Remember Me (18 page)

There were never any secrets on U-boats and, although the
Rangitiki
was more than ten times the size and carried more than ten times the personnel, Christian soon
discovered there were no secrets aboard the liner either. And no place to hide. People stared at him when he went to the ship’s library to find a book, stared at him when he sat down in the lounge to read it, looked up from their card games when he walked past and pointed to him when he went out on deck to escape. Christian cursed himself for his error of judgement. Just because he’d made the effort to put the war behind him didn’t mean everyone else had. Even so the reaction had surprised him. In Germany the prejudice against former U-boat personnel had given way to tolerance and even respect. In his business dealings it had been the same. Some of the former U-boat men he’d helped had managed to return to a life at sea. It was something he and Gustav had discussed at length. But clearly not everyone followed that pattern. As painful as it was, he had to accept he had not yet finished paying for the years when U-boats terrorised the oceans.

With lunchtime looming he decided to return to his cabin to freshen up. He discovered his suitcase in the corridor outside, his overcoat, suit and the contents of his drawer scattered on top of it. He opened the cabin door expecting to confront the two young Englishmen but the cabin was empty. He gathered his things together and packed them all in his suitcase, and pushed it back under Jichak’s bunk. There was no point in putting anything back into the drawer or on hangers. His crews in the U-boats had never lacked imagination in dealing with shipmates who’d done the wrong thing. Christian knew
at the very least he could expect to have his toothpaste tube emptied over the contents of his drawer, or tea poured over them or even urine. He had to change cabins. He had no alternative. At least his suitcase was packed ready for the move.

He sat down at his place at the lunch table, not to silence as he’d expected but to forced civility. When soup was served the steward slammed his bowl down on the table in front of him. Everyone pretended not to notice.

‘Chicken soup,’ said Peter, the eight-year-old. ‘My favourite.’ For some reason he’d been given less than everyone else, something he couldn’t fail to notice. ‘Anna,’ he called hopefully to his little sister, ‘change bowls?’

‘No,’ she replied. She placed an arm protectively around her bowl.

‘Here, you have mine,’ said Christian. ‘Chicken soup has never been my favourite.’ He exchanged his soup for the boy’s.

‘Say thank you,’ said Theo.

‘Thank you,’ said Peter delightedly. ‘Thank you very much.’ Just as the boy was about to dip his spoon into the soup the steward snatched it away.

‘I’ll bring you another,’ he said brusquely.

Christian’s shoulders slumped. That was something else they did on U-boats. When the main course was served, fish in white sauce with boiled potatoes, Jichak immediately reached across Christian and took his plate, exchanging it with his own.

‘Spit in food, I eat many times,’ he said. ‘Is nothing. Not kill me then, not kill me now.’

‘I’ll take that.’ Again the steward swooped and removed Jichak’s plate. He stormed off back to the kitchen for a replacement.

‘What was your job in the U-boat?’ asked Peter in halting English.

Christian sighed. If anyone else had asked he would’ve avoided the question. He didn’t feel he could do that to the boy.

‘My job?’ replied Christian. ‘I was the captain.’

‘The captain?’ Peter was obviously impressed.

‘Yes. My job, as you put it, was to sink enemy ships and not get sunk myself.’

‘Did you sink many ships?’ It was the question everyone wanted answered.

‘More than some, not nearly as many as others. Sometimes we went months without sighting a single ship. In September 1944 my boat was severely damaged by depth-charging and finally sunk by aircraft. Most of my crew were killed. I was one of only ten to survive.’

‘We must talk some time,’ cut in Theo. ‘When the war began I escaped to England. I flew in bombers. I was the bomb aimer. In 1943 I was transferred to Coastal Command. Maybe we have met before.’ He paused as the steward brought back a replacement meal for Jichak. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Theo grabbed the steward’s sleeve. ‘Perhaps you would inform the kitchen that one of us
will always exchange plates with this man. That way you will not be inconvenienced.’

Christian turned to Theo as he watched the steward march off, beaten but unrepentant. ‘Thank you. That is one problem solved. Now all I have to do is move to another cabin.’

‘Ha!’ said Jichak. ‘Where you go? Who want you? Only me. Only Jichak. The English, they don’t like, they move.’

Christian smiled but his smile belied his apprehension. The five weeks of the voyage stretched ahead of him like a lifetime. Yes, he had friends at his table but they could not spare him all the indignities that lay ahead—the snubs, the silences in his presence, the muttered insults. He’d seen men under his command break down under similar strain.

On his return to his cabin he threw the suitcases belonging to the English boys out into the corridor, much to Jichak’s amusement. He threw their belongings on top. Christian had fought the English for almost five years and didn’t think another five weeks would make much difference. With any luck he thought they might agree to a truce of sorts once they realised he was prepared to stand up for himself. Perhaps it would all end in a fight. It was not a prospect he relished but he was determined not to back away from it, either. What were two boys compared with the hard men he’d confronted in the dark, desperate lanes and alleys of Hamburg’s
docks? He shook his head wearily. This was not how he hoped his new start would begin. His only consolation was his conviction that his ordeal would end once he reached New Zealand.

The first time he’d taken his sub down to two hundred metres the groans of the hull plates compacting under pressure had terrified the crew. Now there was comfort in the sound. The groans announced that they’d dived below the pre-set detonation depth of many of the depth charges. But not all. The U-boats’ deep diving capability, once a secret, was now well known by their enemy.

The first explosion rocked the U-boat from stem to stern, forcing it to heel hard over to starboard. Men fell. Unsecured equipment showered down on them. Pipes burst. Screams mingled with shouted commands.

‘Silence!’ ordered the captain. The enemy had grown smarter. He’d expected the first charge to explode at one-fifty metres. It had exploded closer to one-seventy-five. The game kept changing, becoming harder to win.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘D
EATH OF A
U-B
OAT’

Our world was turned upside down that Sunday but it took us a while to realise it. Mum and Dad made me sit down and go through the whole chain of events leading up to the drama in church. If Captain Biggs had been amazed by the part I’d played, my parents were doubly so. Mum and Rod were impressed but Dad grew unhappier the longer I went on.

‘Why’d thee get involved?’ he kept asking. He foresaw repercussions, as yet unspecific, but repercussions nonetheless and his reversion to
thee
instead of
you
was a clear sign of his concern. Dad was a big man, an inch over six foot and fourteen and a half stone, and liked to confront trouble head-on. The problem was, he wasn’t certain what form the trouble would take. In war movies U-boat captains were always portrayed as ruthless, diehard Nazis who stood by watching as the men from the ships they sank drowned, and I’d allied myself with one. Even worse I was instrumental in bringing him to New Zealand. Dad couldn’t see any good coming out of that. He turned to my oldest brother, hoping, I suspect, to be proved wrong. ‘What do thee think?’ he asked.

Having read Swift’s
Gulliver’s Travels
I always imagined Rod had modelled himself on the Houyhnhnms, those horses that thought very carefully before they spoke. ‘A lot of people walked out,’ he said. ‘I was surprised by how many. There’s a lot of ill-feeling.’

‘Might surprise thee, doesn’t surprise me,’ said Dad. ‘What the hair oil was Captain Biggs thinking? A blinking
U-boat captain?’ Dad never swore or blasphemed. Instead he used euphemisms;
hair oil
for hell,
blinking
and
blooming
for bloody,
bar steward
for bastard, the latter only ever when he was trying to be funny. ‘Someone should tell him to wake his bloomin’ ideas up.’

‘I think you’ll find a lot of people will boycott the Christmas service,’ said Rod.

‘Let’s hope they don’t boycott shop,’ said Dad.

Suddenly I understood Dad’s concern. Blood drained from my face. Christmas was a very expensive time of the year and Mum counted on extra business to pay for it. Christmas was her payday, the busiest time of the year for the shop. A boycott would be disastrous. I had visions of Christmas without presents, without the new fishing reel I’d been hoping for, without the stovepipe jeans Nigel wanted, without the wristwatch Rod desperately needed. My head spun. Christmas without presents! And it was all my fault.

‘Let’s just wait and see,’ said Mum grimly.

The fact that money was tight and times were tough cushioned the fall. A lot of people bought things on lay-by and paid off the outstanding amount with Christmas bonuses and holiday pay. Whether people wanted to or not, they were committed to giving us their business or going without. Of course all the gossip centred around the coming of the U-boat commander, the walk-out from chapel and Captain Biggs’s stupidity. In those days there was
no TV and the information overload had yet to happen. Any scandal or deviation from the norm was seized upon. Everyone and their dog felt entitled to an opinion and claimed an inalienable right to express it. The prevailing conservatism precluded debate. Opinion swung from selfrighteous indignation to self-righteous hostility. Fortunately most customers suppressed their feelings about the part I’d played, although some were a little less diplomatic, making it clear they were only in the shop on sufferance. Mum copped it all on the chin. The important thing was that takings were in line with expectations, much to everyone’s relief. On Christmas Eve she shut up shop for two weeks as normal. Nobody had any money left after Christmas Day so there was no point in opening up. Besides, we always went away on holiday the day after Boxing Day. We were going to take the Chev and go camping, working our way slowly up to Ninety Mile Beach and back again. Another family were coming with us in their Humber Super Snipe. They had daughters Nigel and I were expected to play with but, in the scheme of things, that was a small price to pay. Mum was convinced by the time we got back everything would’ve blown over.

She warned me to give Captain Biggs a wide berth until we went away. Club had finished when school broke up so I had to make a special effort to sneak off to talk to him. I waited until the Tuesday morning. He seemed pleased to see me. I don’t think he’d had many visitors since he’d sprung his little surprise. He told me he’d gone
around to see the Gillespies to make peace with them but Mr Gillespie had refused to listen or even let him in the door. He’d been to see other members of the congregation who’d walked out and they hadn’t let him in either. Captain Biggs was one of those people who wore a funny little half-smile-half-bewildered look on their face when they were hurt. It was something you expect to see more in kids than adults but Captain Biggs was hopeless at hiding his emotions. He also confided that the bishop had asked him up to All Saints for a meeting and he was expecting to be hauled over the coals. There was even a possibility he’d be relieved of his duties and transferred. If that happened, he said, he’d leave the church altogether. He made me promise to keep this information to myself. ‘I bet you wish you’d never written that letter,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

I could think of hundreds who’d disagree.

I went to see Mack on Christmas Day to show him my new side-cast fishing reel and give him the present Mum had bought for me to give to him. I’d found it in the sports shop. It was a picture calendar with a different photo of Great Barrier Island for each month. Some showed dawn shots of beaches and forests but others showed fishermen proudly holding up enormous snapper. Mack loved his present and approved of my new reel, but I have to say he was definitely lacking in the spirit of Christmas. I asked him why.

‘I was supposed to spend Christmas Day with the Mynotts,’ he said. ‘They withdrew the invitation after church last Sunday.’

I was stunned but then I remembered seeing the Mynotts walk out just after the Gillespies.

‘I’ll ask Mum if you can come to our place,’ I said indignantly.

‘Don’t bother, laddie. Nice of you but I’ve been invited up to the Church Army.’

‘I thought Captain Biggs was going to Brian’s place. He told me he was.’ It was normal for Captain Biggs to spend Christmas Day with someone from the congregation. Each year a different family volunteered. One year he spent Christmas Day with us and it was agony.

‘Ah well,’ said Mack. ‘Same thing happened to him.’

I was horrified. There were never many people staying at the Church Army at the best of times, usually just Captain Biggs, a trainee Brother (they came and went with monotonous regularity) and four Sisters. They rattled around the big old building like marbles in an empty petrol tin. I knew Sister Glorious and Sister Kathleen had gone home to their families, as had the current trainee. At best Mack would be spending Christmas with Captain Biggs and two old Sisters who had no life beyond the Church Army. Both were as dry as last year’s kindling. I was right to be horrified. I could picture their Christmas dinner. It would begin with
carols, sung holding hands, followed by Captain Biggs’ long-winded grace, homemade soup, roast chicken served with soft-baked potatoes, gravy and maybe some peas and carrots. If there was any ham it would be tinned. Dessert would be a slight improvement, a Christmas pudding made and given months earlier by someone’s earnest mum, topped with runny custard. Maybe they’d have a Harvey’s Bristol Cream each. Mum always gave Captain Biggs a bottle of Bristol Cream Sherry at Christmas. It was his weakness and an expensive ‘thank you’, an appreciation for everything he did for us, especially the club nights. I hoped Mack would fall off the wagon and they’d finish the bottle between them, although I reckoned it would take more than a dozen bottles to make the occasion joyful. I pictured them in the cavernous, draughty, austere dining room, four lonely souls adrift at a table built for twelve. I hoped they wouldn’t have paper hats because that would make it just too sad.

Mum and Dad both opened up shop the Monday after we returned home from our trip. Business was slow as it always was at that time of year because many people were still on holiday. Mum kept herself busy checking the school stationery as it came in and arranging the display. Just as Christmas was a bright end to the year from a business point of view, sales of school stationery got the fledgling year off to a bright beginning. While Mum
kept her mark-up modest to be competitive with the bigger stores, the sheer volume she handled made sure she did well.

The moment we got home Nigel and I went straight down to Eric and Maxie’s to tell them what we’d been doing and see what they’d been up to. Eric immediately wanted to know if I’d heard what day the U-boat captain was arriving. He was really excited about meeting him. In honour of the commander, the sofa had forsaken Dresden and begun flying missions out over the Atlantic to depthcharge submarines. I told Eric what Captain Biggs had told me. The
Rangitiki
was due to arrive in Auckland on the Friday before we went back to school. Eric was ecstatic. Nigel and Maxie, of course, couldn’t give a toss. They weren’t interested. On the Sunday half the congregation had walked out they’d rejoiced in Captain Biggs’s discomfort. They thought it was a hoot, further proof that Captain Biggs was a total twat.

Since it was too hot to play any games down at Grey Lynn Park we decided to ride our bikes to the beach. We went via Gary’s place as we always did to see if he wanted to come with us. His mother answered the door and told me Gary wasn’t allowed to play with me any more. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Gary was my second-best pal. We’d been pals for ages. He was in my team at club. He was one of our gang. I could hear him protesting, begging to be allowed to go with us, but his mother wouldn’t bend. We rode off but for me a lot of
the brightness had gone out of the day. I could sense the dark clouds beginning to gather over my head.

When I got home I told Mum what had happened. She put her arms around me and gave me a hug. ‘It’s just a storm in a teacup,’ she said. ‘Give them time. They’ll get over it.’

I saw Mr Gillespie walking home from work a couple of days later while Eric and I were riding back across the park. I thought it was a good opportunity to break the ice and maybe put in a good word for Captain Biggs, so I slowed and said hello. He didn’t salute or call me ‘Captain’ or even acknowledge the fact I’d spoken to him. The most popular father in the neighbourhood ignored me and ignored Eric for the crime of being with me. He cast us off like dirty underwear. I was devastated.

Christian Berger duly arrived in Auckland on the last Friday in January and Captain Biggs, who’d managed to survive the bishop’s censure, brought him home. I know Mack went up to see him on Saturday because he told me all about it. They talked for ages, he said, right through the afternoon. He said Christian Berger was exactly as I’d portrayed him in my story. I would’ve given my right arm to sit in on their conversation but Captain Biggs hadn’t thought to invite me. It wouldn’t have occurred to him. There was no place for kids in adult gatherings. I’d resigned myself to the fact I wouldn’t meet Christian Berger until church on Sunday. Mack promised he’d
introduce me after the service and promised to include me if he and the U-boat captain got together at his place. You can imagine how excited I felt. Stuff Mr Gillespie! As far as I was concerned he could go jump in the lake. I was about to meet a real, live U-boat commander. I couldn’t have been more excited if we’d had a second Christmas.

I was the first to the chapel. I got there so early I was given the job of handing out the kneeling pads and hymn sheets. There were fewer Roneoed copies than usual because Captain Biggs had come to terms with the fact he’d be preaching to half-empty pews for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t hide his amazement when the chapel began to fill. If anything the turnout was even bigger than it had been on that fateful Sunday before Christmas. Forever the trusting shepherd, he thought his flock had finally seen the light and come to heel, that the faith and Christian principles he preached had triumphed over ignorance and prejudice. One look at the tight-lipped faces should have told him otherwise. There was nothing particularly Christian about the congregation’s motivation. People had just come to see what a U-boat captain looked like and put a face to the object of their hatred.

The kids who went to club always occupied the first four rows on the right-hand side of the chapel. Some brave parents usually sat in the three rows behind, between us and the vestry, in an attempt to keep some of the more unruly kids under control. Most adults and all
of the girls sat on the other side of the aisle as far away from us as they could—the air could get pretty putrid when sneaky fart competitions took place. The Church Army Sisters and Brothers usually occupied the front pew, with the exception of Sister Kathleen, who played the organ. My position as one of the club captains meant I had an aisle seat, and the job of trying to exercise some control. I chose to sit at the end of the fourth row where I’d have the best view over the pews on the left-hand side and of the entry to the chapel. If anything, the kids were quieter than the adults. It occurred to me that somebody should’ve been put in charge of controlling them. More adults watched the door than faced the altar. There was an air of expectancy you could cut with a knife.