Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

They had chosen well. The kitchen was perfect. Twenty-five foot square with a cold stone floor, one door and no windows looking on to the rest of the camp. There was a large Edwardian range to the left of the door and on the opposite wall shelves of copper moulds and pots and pans. Some ugly-looking meat hooks hung from a thick bar that ran just below the ceiling. Lange’s arrival had interrupted some sort of public interrogation — or humiliation. The second officer of U-112 , Koch, was bending low over Heine, his face an intimidating scarlet, one hand gripping the back of the chair. But it was Dietrich who took command, his voice echoing in the tiled kitchen: ‘This swine has betrayed his captain and his comrades. He has betrayed his Führer and his Fatherland.’

For a few terrifying seconds Lange was sure he was the one — they were accusing him of treason. But Dietrich took two very deliberate steps towards the chair and sweet relief washed through him and another prayer: ‘Thank you Lord, thank you, thank you Lord.’

There was an ugly air of expectation in the kitchen and hard, hard faces. The line of Dietrich’s jaw was tight and there was a hollow look in his eyes. He was slowly clenching and unclenching the fingers of his right hand. Then he lashed out at Heine, hard, with the flat of his hand, and the noise was sickening. Heine reached up to brush his red cheek with trembling fingers, his mouth a little open, his eyes full of shock and puzzlement. A small balding Luftwaffe officer with the sharp features of a rat leant forward to shout in a high-pitched voice: ‘You deserve that, you bastard.’

There were embarrassed coughs and the shuffling of feet, but from some a murmur of approval.

‘This is a copy of the evidence collected by the Ältestenrat.’ Dietrich held a yellow file above his head to be sure they could all see it. ‘This swine volunteered important information to the British that could compromise our U-boat comrades at sea. He has…’

‘No.’ Heine’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘No, never.’

‘Shut up or you will get the same again.’

‘He has been examined and the evidence is clear. Now he will confess in front of you all.’

Tears were rolling down Heine’s face and his mouth and chin were trembling uncontrollably. And yet Lange could see a certain glassy determination in his eyes too. Heine was going to fight. His comrades, his captain, the U-boat arm, these were his life.

‘Please, I told the English nothing.’

‘We have proof,’ Dietrich shouted, the colour rising in his face. ‘Proof, here. Your own words and a witness,’ and he flapped the yellow file in front of Heine’s face.

‘Confess.’

Heine shook his head: ‘I’m innocent.’ He shuffled round the chair to look at the men standing on either side of him. ‘Please. I’ve said nothing.’

His words bounced emptily about the kitchen. No one spoke. Then Dietrich turned to look at someone standing close to Lange.

Bruns was wearing gloves. Heine must have noticed too. He shook his head and groaned: ‘No, please.’

And Lange was trembling. Was this what the Ältestenrat wanted? He wanted to shout, to scream: ‘No. Stop. Stop now.’ The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth was sticky with fear. It was impossible to make a sound. He stood transfixed and helpless. The first blow sent Heine crashing to the floor. For a moment he was lost behind arms and legs as he was pulled upright. Then a second blow and a third blow. And the kitchen was silent but for the clatter of the chair and the shuffle of feet and the low groans of the man prostrate on the floor.

Heine was still conscious when they hauled him upright again. There was a deep cut in his lip and spots of blood on the front of his nightshirt. His right eye was puffy and closing and his cheek blue and swollen. The pride and courage in his eyes had gone. And Lange’s face was wet with tears. He knew, yes he knew, the pain, the humiliation, and the memory of Lindsay helping him from a pool of vomit. What sort of patriots were these? How could this happen? But he was guilty too, guilty, yes. And more than just a silent witness — a sort of Judas.

Someone was holding a thick rope with a noose knotted at the end. Koch was tightening it, squeezing, squeezing the air from Heine. He was writhing, thrashing on the chair. It toppled sideways again but this time no one helped him to his feet. They were kicking him, grunting and cursing, and Lange could hear the scuffing of boots on the stone floor.

‘Stop. Don’t kill him.’

It was Dietrich. He pushed impatiently through the shoulders that had closed over Heine’s body: ‘Get him up. He must sign.’

The rope was still hanging obscenely from Heine’s neck. Someone pressed a pen into his hand. Grazed, dirty fingers closed around it and letter by painful letter he wrote his name in the yellow file. Did he know what he was doing? Did any of them know what they were doing?

Dietrich held up the sheet of paper in triumph. Everything was in order. Justice must always be seen to be done.

‘The swine…’

And Heine’s confession was met with a chorus of abuse.

‘We should hang the bastard.’

‘No, the bastard should hang himself. He would if he were any sort of man.’

And someone yanked the rope beneath Heine’s chin, dragging his head from his chest.

‘There’s a meat hook in here. String the bastard up from the ceiling.’

The rope cut deeper. Heine’s lips were drawn tightly over his teeth and he gasped and whooped for air, his hands tearing at the noose. And in his tortured face there was a desperate plea for help. He seemed fleetingly to look at Lange, beseeching him, begging, ‘Please, please.’

‘Stop it. Stop it.’ The words came to Lange at last, breathless and shaking with tears. ‘Let me help him.’

But someone was holding him down, twisting his arm behind his back. It was his room-mate, Schmidt.

‘Shut up,’ Dietrich barked and he pushed his face close to Lange’s. ‘Why do you want to help a traitor?’

They were all looking at him now, angry that anyone should dare to challenge their justice with a show of pity.

‘Why? You of all people.’ Lange could feel Dietrich’s hot stale tobacco breath on his cheek. His blue eyes were mad with anger, the pupils fully dilated. Slowly, he reached up and pinched Lange’s left cheek between his thumb and forefinger, digging his nails in hard until he gasped with pain.

‘You’re lucky it’s him,’ Dietrich hissed.

‘I just, I…’ Lange could not speak. The words had gone again. The window was closing.

‘Take him back. We don’t need him any more.’

It was Bruns who took hold of his arm. ‘Come on.’

And Lange wanted to go with him, to escape, to run, to hide, ‘Go, go now,’ the words screaming, echoing through his mind. But he could not move. He could not move. Guilt was tearing at him, guilt and a helpless paralysing fear of what would happen when he was gone.

‘Come now,’ Bruns almost pulled him off his feet.

‘And not a word,’ Dietrich glared at him. ‘Not a word to anyone, do you hear?’

There was silence in the kitchen, a cold complicit silence as they watched Bruns bundle Lange to the door. Then a low despairing moan and Lange turned quickly to look at Heine. The rope was slack and he was rocking to and fro, his face in his hands. Dietrich was standing over him again with the end of the rope in his hands.

‘If you’re a man you’ll do it. Do it now.’

Then the kitchen door swung firmly shut and Lange was in the dark passage.

Later, he lay with his face on his pillow, chinks of light forcing their way through his closed fingers. He was alone. Soon the bell would ring for roll call and he would have to go down to the terrace. His roommates were there already. Dietrich would be there, Schmidt, Bruns and the others. He would have to look them in the eye. Twisted faces, he could see them now, the fury and the relish with which they had set about their task, the pleasure. Nineteen. Heine was only nineteen. All he had ever wanted was to be an engineer, an oily rag for his country. Why, why, why? Was it their collective humiliation, their way of coping with the helplessness and shame of being prisoners? They needed to prove their loyalty and dedication to duty even at the expense of their own. Yes, they were all to blame. But as he lay there on his bed Lange knew he would never escape the conviction that he was most to blame. It was the yellow file. He could see it in Dietrich’s hands. He could see it in front of Heine’s bruised face. And the engineer was holding a pen in trembling fingers to make his confession. The yellow file. Lange wondered if he would ever be clean again.