‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
After eating a light breakfast Lorenz walked to the lake. Had the batteries been leaking chlorine? And for how long? Poisonous fumes could cause hallucinations; that was common knowledge. He was still searching for answers, explanations for his bizarre experiences, common-sense explanations that didn’t implicate brain lesions or esoteric psychology or the reality of ghosts. The degree to which he wanted to believe that everything could be attributed to the pedestrian expedient of poisonous fumes was, he realized, a measure of his desperation. But the very fact that there had been yet another accident made the superstitious agitation of his crew seem less ridiculous — even warranted, perhaps. Lorenz picked up a stone and made it skip across the water.
‘You know,’ said Lorenz, as he tied a glass ball to one of the lower branches of the Christmas tree. ‘I have a Christmas tree on my boat. In the control room there is a complicated assembly of pipes and red wheels. All U-boat men refer to this structure as the Christmas tree.’
‘Do you hang things on it?’ asked Jan.
‘No. That would be dangerous. The red wheels are the flooding and bilge valves. We need to get to them quickly — decorations would slow us down.’ Pia handed Lorenz a carved wooden angel blowing a trumpet. ‘Last year,’ Lorenz continued, ‘when I knew that I was still going to be at sea on Christmas day, I made sure that we had an artificial Christmas tree on board. We put it up on Christmas Eve and the cook made us a special Christmas dinner.’
‘Did Father take a Christmas tree with him to Russia?’ asked Jan.
‘He didn’t need to,’ Lorenz replied. ‘They have plenty of Christmas trees in Russia. I had to make special provision, you see, because Christmas trees are rather hard to come by in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.’
When they had finished decorating the tree, they sat on the floor and admired their handiwork. Lorenz pointed out how their reflections were distorted in the silver baubles and the children laughed. He wanted their laughter to last forever, because when they stopped laughing, another minute would have passed, and every passing minute brought him closer to the end of his furlough. A familiar dread rose up inside him, bringing with it memories of the torpedo room splattered with blood and brain tissue; a cold hand on his shoulder; Richter saying, He tried to strangle me. While I was asleep. Hoffman’s severed safety belt; and a face — as white as alabaster — momentarily illuminated by the sweep of a flashlight beam.
‘Uncle Siegfried, what’s the matter?’ Jan was pulling at his sweater.
‘I was just wondering what I’m going to get for Christmas, that’s all.’
Later, Monika arrived and suggested to Lorenz that they go for a short walk. The streets were empty and tiny flakes of snow began to fall. Monika’s talk was as easy and fluent as usual. They stopped beneath a street lamp and the crystals of ice on her eyelashes twinkled like stars. When she pouted Lorenz found that he could not resist kissing her.
‘Can we go into town tomorrow night?’ she asked.
‘If you want,’ Lorenz replied.
She laid a hand against the side of his face. ‘I’ve booked a hotel.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Fürstenhof.’
Lorenz grinned. ‘An excellent choice.’
Glockner ushered Lorenz down a dimly lit hallway and into a spacious living room: bookcases, escritoire, Grotrian-Steinweg upright piano, leather sofa, and reading chair. Everything was the same. There were no ornaments, paintings, or photographs, and the air seemed somewhat hazy, as if the contents of the room were being viewed through a fine mesh.
‘You’ve started playing again?’ Lorenz had noticed a Beethoven piano sonata on the music stand.
‘Yes. It’s gradually coming back.’ Glockner wiggled his fingers.
‘I don’t know why you stopped.’
‘Time,’ said Glockner, ‘never enough time. And I can’t bear to play badly.’
Lorenz sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, and extended his arms along the back rest. ‘Well, what did you find out?’
Glockner lowered himself into the reading chair. ‘He was quite a character, your Professor Grimstad. You said he was an archaeologist.’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘He did supervise some archaeological digs in Norway and Iceland, but these were undertaken without the approval of his university. In fact, he wasn’t an archaeologist but an authority on Norse literature. He came to prominence early when his controversial translation of the Völuspá was published.’
‘The what?’
‘The Völuspá. The Seeress’s Prophecy. Some believe it to be the greatest poem of the Germanic peoples.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s part of the Edda, which you must know.’
‘We did it at school.’
‘Indeed. Grimstad’s reputation grew, and for many years he enjoyed the respect of his colleagues; however, he began to attract criticism when he started writing about pagan ceremonies. It was all rather speculative, and his peers began to question his judgment, and it was about this time that he began to dabble in archaeology — a discipline in which he had no formal training or experience — presumably in the hope of discovering evidence that would support his theories. Things came to a head about four years ago. It seems that he persuaded some of his students to participate in reenactments of a pagan ritual, and a subsequent scandal led to his dismissal from the university. I’m not sure what he got up to, precisely, but I believe that there were allegations of sexual impropriety.’
‘Was he a member of the resistance?’
‘After his dismissal he became involved with various folkloric groups, among whose number he was bound to have met staunch nationalists.’
‘And the Schutzstaffel? Why were they interested in him?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t able to find that out; however, Himmler — of course — is renowned for his peculiar ideas about the significance of Norse mythology. And he’s very fond of runes.’ Glockner hummed a jaunty introduction and sang a few lines of a famous SS anthem: ‘We all stand ready for battle, inspired by runes and death’s head…’
Lorenz nodded in agreement and the two men fell silent. A clock was ticking and outside a car drove past. A sudden blast of wind rattled the windows. ‘Thank you,’ said Lorenz. He took a slip of paper out his pocket and handed it to his friend.
‘What’s this?’
‘A name and a telephone number.’
‘Lulu Trompelt?’
‘She likes opera and foreign poetry and she’s supposed to be pretty — although I only have someone else’s word for that.’
On returning to Brest, Lorenz was informed by Cohausz that Wilhelm had gone absent without leave. He remembered the young bosun’s mate, clearing up the boat — anxious, scared — handing him the British penny. ‘He was due back three days ago,’ said Cohausz. ‘I’ve spoken to his parents. He spent Christmas with them in Hamburg. They said goodbye to him at the station.’
‘Did they see him get on the train?’
‘No.’
‘He could be anywhere.’
‘True. But eventually he’ll be found and then…’ Cohausz mimed aiming a rifle and pulling a trigger. ‘What a fool. Do you have any idea why he’s chosen to face a firing squad?’
‘Well, we don’t know that for sure, do we? Not just yet, sir.’
‘He couldn’t have gotten lost.’
‘An accident possibly, Kommodore?’
‘What? On the way down from Hamburg? I think that’s highly unlikely, don’t you?’