There were three rooms on the corridor and the smallest belonged to Kapitan zur See Jurgen Mohr. He was the only prisoner who was not obliged to share. Bruns tapped gently at his door.
‘Yes, come in.’ Mohr spoke with the quiet assurance of those who are used to being obeyed without question. He was sitting at a table, with the light from the only window behind him, and on the bed to his right was Fischer, the commander of the
‘Sit down, Leutnant Lange.’
Mohr nodded at the low chair opposite him. As well as being smaller than the others, his room was also a little more impersonal. There were three or four books beside Mohr’s bed and a small, unframed picture of a young woman with indecently large eyes and a bright smile. Lange was surprised to see it there.
Mohr’s face was as stiff and empty as a plaster saint’s. ‘Kapitanleutnant Fischer says your war patrol with him was your first?’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitan.’
‘But you have carried out other reporting assignments?’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitan.’
Lange wondered if his composure sounded exaggerated. The chair felt small and hard. He was struggling to sit upright.
He watched as Mohr leant across the table with his chin in his right hand and his eyes cast down in thought. His hairline was receding a little and he was greying at the temples. The bed squeaked as Fischer adjusted his weight and at the window there was a burst of blackbird song. It had stopped raining and the sun was twinkling through the small leaded panes. After an uncomfortable silence Mohr raised his head a little and stared at him. His eyes were an impenetrable brown and there was the faintest of smiles on his lips — it was not a pleasant one.
‘Tell me about your assignments.’
What was there to tell? Christmas with the U-boat heroes, submarines in and submarines out, in the Channel with the
‘You spoke to the Admiral at headquarters?’
Lange looked down at his hands. His fingers felt hot and thick and awkward. It was a simple question simply put and not a muscle had moved in Mohr’s face but he knew at once, and with a certainty that chilled him to the marrow, why he was being asked it. He swallowed hard:
‘U-boat Headquarters, yes.’
He could feel Mohr’s eyes on him and thoughts and fears crowded one upon another.
‘You look a little uncomfortable, Lange.’
With an effort he looked up at Mohr: ‘No, Herr Kapitan, thank you.’
‘You should be.’
He tried to concentrate on a crack in one of the leaded panes behind Mohr’s left shoulder. The Luftwaffe major was still at the window, an expression of barely disguised contempt on his heavy face.
‘Yes, you have met Admiral Donitz.’ Mohr glanced down at a sheet of paper on the table in front of him,’ ‘three or four times.’ He stared at Lange for a moment, then, turning to the paper again, he ran his finger halfway down: ‘The last time was a few months ago and he recognised you and shook your hand. Is that correct?’
It was correct and Kapitan zur See Jurgen Mohr knew it was correct. August Heine had obviously remembered their conversation well. Of course he would remember it clearly — it was the afternoon he had made his mistake. There had been only four cigarettes left in Lange’s packet and he had been decent enough to give the greasy little bastard one. Was Heine trying to protect himself? He was terrified of Mohr. Had he told him everything? This time he had been interrogated by someone he was required to answer. Perhaps he had panicked and thrown someone else to the Altestenrat?
‘Is that correct, Lange?’ Mohr’s high-pitched voice was cool and steady and full of quiet menace.
‘Yes. Yes, Herr Kapitan.’
‘What was in the note you wrote to the British lieutenant — Lieutenant Lindsay?’ The question was rattled out with a speed that demanded an instant answer.
‘I… I thanked him for his kindness, Herr Kapitan,’ Lange stammered. ‘He saved my life.’
‘Every word, I want every word?’
‘It was in English, something like thank you for helping me and please say “thank you” to your girlfriend.’
‘His girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
And then another question and another, more questions, relentless like a dark cat’s-paw ruffling the ocean on a summer day with the promise of a change for the worse. Lange had said nothing to Lindsay he should regret. And yet he felt guilty. He must be guilty. It was in the room with him. He could see it in Mohr’s suspicious eyes and feel it in the aggressive silence of the others. Guilty of befriending an enemy.
Lange was sitting on the edge of his bed staring at his worn brown leather shoes when his old commander, Fischer, found him later. The ‘interview’ with the Altestenrat had lasted an hour and ended with a promise of more questions to come. It had left him drained and careless and desperate to be alone. It was late evening now and his room-mates were downstairs, either in the library or the old billiard room. Perhaps they were listening to the news digest he had prepared for that day or at the piano singing hearty U-boat songs. Night was drawing in quickly with the next front approaching from the west and the room was falling into shadow. Fischer did not switch on the light.
‘You’re a fool.’
Lange sprang to his feet and turned smartly towards him. The commander of the
‘Do you know what will happen to anyone who has given intelligence to the enemy?’
Lange was surprised by the note of concern in his voice. He turned and gently pulled the door to, then nodded to indicate that Lange should join him on the bed.
‘I like you, Lange, or I used to. But you’ve been fraternising with the enemy — Kapitan Mohr thinks you are guilty of much more. Look, I want to help you. Perhaps you were tricked by this British interrogator into giving something away. It is an easy mistake, they are very clever.’
Fischer paused, then began slapping the pockets of his jacket: ‘Shit. Do you have one?’
Lange offered him a cigarette. He lit it, then planted it in the corner of his mouth. ‘Kapitan Mohr wants to know if you were tricked. He must know. There is a secret of the first importance to the Reich that he has to protect. Telling him the truth is the best way of proving your loyalty now.’
‘I told Herr Kapitan Mohr everything we spoke of. There was nothing more.’
Fischer flicked his cigarette into the corner of the room in exasperation. ‘Look, Lange, believe me, I am doing you a favour. There are some ruthless cunts in this camp who would welcome a chance to prove their loyalty to the Fuhrer in any way the Altestenrat asks them to. The British won’t protect you, they don’t care. Mohr thinks you’re hiding something from him — if you are, then tell him at once before he forces it from you. Understand?’
Fischer stared at Lange until he met his gaze with a slight nod: ‘Believe me, Lange, that is good advice. Tell him everything.’
30
