Читать книгу The Land God Made in Anger - John Davis Gordon - Страница 30

The East German train from Berlin served no beer or wine, only Soviet whisky, pure firewater. And all the toilets were broken. In Hanover McQuade gratefully changed to a West German train to Freiburg.

It was early morning when he arrived, its tree-lined streets quiet. He sat in the station café and drank coffee restlessly, waiting for Freiburg and Frau Kohler to wake up.

It was ten o’clock when the taxi dropped him outside a small apartment block in a quiet suburb. The solid German houses were silent. Here and there smoke curled out of a chimney-pot. McQuade went through glass doors, into a warm passage, and stopped at apartment number 4. He pressed the bell.

There was a spy-hole in the door. He saw it darken. Then the door opened.

‘Guten Morgen,’ McQuade began, ‘Frau Kohler? …’

‘Are you Mr McQuade?’ she said in English.

The apartment was warm and solidly furnished. It overlooked small communal gardens. On a cabinet stood a number of framed photographs. A naval officer was in several of them. Frau Kohler was about sixty and wore her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. She had obviously once been a handsome woman. She read Herr Wagner’s letter without using spectacles.

‘You are kind to take such trouble.’

McQuade felt like an impostor. He took the identification tag from his pocket and held it out. ‘I’m sure you’d like to have that.’

She looked at it in his hand a moment: then she took it carefully. She gently rubbed her fingers over it.

‘Thank you. I would like it very much,’ She looked up at him. ‘But I must pay you what you paid.’

‘No, I would not dream of that.’

She accepted that. ‘Then you must at least accept some coffee? Or the English prefer tea, perhaps?’

McQuade smiled. ‘Coffee please.’

‘And some scones? When Herr Wagner telephoned me yesterday I thought I must at least make some English scones for an Englishman who comes on such an errand.’ She got up and turned, then stopped. ‘Where exactly did you find it?’

‘In Petticoat Lane. That’s a—’

‘I know Petticoat Lane. Every tourist to London goes to Petticoat Lane sometime. So …’ She nodded at the tag in her palm. ‘I wonder how it got there?’

She turned out of the living-room. McQuade sat there, feeling a fraud. He peered guiltily across the room at the photographs. Frau Kohler must have had everything prepared, for she returned immediately bearing a tray. She set it down. She poured black coffee into cups. She picked up a jug of cream, then abruptly put it down again, and dropped her face in her hands.

She sat completely still, holding her face. McQuade looked at her in discomfort. He did not know what to say or do. Then, as abruptly, Frau Kohler dropped her hands and sat up straight.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her eyes were moist, her face a little suffused. ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking …’ She shook her head. ‘I was imagining the … terror as the submarine was sinking. The water pouring in. Then his body washing up on the shore.’

McQuade felt terrible. Frau Kohler pulled herself together. ‘Cream?’ She added it anyway. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘This must be difficult for you too, because Herr Wagner told me that your father was also killed on his submarine …’

Oh Lord, he could cut his tongue off for saying that. ‘Yes …’ He guiltily took the cup Frau Kohler extended. He said, to get away from himself, ‘Are those photographs of your husband?’

Frau Kohler sniffed once. ‘Yes.’ She clearly did not want to discuss them; then she got up, as if doing a duty to her guest. She handed the biggest photograph to him. ‘My husband, twenty-seven years old.’

It was a large, formal portrait. He was a handsome young man, dark hair, clean shaven, looking at McQuade with a twitch of a smile. His officer’s cap on, the submarine insignia in the middle. So this was the man who fought H.M. to the death on the Skeleton Coast forty years ago … He looked a nice guy.

‘And this.’ Frau Kohler held out a smaller frame.

It was an enlarged snapshot. Horst Kohler in civilian clothes, his hair awry, his arm around a pretty, tall woman. Both laughing at the camera, their faces puckered by the sun. In the background was a lake. ‘1943,’ Frau Kohler said. ‘He was on leave from his U-boat.’ She held out the last photograph. ‘Our wedding day. 1944.’

It showed a handsome couple outside a church, the groom in uniform, the bride in a long white gown, both beaming. The bride looked radiant.

McQuade did not know what to say. ‘How sad.’

‘Yes.’ Frau Kohler took the photographs. ‘War is terribly sad. And for what?’ She replaced them on the cabinet, as if closing the subject now. She returned to the tray. ‘Now, your scones!’

‘Thank you.’ He was not hungry, but took one. He said: ‘Did you not have any children, Frau Kohler?’

She did not want to talk about it any more. ‘No. We were only married for a year. During that year I only saw him for about six weeks.’

McQuade did not like to persist, but this was what he was here for. ‘When did you last see your husband?’

She said grimly, ‘First of May, 1945, ten o’clock at night.’ Suddenly she was bitter. ‘Ten days before the war ended! Why did he have to go to sea again? The war was all but over! Germany was in ruins! Adolf Hitler had already committed suicide! So why did they send him back to sea? Hadn’t he fought enough? For four years a U-boat man, and he had only just returned from a mission. So why risk his life at the very end? He didn’t understand it either.’ She looked at him, moist-eyed. ‘Why?’

McQuade said uncomfortably: ‘Where did you last see him?’

‘Flensberg. I last saw him as he walked away into the base.’

‘You said he didn’t understand why he was being sent back to sea? Were you with him when he received his orders?’

She sighed. ‘No. A message arrived at our house his first night home that he must report to base again. He came back furious that he had to go to sea the next night. He was exhausted.’

‘Did he say where his submarine was going?’ He added, ‘I only ask because his boat is registered as missing. Unaccounted for.’

‘No. Orders are secret. Not even known to him until the boat gets to sea. He was only second-in-command.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, missing.’ She sighed. ‘For years I thought he may come back. Maybe he had only been wrecked on a desert island, or maybe he had reached neutral territory, or lost his memory perhaps. For years I thought he may come through the door. Or a letter arrive. Finally I realized it was a dream. Now …’ She picked up the tag. ‘This proves it.’

McQuade felt very bad. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

‘No, I knew it already. It was very kind of you to come.’ She went on abruptly: ‘More coffee?’

‘Thank you.’ He accepted to keep her talking. There was only enough for half a cup, but she did not offer to make more. ‘And did the rest of his crew have to go back to sea too?’

‘I presume. Of course.’

‘But they didn’t all live in Flensberg, surely? Some of them must have gone out of town.’

‘Maybe so.’ She clearly wanted to stop talking about it now. ‘Another scone, Mr McQuade? You must take these with you on your journey.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ He added hastily, ‘I’m sorry to keep asking questions, but I am … very interested in your story now. Tell me, did you know most of his crew?’

Frau Kohler put her empty cup down with a certain finality. ‘Some of them. They were at our wedding. As a guard of honour.’ She smiled wearily, ‘Mr McQuade, there is something else I baked for you when I heard you were coming. Do Englishmen like apfelstrudel?’

McQuade got the message. ‘Oh yes …’

She smiled and got up and walked out. McQuade stood up, marshalling his last question. Frau Kohler came back with an open cardboard box. In it lay a golden apfel pie. ‘You shouldn’t have done this, Mrs Kohler.’

‘I hope you enjoy it.’ She put the box down and bent to tie string around it.

‘Frau Kohler, you have been very patient with me, but I have one last question please?’

‘Yes?’ she asked, still tying. ‘Of course.’

McQuade said: ‘Do the initials H.M. mean anything to you? Was there a member of your husband’s crew with the initials H.M.?’

Frau Kohler froze, bent over the box. There was a silence. McQuade watched her. She did not look up. Then her fingers continued tying the knot.