Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘Well?’ Lange asked impatiently. Heine was making him feel nervous, twitching and turning like a ferret in a cage.

‘Do you think he knows?’ His face was drawn and pale with misery.

‘Who?’

‘The Kapitän.’

‘Knows what?’

‘About me.’

Heavy drops of rain pattered through the canopy above, seeping into Lange’s jacket and running like tears down Heine’s face. It smelled of autumn already. Lange remembered wondering if the engineer was suffering from barbed-wire sickness. There was talk of men breaking after only weeks. The cell’s four walls, the grunts and moans of other prisoners in the night, footsteps, bright lights and the anguish of failure that chip-chipped away at the spirit.

‘Have you seen the doctor?’

‘Why?’ Heine had stared for a few puzzled seconds at Lange, then brushed the question aside: ‘They asked me about the Kapitän, his time at headquarters. The British asked me. They heard us speaking together.’

‘But you told them nothing?’

‘No,’ said Heine quickly. His tortured face said ‘yes’. That such a dedicated man, proud of his small part in the Reich’s great enterprise, should be so very, very afraid. As Lange sat there in the bedroom at the top of the house, the memory of it made him feel tired and stale.

‘Say nothing. I will say nothing. Say only that you did your duty;’ that was the advice he had given Heine — and a reassuring squeeze.

Bruns was at the door again and behind him a Luftwaffe lieutenant Lange did not recognise, his shoulders square and hard.

‘This way,’ and Bruns stepped back to allow Lange past.

There were three rooms on the corridor and the smallest belonged to Kapitän zur See Jürgen 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 U-500 . A Luftwaffe major he knew to be Brand was standing a little apart at the window, a cigarette smoking in his hand. Lange took two short strides to the table and snapped smartly to attention.

‘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. ‘Kapitänleutnant Fischer says your war patrol with him was your first?’

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

‘But you have carried out other reporting assignments?’

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

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 Schnellboote and photographs and interviews with Admiral Dönitz.

‘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 Kapitän, 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 Dönitz.’ 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 Kapitän zur See Jürgen 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 Ältestenrat?

‘Is that correct, Lange?’ Mohr’s high-pitched voice was cool and steady and full of quiet menace.

‘Yes. Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

‘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 Kapitän,’ 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 Ältestenrat 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 U-500 was a little taller and a little older, with a heavy, baggy face high in colour and the small moist blood-shot eyes of a drinker. He was wearing a worn loose-fitting brown suit that reeked of stale cigarette smoke. In the four weeks Lange had spent with the crew of the 500 he had seen Fischer drunk and incapable more than once. He had also seen and admired his cool leadership under fire. Fischer was rough but fair.

‘Do you know what will happen to anyone who has given intelligence to the enemy?’