The Passenger (18 page)

‘How was it in the Lion's den?' asked Graf.

‘He growled a bit,' Lorenz replied. ‘But on the whole he was perfectly civil.'

‘Did he say anything about—you know—our little errand for the SS?'

‘Not a great deal. It's as though the whole episode never happened. Or at least that's how they want it to appear now.'

‘Perhaps someone important blundered.' Graf raised his glass and after taking a few sips, licked the foam from his upper lip.

‘That seems very likely,' Lorenz nodded.

‘I'd still like to know what it was all about, though . . .' Graf was distracted by a loud crash. A chief petty officer had fallen
to the floor and his companions were trying to get him back on his feet again.

‘Where are you taking your leave?' asked Lorenz. He was glad of the opportunity to change the subject.

‘My wife's coming here at the end of the week,' Graf replied. ‘And then we're going to spend some time at the chateau.'

‘Which one?'

‘De Trévarez. Have you been yet?'

‘No.'

‘It's right out in the Breton countryside, overlooking Châteauneuf-du-Faou—rolling hills—beautiful.' Graf seemed to be absorbed by recollections of the picture-postcard retreat, where, between patrols, U-boat men could stay and relax with their wives or paramours. Embarrassed by his temporary absence, Graf excused himself and added, ‘Then we're going back to Dresden. The children are staying with my mother-in-law until we get back.' Tilting his head to one side, he inquired: ‘And you, Kaleun?'

‘Paris.'

Graf gave a sly smile and nodded knowingly. For a brief, passing instant, Lorenz was tempted to disclose something more, but he found that he could not speak openly about his private life. Consequently, their conversation became disjointed. Graf yawned and said that he was going to bed. Lorenz stayed on, drinking alone, thinking of Paris and Faustine—her little apartment in the Marais, and their intense, desperate lovemaking. When he finally stumbled out of the Hotel Café Astoria at an hour much later than he had originally planned, he discovered that he had drunk too much and the cobbles felt springy and buoyant underfoot. He needed to walk in order to sober up and he found himself, without much consideration, heading off in the direction of the naval harbor.

T
HE MASSIVE STEEL DOORS OF
the bunker were wide open. Painted over the cavernous entrance was a stylized, angular eagle clutching a swastika in its talons and beneath this totemic emblem was a slogan, rendered in blockish, utilitarian lettering
: THROUGH STRUGGLE TO VICTORY.
Two armed guards acknowledged Lorenz's approach and an administrator wearing a uniform decorated with silver trim looked up from his clipboard.

Once inside, Lorenz marched along a corridor that passed between workshops. The air was permeated with dust and the stench of burning rubber. Men in dungarees operated lathes and milling machines—acetylene torches hissed, sparks fell in glittering cascades, and carpenters sawed, hammered, and hollered: the din was unremitting. Near the firefighters' room a throng parted respectfully to allow Lorenz through, and he continued to penetrate the bunker complex until he arrived at the entrance to pen ‘A.'

The dimensions of the structure inspired a reaction akin to religious awe. Lorenz registered converging perspective lines, huge planes of damp concrete, and an inestimable volume of empty space. There was something about its size, its airy vastness, that invited comparison with a cathedral, even though the interior was entirely functional and without ornament. High above the wooden crates on the quayside the ceiling was covered with panels of corrugated steel and spanned by the gantry of a mobile crane. Two hinged, overlapping metal doors provided defense against the sea and upward of these was an opening through which Lorenz could see a slab of black sky.

U-330 had been lowered onto stocks and the harsh glare of the surrounding lights exposed every detail of its distempered skin, eruptions of blistering paint and florid outcrops of rust which, like soft-tissue ulcers, appeared to be producing runnels of brown discharge. A stab of pity caused Lorenz to catch his breath. To him, the boat did not look like an inanimate object, but rather a great wounded leviathan. Schmidt and Krausse were guarding the
footbridge: fear of sabotage had become so great that only crew members and authorized personnel were permitted on board. As Lorenz approached, Schmidt saluted. ‘The repair team was called away, Herr Kaleun. Some kind of emergency in the next pen, and they needed extra hands.'

‘Well,' said Lorenz, ‘there's no hurry. We're not going anywhere for a while. Anything I should know about?'

‘Nothing specific,' said Schmidt. ‘They say there's a lot to do.'

‘That's hardly surprising,' Lorenz responded. ‘We took a few knocks this time, didn't we?'

‘Yes, sir—we certainly did.'

Gesturing toward the boat, Lorenz continued, ‘I'm going to take a look.'

He set off down the footbridge, and craning over the hand rail observed that the floor of the pen was still mottled with puddles of seawater. He also noted some conspicuous dents in the bulging fuel tank. On reaching the other side of the channel that separated the deck from the quayside he climbed the conning tower and lowered himself through the hatch.

The fetid odors that lingered from the patrol were finally beginning to dissipate, and other smells, such as cleansing agents and wood polish could now be detected in their place. Portable lamps had been fixed on tall tripods in the control room but only one of them had been left on. Its reflective silver dish was directed at the numerous dials surrounding the hydroplane wheels. Lorenz walked from compartment to compartment, switching on lamps and trying to work out what problems the repair team had uncovered. Several deck plates had been lifted, exposing cables and accumulators. Both of the boat's batteries had been disconnected, and abandoned tools and toolboxes confirmed that the electricians had made a sudden departure. Lorenz found the absolute quiet disconcerting. At sea there were always noises: pounding engines, humming motors, voices, creaks, waves slapping against the tower. Now, there was only a solid, unyielding silence. Lorenz drifted
through the diesel room, past the tiny galley and between the tiers of bare bunk beds.

In his nook, Lorenz sat on the mattress, opened his drawer, and gazed down at the British penny. If it had been concealed between pipes, as Wilhelm had suggested, then it would have almost certainly become dislodged while depth charges were exploding around the boat. How, then, could it have been passed over in a busy torpedo room? How could it have been ignored until Wilhelm chanced to find it? Lorenz's troubled contemplation of the coin was succeeded by more diffuse anxieties.
Why
, he asked himself,
did I decide to come back here tonight?
The absence of ready answers heightened his discomfort, yet eventually he concluded that he had returned to clarify matters—although what he truly meant by this remained imprecise. Gently, he pushed the drawer and the penny disappeared from view.

The long walk from the hotel to the military harbor had been bracing but he still felt slightly drunk. He lay down on the mattress, closed his eyes, and surrendered to the illusion of movement. Tiredness paralyzed his limbs and dragged on his thoughts. Was he sinking? A fleeting recognition of mental dissolution preceded his descent into sleep.

Once again he was standing on the deck of U-330, looking out over slow-moving water that had the consistency of an oil slick. Red light seeped over the horizon and the benighted ocean was dotted with small, flaring conflagrations. The raft appeared in the middle distance as a silhouette, revealed only momentarily by the fires in its locality. With each burst of illumination it materialized a little closer. Lorenz realized that he was dreaming but this did not lessen the pervasive sense of menace. His very soul seemed at risk. A rising panic made the dream unsustainable, and he found himself awake, his heart knocking against his ribs and his mouth sucking in air. It was as though he had surfaced after very nearly drowning. Although his body remained still, his eyes darted around his nook, piecing together reality: loudspeaker, leather panel, cabinet. His
heartbeat slowed and he felt the tension flowing out of his limbs. Resting his hand on his sternum he released the air that he had been retaining in his lungs.

At the periphery of vision Lorenz registered something crossing the gap between the curtain and the edge of the recess. Its transition had caused a fractional dimming of the light. There had been no accompanying sound. Lorenz propped himself up and called out, ‘Hello?' There was no response, so he called again. ‘Hello, who is it?' The silence seemed to intensify.

Warily, he swung his legs off the mattress and pulled the curtain aside. He looked across the boat into the darkened radio room. The sense of danger he had experienced in the dream returned and the atmosphere became overcharged with a kind of electrostatic imminence. His sure knowledge that something was about to happen did not prevent him from flinching when a loud clanging noise sent a reverberation through the hull. Lorenz judged that its source was located in the forward torpedo room.

‘Schmidt?' Lorenz called. ‘Krausse?'

Pressing down on his mattress, Lorenz stood up and began walking toward the bow. He stepped through the bulkhead hatchway and made his way down the gangway between the bunks. The lamp in the crew's quarters emitted a weak yellow light but it was enough to illuminate the torpedo room. As soon as the tube doors came into view he was aware that something was not quite right. Advancing slowly, he saw that one of the upper tube doors was open and he was certain that it had been closed before. He reached out and checked the hinges, moving the door backward and forward. Perhaps someone had come on board and opened it while he had been asleep? The silence was dense and suffocating. Once again, he sensed imminence, a feeling of things being strained to an absolute limit. He heard a crack and the tinkling of broken glass.

Lorenz walked back toward the control room, and when he got as far as the officers' mess he saw that the framed photograph
of Vice Admiral Dönitz was askew. The glass had been smashed and the shatter pattern consisted of radial cracks emanating from a central point. A few shards had fallen onto the linoleum and reflected the light with unusual brilliance. Lorenz lifted the frame off its hook and pressed his hand against the wooden panelling. It was warm, but not exceptionally so. He placed the photograph on the table and proceeded to the control room where he waited in a state of alert, uneasy preparedness.

The sound that followed made his limbs go rigid, and a tingling sensation passed over his scalp. He could hear someone coming toward him from the empty compartment he had only just left: a slow, measured step. It crossed his mind that the phenomenon might be caused by a returning member of the repair team walking along the upper casing, but no sooner had this thought formed than he recognized it as yet another desperate attempt to cling to a remnant of a normality. There was a buzzing sound, the lamp flickered, and he was enveloped by darkness.

The footsteps were getting louder.

Lorenz remembered the vivid dream he had had of being attacked by Sutherland, hands closing around his throat, terrible weakness, and being unable to call for help—their noses almost touching. Was it prophetic? Had he been vouchsafed a preview of his own demise? He felt blindly for the chart table and then the locker above it. After opening the door he reached inside where, next to the sextant, his searching fingers discovered a flashlight.

Sliding the switch he was rewarded with a bright circle of light. He did not turn. The footsteps had stopped, and he found that he was unable to move. He remained perfectly still, facing the locker, but said with cold deliberation: ‘This is
my
boat—
my
command.' Then, very slowly, he looked over his shoulder and aimed the flashlight-beam into the darkness. There was no one there. He moved his feet to ease the discomfort of his twisted waist and observed the circle of light warping as it passed over the uneven surfaces.

From the aft end of the boat there was another resonant clang. Lorenz immediately set off, marching briskly through the petty officers' quarters and continuing into the diesel room. The stillness was particularly unnerving in this part of the boat because it was usually filled with the roar and clatter of the engines. He proceeded more cautiously but froze when the door behind him slammed shut. Suddenly, he felt in great danger, as if he had been lured into the diesel room for a specific purpose. He struggled to overcome an irrational conviction that he was entombed and that he would never feel the warmth of the sun's rays again. Even more terrifying was the creeping conviction that he was not alone, that he was being closely studied. Richter claimed to have been pushed. A displacement of air chilled the back of Lorenz's neck. Would he ‘slip' and bang his head on a diesel engine too?