Any Survivors (2008) by Martin Freud Page B
Authors: Martin Freud
Tags: Historical/Fiction
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of chess challenges and their solutions. I started to read the letter:
Dear Gotthold, I am sending you all the clippings I could find. I spent all day in the library collecting them. I fear I am making myself unpopular by cutting holes in the magazines, but there is another woman who collects the bridge and she is even worse. She tears out whole pages. They are calling me Jack the Ripper, whatever that means, I think it must be some kind of an insult.
My sister's bloke never writes to her either. He says he is busy washing the deck, don't you dare use that as your excuse. I know you are underwater most of the time, With greetings and a kiss, your Jakobine.
P. S. I went to see Frau Schnuppelmatz. She says you are a rascal. If you don't propose soon I will come and look for you or write to your admiral to complain. Yours, the above.
This was obviously my bride-to-be. The letter was posted in Wiesbaden before 3 September. I hoped that she was now evacuated, preferably to a camp for civilians where no letter writing was allowed.
As it was now raining heavily, the mess hall was getting busier. I was getting used to the faces around me and feeling more comfortable. In addition to the two paintings of Hitler the mess hall had further ornaments: an aquarium and terrarium in one corner that would have once been in use. One was filled with earth and a few dried-out plants, the other with water and some coral. They must have been designated to hold treasures from foreign countries: exotic fish and amphibians to amuse and instruct the comrades left behind. Wartime activities had led to less exotic specimens being brought back. Instead of fabled animals from the Malayan Archipelago or the mouth of the River Amazon, there were only ordinary central European frogs, lizards and white fish. I could see the Baron pacing up and down, on the prowl for a victim of his jokes. The ones who had been there longer knew to keep well out of his way but unfortunately he had already found me.
‘Guess what happens if I break the lizard's tail off?’ ‘It’ll grow back,’ I answered, annoyed.
‘If only it were that easy.’ He burst into laughter. ‘Why shouldn't their tails be rationed too? First of all he needs a ration card, then he can wait and see what happens … Ha, ha, ha . ’
I ducked quickly as I was sure that the German sailors never missed their aim, but sadly there was nothing being thrown in the direction of the jester. They must be more tolerant than me.
For my part I would have been perfectly happy sitting on my own, leafing through my diary contemplating various facts that were emerging from my surroundings. For example, it was quite easy to differentiate those sailors who were based on a U-boat from those on other ships, such as destroyers or patrol ships. The latter had bronzed faces, the former an unhealthy green hue around their eyes and pale faces. Fortunately I did not stick out because I was just as pale – the air in London WC1 must be very similar to the air on a U-boat. I was sure no one from the Geheime Macht had thought of this small detail. If they had sent a young man from Brighton in my stead, his rosy cheeks would have given him away.
The post had given me no further information about the private details of my predecessor. If only there had been a letter from my newly acquired mother saying something like the following:
My dear son, I am sending you a photograph of our little house in XXXheim, which as you know cost us 2,000 marks and has 950 marks left on the mortgage. Your father Johann, the retired civil servant, celebrated his sixty-second birthday yesterday and he is well. By the way, he received no birthday message from you. I recently went through your papers and put them in chronological order. Your school leaver certificate from such and such a school in XXXmistdorf, a letter refusing a scholarship because you were caught stealing apples, etc., etc.
Although I could easily imagine such a letter
Dear Gotthold, I am sending you all the clippings I could find. I spent all day in the library collecting them. I fear I am making myself unpopular by cutting holes in the magazines, but there is another woman who collects the bridge and she is even worse. She tears out whole pages. They are calling me Jack the Ripper, whatever that means, I think it must be some kind of an insult.
My sister's bloke never writes to her either. He says he is busy washing the deck, don't you dare use that as your excuse. I know you are underwater most of the time, With greetings and a kiss, your Jakobine.
P. S. I went to see Frau Schnuppelmatz. She says you are a rascal. If you don't propose soon I will come and look for you or write to your admiral to complain. Yours, the above.
This was obviously my bride-to-be. The letter was posted in Wiesbaden before 3 September. I hoped that she was now evacuated, preferably to a camp for civilians where no letter writing was allowed.
As it was now raining heavily, the mess hall was getting busier. I was getting used to the faces around me and feeling more comfortable. In addition to the two paintings of Hitler the mess hall had further ornaments: an aquarium and terrarium in one corner that would have once been in use. One was filled with earth and a few dried-out plants, the other with water and some coral. They must have been designated to hold treasures from foreign countries: exotic fish and amphibians to amuse and instruct the comrades left behind. Wartime activities had led to less exotic specimens being brought back. Instead of fabled animals from the Malayan Archipelago or the mouth of the River Amazon, there were only ordinary central European frogs, lizards and white fish. I could see the Baron pacing up and down, on the prowl for a victim of his jokes. The ones who had been there longer knew to keep well out of his way but unfortunately he had already found me.
‘Guess what happens if I break the lizard's tail off?’ ‘It’ll grow back,’ I answered, annoyed.
‘If only it were that easy.’ He burst into laughter. ‘Why shouldn't their tails be rationed too? First of all he needs a ration card, then he can wait and see what happens … Ha, ha, ha . ’
I ducked quickly as I was sure that the German sailors never missed their aim, but sadly there was nothing being thrown in the direction of the jester. They must be more tolerant than me.
For my part I would have been perfectly happy sitting on my own, leafing through my diary contemplating various facts that were emerging from my surroundings. For example, it was quite easy to differentiate those sailors who were based on a U-boat from those on other ships, such as destroyers or patrol ships. The latter had bronzed faces, the former an unhealthy green hue around their eyes and pale faces. Fortunately I did not stick out because I was just as pale – the air in London WC1 must be very similar to the air on a U-boat. I was sure no one from the Geheime Macht had thought of this small detail. If they had sent a young man from Brighton in my stead, his rosy cheeks would have given him away.
The post had given me no further information about the private details of my predecessor. If only there had been a letter from my newly acquired mother saying something like the following:
My dear son, I am sending you a photograph of our little house in XXXheim, which as you know cost us 2,000 marks and has 950 marks left on the mortgage. Your father Johann, the retired civil servant, celebrated his sixty-second birthday yesterday and he is well. By the way, he received no birthday message from you. I recently went through your papers and put them in chronological order. Your school leaver certificate from such and such a school in XXXmistdorf, a letter refusing a scholarship because you were caught stealing apples, etc., etc.
Although I could easily imagine such a letter
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