpets, someone once told me, lots of bookshelves and of course a desk with a telephone. It doesn't really matter what the room looks like – it was all about the man who sits there. I open the door so quietly that he does not notice me straight away – all this is in my head of course. He is restless and plagued by unpleasant thoughts. He is talking loudly to himself: ‘Am I surrounded by crooks and fools, liars and sycophants? Is there no one who will tell me the truth?’ I step forward – in my vision – and speak: ‘Yes, my Führer, I am here. I will tell my Führer the truth!’ I had to repeat his title. If I used the formal ‘Yes, I will tell you the truth’,
Ich sage Ihnen Die Wahrheit
, it would sound a little strange. If I used the informal form of address, the ‘
du
’, as in
Ich sage Dir die Wahrheit
– how much greater would the impact be? How dare I use the informal form of address with the Führer? He would answer, ‘And who might you be who professes to speak the truth?’ I would turn a little so he could see my Iron Cross. He has one as well. That should be enough to forge a link between the two of us, being decorated with the same medal. ‘I see you have demonstrated great bravery at sea for me and for the Fatherland. A man like you deserves to be heard. Speak!’ He points to an armchair. I decline. ‘No, my Führer, I would rather remain standing.’ And then I begin my epoch-making, world-changing speech.

The speech itself is the centrepiece of the triptych. I do not need to think through this bit. The speech is ingrained in my mind. So I go on to the third panel, on the right. This is the most cheerful of the three as it signifies my victory and triumph. The Führer listens to the entire length of my speech, not once interrupting me. Every now and again he nods approvingly. ‘Are you finished?’ he asks. I affirm.

‘Thank you,’ he responds, ‘you have convinced me’, and he reaches for the telephone. He speaks clearly and calmly into the receiver, not too loudly and not too quietly. ‘Put me through to the Head of the
Reichsdruckerei
, the national newspapers. I have some news.’ It never takes more than six or seven minutes before he is connected. ‘This is Adolf Hitler … do you need me to spell it out to you? H for Hildebrand, I for Isidor, yes, that's right, it's your Führer and Reichschancellor. Please report immediately that all 4 million soldiers are to be demobilised as of now. End of conversation.’

‘Chief of the navy?’

‘Speaking.’

‘All U-boats and minelayers are to sink all their weapons and return to their harbours. Chief of the army! Chief of transport! Chief of secret naval supply system!’ And so it goes on, liquidating the elements of this unfortunate war. Then he moves on to foreign policy. ‘Foreign ministry, please!’ – even though he is the most powerful man in the world, he occasionally says ‘please’ – ‘At 0610 I would like to see the American emissary, at 0625 the papal nuncio, 0628 the Dutch representative, 0630 the Belgian, then 0631 the Swedish emissary. All official representatives of those countries and powers who have been striving for world peace are summoned to the Führer's office immediately!’

Then he continues with home affairs. ‘Chief of the propaganda ministry! Cease the anti-British campaign in print and radio. For tonight's programme, a sympathetic lecture held by a professor of literature or history on the life and work of Rudyard Kipling and Captain Scott's last journey to the South Pole. Chief of the Gestapo! Set all political prisoners free. Break the news gently to the old and infirm. Leader of the former unions, meeting tomorrow at 1130! For all those previously imprisoned – a hot bath, delousing and a warm meal beforehand. Ministry of the Interior: get me the rabbis of Berlin and Hamburg and the Palestine Office for a meeting tomorrow at 1145. No argument! Police Headquarters Lublin: be on the lookout for Jewish deportees, bring survivors back in ambulances and return them to the care of the Jewish community. Reichs-finance ministry …’

‘Should I be on my way now, my Führer?’ I enquire quietly, as I do not want to be witness to anything too delicate or secret.

‘No, stay here, young friend. Your clear head and critical intellect will be very useful to me …’

I was woken out of my reveries abruptly as someone was shaking me. The bottom of the car was littered with the alpine costume and I was back in my plain navy uniform. In the time I had got changed and been dreaming we had not only travelled from the Königssee back to Berchtesgaden, but were now already heading up the serpentine road to the Berghof
.
This was the Führer's residence. It was nowhere near five o’clock yet, but it was better to be early than risk being late. Edgar, our
Ehrenkavalier
, was waiting for the car outside the Berghof and took me straight under his wing.

‘My only wish,’ I told him – I already saw him as a friend and someone I could confide in – ‘is to have a personal audience with the Führer.’

Edgar responded very quietly and returned the confidence. ‘My only wish is to become a tour guide for foreign tourists in this ghostly palace when this business is all over. I speak three foreign languages fluently and it will be difficult for someone like me to find a good job when the war is over …’

This destroyed all my illusions and I needed a minute or two to regain composure and get back the sense of ceremony for this momentous occasion.

***

Edgar guided me past an immaculate stone terrace with a wonderful view of the mountains into a simply furnished room with low ceilings where the others were already waiting. They were sitting on wooden stools and stared straight ahead, waiting patiently. Everyone knew my outing to the Königssee had happened with the full knowledge and permission of the officials and they had no problem with me coming straight from there. Of course, no one had any idea how it had gone. We sat in silence. Finally we, the crew of U-boat XY, were summoned into the ground floor reception room. We formed neat rows of two and followed our patron saint. We did not march proudly like sailors in a parade. No, we were more like a group of orphans or little girls, none of us daring to tread too hard on the floor. The Baron and I formed the final row of two. Our shepherd remained standing at the door of a room on the ground floor, herding us inside as we marched past. The room inside was filled with comfortable-looking leather armchairs.