Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

It was after breakfast on the second day at the Park and he was taking a piss in the bucket. Footsteps in the corridor and he knew at once it was Lindsay.

‘Helmut. How are you?’

The door closed on the guards and he pulled the chair from the table and sat down: ‘You know why you’re here, of course.’

Lange nodded.

‘But I haven’t come to talk to you about Heine, I’ve come as a friend,’ and he reached into his jacket and drew out a small light blue envelope. Lange could see that it was from Germany, stamped by the Red Cross and the Military censor, the flap neatly cut.

‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Helmut. Your mother…’ And he leant forward to offer him the letter.

Lange watched it trembling slightly in Lindsay’s fingers and he wondered if he could refuse to accept it and the pain of what must be written inside. But it was insistent. He took it at last and drew out the thin pieces of paper covered in his father’s neat hand:

…your mother is dead… an air raid… she was rushing for the shelter when she was hit by a car… she loved you so much… pray for her…

An accident, God, a stupid, stupid traffic accident of the sort you thought would never happen in a war and she was dead. He would never see her again, never be loved, never be scolded by her. And his father was alone after thirty years. He sat there, breathless, as if an iron band was being slowly tightened about his chest. One of the sheets of paper slipped from his hand and floated to the floor beneath Lindsay’s chair. He bent to pick it up and, rising, placed it carefully on the bed. Then he reached across to Lange and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze: ‘Would you like to see a priest?’

He tried to say ‘No’ but could only manage to shape the word and shake his head a little.

‘All right. I’ll leave you now.’

Funeral steps across the floor and the door closed with a quiet click.

…your mother is dead… pray for her…

His father’s words were softening, floating, drifting as his tears spattered on to the page, faster and faster. And when at last they stopped, the letter was impossible to read.

Lindsay was with the second officer of the 112 when a guard slipped the note on to the table. It was almost six o’clock in the evening and he had spent two fruitless hours with the silent, charmless Koch, persisting beyond reason with his questions. Koch was older than the rest, thirty-five, coarse in speech and looks, large calloused hands, small brown eyes that could narrow to a point. And always vigilant. Torture would break him, it broke everyone in the end, and there was something in Lindsay that almost wanted to try. He picked up the note and opened it carefully. It was from one of the other interrogators, Dick Graham, he needed to speak with him at once. Lindsay got to his feet and tidied his papers into a file.

‘Is it over?’

Lindsay glanced at the prisoner, then turned to the door and walked out. He would instruct the guards to leave Koch at the table for another hour.

Lieutenant Graham was waiting at the end of the corridor. He looked impatiently at him over his pince-nez: ‘It said “Urgent”.’

‘Well, is it?’

‘The propaganda reporter wants to talk to you. Thought you ought to know.’

‘Yes.’

Graham followed him through the door on to the broad landing of the main stair: ‘We were surprised to see you again, Lindsay, after that business with Checkland.’

‘It was the Director’s decision.’

‘Oh. And the prisoners? Why are they with us again?’ Graham noticed his frown and held up his hands at once in surrender: ‘Sorry, just conversation.’

‘Well, thank you for letting me know,’ and he turned towards to the stairs.

‘You can’t imagine how much we’ve missed you, Lindsay,’ Graham shouted after him.

Lange was sitting at the edge of his bed much as Lindsay had left him that morning. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot and it was obvious to anyone that he had been crying, but he did not seem to care. He looked calm, if a little tired, his hands resting quietly in his lap. He did not get up when Lindsay came into the room but followed him with his eyes as he reached for the chair and sat down. And it was Lindsay who broke the silence in German:

‘Are you all right? I’m very sorry.’

They were only an arm’s length apart, Lange leaning forward on his elbows: ‘I want to tell you about Heine.’

He was searching Lindsay’s face, demanding eye contact: ‘All I know at least. Can we walk, as we used to?’

Small groups of the park’s staff in blue and khaki were chatting and walking on the terrace and the hard yellow August lawns, soaking in the evening sunshine, and it was not until they reached the trees at the edge of the lake that Lange felt free to speak.

‘You see, they thought I was an informer and that I was working for you.’

‘They?’

‘He. Kapitän Mohr. He asked me lots of questions — he interrogated me. The British, you could learn from him.’

They stopped beneath a large willow tree on the north side of the lake and Lange reached up to draw a branch through his fist.

‘What did he want to know?’

‘He wanted to know about my visits to Dönitz and if I had visited the Naval Staff on the Tirpitzufer in Berlin, that sort of thing… and he wanted to know about you.’

Lindsay caught his eye and smiled.

‘He wanted to know who told the British he’d served on the Staff at U-boat Headquarters and what else they, you, knew. He’s trying to protect something and…’

Lange took a restless step away, head bent, his right hand pulling at the willow wand, stripping its narrow leaves.

‘You see, he was convinced it was me. Sure it was me and I was afraid. Very afraid. And God forgive me, I told him.’

Lindsay could not see his face but he could hear his breath short and shaking with emotion and for such a broad man he had made himself very small. They stood together in silence beneath the veil of willow, an intense silence broken only by the distant splash of wild fowl on the lake and, from the lawn, a woman’s voice calling to her friends. It was Lange who broke it at last. He dropped the branch, his hand trailing at his side, his fingers plucking at the seam of his trousers. And his shoulders rose slowly as he took a deep breath and turned to look at Lindsay: ‘But you’ve guessed.’

His face was white but strangely still: ‘You know, don’t you? I told Mohr. I told him that it was Heine who spoke of it. I betrayed him…’ His voice was no more than a breathless whisper.

‘And when Mohr questioned Heine he broke down?’

‘Yes.’ Lange reached up again to the willow and tore at another branch: ‘God forgive me because I know I’ll never forgive myself.’ He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand: ‘Enough tears.’

Lindsay looked down at his shoes which were dusted with a fine layer of light brown mud. Poor Lange.

‘You know they tortured him, made him sign a confession. I was there. What was he guilty of? A hidden microphone, a British interrogator — it could have happened to any of us. And it was a warning to all of us. He was only nineteen. And you know, he looked at me and he knew it was me, I’m sure he knew.’

‘Was Mohr there?’ Lindsay asked quietly.

Lange gasped and then laughed harshly: ‘Which of you is worse?’ And he pulled the willow branch with such force that it came whipping away from the tree.

‘You want to know it all? All the sordid details?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if I end up hanging from a pipe too?’

‘You won’t. We’ll… I’ll protect you.’

Lange sighed and turned his head up to the arching canopy, golden shafts of light dancing through the branches. After a few seconds he closed his eyes and took another deep breath: ‘Yes. I’ll tell you, tell you all I know.’