The Passenger (31 page)

After eating his lunch, Lorenz went up to the bridge and surveyed the eerie desolation. It seemed as if the boat had been plucked out of the sea by a mischievous giant and deposited in the middle of a lifeless salt plain. He turned to Falk and said, ‘I'll take over. I want you to check the torpedoes and fire-control systems. If the thaw continues we might get away sooner than we thought.'

‘Sir, isn't that rather . . .' Falk hesitated before he found the courage to add, ‘Optimistic?'

‘You sound surprised, Falk,' Lorenz responded.

Falk returned an uncertain smile, saluted, and disappeared down the hatch. It wasn't really necessary for Falk to check the torpedoes and fire-control systems. The first watch officer had been quite right to raise the issue of prematurity, and Lorenz could just as easily, and more properly, perhaps, have given the same order to the chief torpedo man's mate. In actuality, Lorenz had wanted Falk to leave the bridge so that he could be alone with Sauer.

Sauer was responsible for the crew's clothing, the daily cleaning rotation, and—during surface attacks—the entry of data into the boat's computer. He was also expected to perform custodial duties: supporting the younger sailors, offering them paternal guidance, and resolving any disputes before they came to the commander's notice. If Lorenz wanted to gauge the mood of the crew, then there was no better way of doing so than to discuss it with Sauer.

‘So . . .' said Lorenz. ‘How are they?'

Sauer raised his hand and tilted it from side to side. ‘Not bad. But not good either.'

‘Jittery?'

‘Yes, largely because of Wessel. And last night didn't help, Kaleun.'

‘What has Wessel been saying?'

‘That he saw a man walking on the ice.'

‘Does Wessel think he saw anyone in particular?'

‘When he talks like that it reminds the men of Richter.'

‘Yes—yes . . .'

‘Last night,' said Sauer, his voice acquiring a concerned tone. ‘It was peculiar, wasn't it, sir?'

‘I'm not so sure.' Lorenz touched his ear. ‘Listen.' The ice field was groaning softly. ‘I remember going for a skiing holiday in Austria a few years ago, and at night the glaciers were almost singing.'

‘Did
you
see anything, Kaleun?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘When you were up here with Wessel?'

‘No. Not a thing.'

‘The boy must have been tired.'

‘Yes, he was.'

‘Not used to the cold.'

‘Who of us is?'

‘I try to reason with them, Kaleun. But they get such ideas . . .'

‘I know, Number One. I know.'

The two men fell silent. After a lengthy interlude, Lorenz cleared his throat and said, ‘Pullman?'

‘What about him, Kaleun?'

‘Is he fitting in?'

‘As well as can be expected, for a new officer, which is to say—no—but the men tolerate him. He can be irritating at times and he gets under our feet, but what can you do?'

‘Has he converted any of the heathens yet?'

‘He's been working hard on Berger and Wessel.'

‘I've noticed. Anybody else?'

‘Well, he's raised the subject of politics with pretty much everyone except the officers, of course. But I don't think he's making much progress.' Sauer indicated the swirling mist. ‘We've been lucky with this cover, Kaleun. I heard an aircraft fly past about half an hour ago. They had no idea we were here.'

The ice stopped groaning, and the silence that followed was curiously gravid. They both held their breath as if waiting for something to happen—but nothing did.

Lorenz exhaled and folded his arms. ‘Will you have a word with Wessel?'

‘I already have. But I can do so again if you wish—and I can be a little firmer, Herr Kaleun.'

‘Thank you.'

P
ERPETUAL NIGHT AND SILENCE MADE
it difficult to keep track of time. Lorenz looked at his wristwatch but the hours of the day had lost all meaning. There were no more card games and singing competitions. When the routine maintenance jobs had been completed the men went back to their bunks and slept. Eating was the only activity that brought the crew to life. Half past six: breakfast; midday: lunch; 5.15: light dinner. They would talk and joke, but most attempts at humor were forced and feeble; behind the fixed grins and artificial posturing lurked boredom, nervousness and suspicion.

Brandt was sitting in the radio shack, leaning forward and listening intently.

‘Any change?' asked Lorenz.

The radioman shook his head and offered Lorenz the earphones. Lorenz took them and covered his ears with the speaker pads. The sounds were identical to those he had heard before, a rushing noise like wind, constantly changing to suggest a
repeating cycle, interrupted by sudden flurries of high-pitched whistles and tweeting. It was while he was listening to the rushing sound that he imagined he could hear again the inflections of speech. The low mumbling suddenly clarified and a voice declared in measured English, ‘How often do opportunities like this arise? How often do we get a chance to speak with our opposites? What harm will it do—a little civilized conversation?' He recognized his own words. They no longer sounded cordial, but like a taunt. Lorenz wanted to rip the headphones off his head and stamp on them. Even so, he forced himself to remain still. The rushing continued, becoming louder and softer, and as it diminished he heard, very faintly, as if the speaker were receding rapidly, ‘A penny for your thoughts.' It was a British idiom that he was familiar with. A woman he had once met in London had been overly fond of employing it. Like an automaton, Lorenz removed the headset, handed it back to Brandt, and said, ‘Tedious, I know. But stay vigilant.'

Lorenz collected the British penny from the drawer in his nook and went up to the bridge. Juhl and Thomas were standing like bookends, staring into featureless embankments of mist. Lorenz brought his arm back and hurled the coin over the starboard side of the boat and onto the ice. ‘My thoughts are not for sale,' he whispered in English.

‘I'm sorry, what did you say, Kaleun?' Juhl asked.

The world was still and silent. Throwing the penny had been an act of defiance but Lorenz did not feel stronger or more resolute as a consequence. In fact, he felt the very opposite: deflated, defeated, overcome by doubts—as if he had made some final and irreversible surrender, as if he had pressed a coin into the palm of the ferryman and paid for the transport of his soul across the black water of the Styx to Hades. ‘I'm sorry?' Juhl repeated. A large icicle fell from the radio antenna and shattered on the deck.

‘Did you see that?'

‘Yes.'

‘Promising . . .'

L
ORENZ COULD HEAR
P
ULLMAN PREACHING
to his disciples but he wasn't listening to what the photographer was saying; instead, he was thinking about the night he had spent with Monika in the Hotel Fuerstenhof and wondering whether Glockner had found the courage to telephone Monika's friend, Lulu Trompelt. There was something about Pullman's pulpitry that seemed to demand more attention; it kept on insinuating itself into Lorenz's consciousness until eventually he was forced to attend more carefully to the content. As soon as he did so, Lorenz understood why the monotony of the photographer's ecclesiastical cadences had been so distracting. Pullman was talking about runes. ‘The Sonnenrad or sunwheel is the Old Norse representation of the sun, and it is used by the Waffen-SS divisions Wiking and Nordland and the Danish branch of the Allgemeine-SS. The Tyr-Rune, also known as the battle rune, is used to represent leadership. It is commonly used by the SS as a grave marker instead of the Christian cross. Tyr was—of course—the god of war.' Lorenz stepped out of his nook and walked to the crew quarters. Pullman was sitting on the edge of a bunk with Berger, Wessel, and Thomas at his feet. The photographer was holding up an open notebook in which he had drawn the symbols he was describing. As Lorenz approached, Pullman stopped speaking and the others turned their heads. They all stood.

‘You know about runes?' Lorenz asked.

‘Yes, Herr Kaleun,' Pullman replied.

Lorenz held out his hand, indicating that he wanted to look at the notebook. He flicked through the pages and saw various angular symbols. ‘Have you studied Norse literature?'

‘No,' said Pullman, affecting modesty. ‘I'm no scholar.'

‘You must have learned all this from somewhere?'

‘I've read books—that's all.'

Lorenz jerked his head to the side, inviting the photographer to join him in the officers' mess. ‘What books?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘What books have you read?'

‘Guido von List's
The Secret of the Runes
, the works of Karl Maria Wiligut . . .'

‘Have you read Grimstad?'

‘Who?'

‘Professor Bjørner Grimstad?'

‘No, I'm afraid not.'

‘Tell me, what does this mean?' Lorenz opened the notebook on a clean page and drew the symbol that he remembered from Grimstad's stone.

‘I believe that is Thurisaz. A very powerful rune—it represents a reactive force, or the direction or channeling of power. Are you sure that you have drawn it correctly, Herr Kaleun?'

‘Yes.'

‘Quite sure?'

‘Yes. Why do you ask?'

‘You've drawn it upside down, which alters its meaning somewhat. When a rune is reversed it is described as a
merkstave
.'

‘
Merkstave?
'

‘The literal translation is “dark stick”.' Pullman traced his fingertip over Lorenz's penciled figure. ‘You have drawn a vertical line and a triangle pointing to the left. Usually the triangle of Thurisaz points to the right. This reversal signifies a darker meaning, the channeling of malice, spite, hatred. Where did you see this, Herr Kaleun?'

‘What do you mean by that? “Channeling” . . .'

‘Many people—educated people—believe that runes can be used to release powers. Some believe that these powers are nothing more than dormant human potential, but others believe that they
are objectively real.' Pullman repeated his question. ‘Where did you see this rune, Herr Kaleun?'

‘Do you believe all this? Powers, magic . . . spells.'

Pullman closed his notebook. ‘I do not think a man of vision like Reichsführer Himmler would concern himself with such things without good reason.'

‘I'm not asking about Reichsführer Himmler, I'm asking you.'

‘We should use all the powers at our disposal to further our cause.'

‘But when you talk of the channeling of malice, spite, hatred—what do you mean?'

‘The mental direction of destructive power.'

‘Yes, but how would that actually work?'

‘It was once believed that spirit agents could be harnessed and commanded to do one's bidding. They might be bound, and forced to perform a service.'

Lorenz recalled Grimstad waking from his trance, the triangle he had traced in the air with one hand while clutching the
merkstave
in the other. Did he know that Sutherland was carrying a gun and how the British commander intended to use it?

‘And you really believe that is possible?'

‘I believe that the universe is large enough to accommodate many secrets, Herr Kaleun.'

Had Grimstad trapped Sutherland's spirit on the boat? Released him from corporeal limitations and set him on the crew like a hunting dog?
The fetters will burst and the wolf run free, much do I know and more can see
. The SS were obsessed with the occult. Himmler and his friends sat in their storybook castle at Wewelsburg, presiding over ceremonies in which muscular blond-haired youths processed around sacred fires and invoked Teutonic deities. Of course the SS would be interested in a man like Grimstad.
He knew things
—that's what Friedrich had said—
valuable things
. Lorenz walked away from Pullman without acknowledging his final, creedal affirmation.