“My feelings exactly, young man,” Adolf said. “And you’re….”
“Stefan. I’m the XO.”
“Very well, Stefan. So, what will it be, gentlemen. Do I get to go home and finish my tea, or do I get the opportunity to bring this wonderful vessel into Tallinn harbor?”
“It’s all yours, sir,” Sieinski said.
“Very well.”
Adolf waved from the conning tower. “Cast off the lines,” he yelled. He picked up the sound tube. “Do you mind?”
“Be my guest.”
“Both engines. Ahead half speed,” he said. “Yes, wonderful boat. Dutch, isn’t she?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Andrus Kalm, admiral of the Estonian fleet, adjusted the sleeves of his uniform, and then plucked a piece of lint from the front of his jacket. He would need to scold his maid. Stupid Jew. She was supposed to make sure his uniforms were perfectly clean, and yet, for the second day in a row, he had been distracted in a meeting by lint on his jacket. This would not do. Perhaps it was time to find someone else, someone with a sharper eye? And given the present political climate, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone with a more palatable ethnic background in his service either.
Kalm cleared his throat, brushed his mustache, kept black as a Halloween cat courtesy of a dye used by his barber, and then continued in Polish. “Ah, yes, where was I. Damn unfortunate, this war, if you ask me. Complicates everything, you know. More rules and regulations.”
The admiral was safe behind a large rosewood desk, a memento from some long-forgotten trip to Asia. He didn’t stare at the three Polish officers in the chairs opposite him as he rambled along but gazed out the window of his harbor office at the steeples and turrets of medieval Tallinn. Though avoiding eye contact was a habit he had developed long ago as a young boy, when any direct gaze brought instance retribution from his abusive father, if truth be told, he did find the presence of these officers unsettling, almost insulting. It was easier not to look at them. His men knew better than to approach him without first making sure they were presentable. If any of them had looked like these three, they would have found themselves cleaning toilets in the bowels of a 50-year-old rust bucket before they had a chance to squeak an objection.
Of course, Kalm had to admit the captain, Sieinski was his name, wasn’t dressed poorly. He just looked awful. Sick. Sweat poured from his face like an overworked field hand. Dark circles already stained his uniform beneath each arm. And the bruise on his forehead, a mustard yellow with streaks of purple, looked like the artwork of an undisciplined child. And the other one, the executive officer. Dressed like a garbage man, and smelling the part. Kalm knew that submariners were not held to the high standards of surface crew in terms of hygiene and dress because of the constraints of the vessels upon which they served. But this hulk of a man was ridiculous. Filthy clothes. Red-rimmed eyes. Scraggy beard and hair. It was an insult. And finally, the Polish naval attaché stationed at the Polish embassy. This man had no excuse. He knew protocol and common decency. Kalm glanced at the man’s hands folded neatly on his lap, and then returned his gaze to the window. He had already apologized. Said he was working in his garden. At the very least, he should have had time to clean his fingernails during the drive here, or better yet, he should have worn gloves when he was working.
All this talk of rules reminded Kalm of how it had been when he was a young ensign. Recounting past deeds always made him feel better. He took a deep breath and jumped into an account of the time he had spent a few months on the Austro-Hungarian battleship Maria Theresia, cruising in the Mediterranean in 1902.
Sieinski was only half listening to the Estonian admiral, a puffed up mushroom of a man who should have been retired before the last war, he thought. Hard to keep a thought in his mind when there was a car already waiting for him outside the building. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. He’d managed a phone call to family friends before the meeting, and once past the usual pleasantries, asked for the number of a local physician who could be trusted. As soon as this meeting was over, Sieinski was going directly there.
Sieinski watched the admiral open his mouth, say a few words to the buildings outside, and then pause. Sieinski gave a bland smile he hoped was appropriate. Hurry up you old shit, he thought.
Stefan had stayed silent during the admiral’s prattle, too tired to care about Sieinski’s growing discomfort, wondering if anyone would notice if he took a little snooze. The chair he was sitting in was a delight. Big enough for his frame, soft cushion. In a pinch, it would do as a wonderful substitute for a bed. That alone was reason for extending this meeting. If he could just take off his boots. Then it would be perfect. But he knew the smell that would result from that act would clear the room and outrage the admiral even more than he was already. It was clear that something was bothering the old man, or else the collar that grasped his beefy neck like the hands of a strangler was too tight. Stefan glanced down at his clothes. Compared to the other two men, he looked like a vagabond. He should have changed, but at the time, it didn’t seem that important. He had on a salt-stained jacket and the same pants and boots he had been wearing when the Eagle left Gdynia. The only thing different, he was wearing a new cap. He preferred his old one, but it would be poor manners to ask Kate to trade him. Besides, he liked the idea of her having something of his.
Sieinski let Kalm finish a long, detailed exposition of his exploits during the Great War and decided it was past time to hurry things along. “Very interesting, I’m sure,” he said abruptly as Kalm paused to take a breath. “Anything else we should discuss? After our repairs, we will depart immediately.”
The naval attaché from the Polish embassy looked up from his hands. He had just noticed his dirty fingernails. His name was Adam Mokriski. He had plenty of work at the embassy. Gardening was the least of his concerns, but that is what he did when he was worried. And war news from home had him deeply worried. He had phoned in sick, deciding instead to stay home and work in his rose bed. “Yes, sir. They will depart,” he echoed, feeling the need to contribute something.
“Of course, they will,” the admiral waved. “And I will do everything to help you.” He glanced sharply at Sieinski. “Yes, there is one other item. You need to be aware of a few regulations. According to…,” he glanced at the notes on his desktop, “Article XII of the Hague Convention, to which Poland and Estonia are signatories, representatives of the neutral country—that’s me—are required to inform a belligerent warship—that’s you¬—that it must leave within 24 hours. In fact, not just leave port, but leave the territorial waters. Clear enough, I think.”
Sieinski glanced at his watch. “You will have no problems from us. Repairs are already under way…,” he lied.
“Very good,” beamed the admiral, finally deigning to look at the men, relieved that they were nearly out of his office, completely unaware of the fact, like most self-absorbed prigs, that he was the one prolonging it. “If there are no more questions, then…..” He stood, putting an exclamation mark to the end of the meeting.
Stefan yawned, looked up at everyone already on their feet, and then pushed himself out of the chair. He patted the arm affectionately. Yes, a fine chair, he thought. He remembered, his hat, reached under the chair to grab, and then plopped it on his head. “One question, sir,” he said. Sieinski had already fled. The attaché paused in the doorway, wavering between following after the captain, and wanting to hear what Stefan asked the admiral. “Perhaps you could tell me where I might find the offices of the Dutch shipbuilder De Schelde? They have a couple of items we need.”