They were going to kill him, Hellwig thought. The British were animals and the Americans were worse.
A rope dropped in front of his eyes and he instinctively grasped it, ignoring the fleeting thought that told him to try to swim away to die near his friends. The call of life was too strong and Hellwig decided that those men on S-204 weren’t really his friends and that they treated him horribly and he would be ashamed to have his mother meet them.
Hellwig took the rope and held on tightly, while reaching hands gripped his life vest and turned him around. He dare not look up as he felt himself pulled from the water and dragged onto the deck of an enemy craft.
He saw a knife blade flash, but before he could cry out in horror the life vest straps were cut away and a man with a healthy growth of beard examined him. A doctor, Hellwig thought, but he was rough looking and his hands were not gentle.
He looked up tentatively and saw two men standing over him. Officers, he knew immediately, then he knew that they were American officers by their uniforms. Several other men stood around him, sailors he thought, all grim looking.
One officer was tall, very thin, and Hellwig felt as if his eyes were piercing his soul. The other was shorter, and when he turned his head to talk with the sailor who examined him Hellwig saw the scar. A gangster. One of the Jew Roosevelt’s gangsters. He’d read about them. His mother had written to him about the American gangsters. He began to tremble more but not from the cold.
One of the sailors pushed through the group, holding a cup. The aroma enveloped him. Coffee. Real coffee, not ersatz. Hellwig always drank tea when he could find it; he thought coffee was too vulgar, but the scent that was coming from the cup in the enemy sailor’s hands called to him.
Hellwig took the coffee cup, wrapping his fingers gratefully around its warm surface. His eyes darted from Tall American to Scarface to the other sailors surrounding him. He felt their eyes examining him as the boat dashed across the water, throwing plumes of white foam high into the air.
Scarface was talking to Tall American now. His voice was very measured and calm but his words might just as well been thrown over the side. Tall American ignored everything that Scarface said, Hellwig could tell that easily enough because Tall American’s eyes never left him. They were dark, hate-filled eyes, impatient and cold. He had first thought that Tall American was someone who could help him; despite his rough appearance he looked civilized, kind. Perhaps he would protect him from Scarface. Now, he wasn’t sure.
Hellwig couldn’t understand the language, but he knew that Scarface was making a case of sorts, of what and for what, Hellwig didn’t know. His fright had subsided somewhat, and he kept his focus on sipping the steaming coffee. He had survived, he was alive, and he was going to a prisoner of war camp where he would never have to fight again. A sudden thought occurred to him: what if there was torture? What if Roosevelt’s gangsters hanged him as a criminal? Strangely, the idea carried no weight, and he marveled at the idea that perhaps he was brave — that he had defeated death. Then he realized he was alive and that was the paramount thought that occupied him. Briefly the images of Janzen, Lieb, and the others flashed before his eyes, but he paid no attention to them — dead perhaps or on one of the other boats, captives like himself. And if they were dead there was some sort of God-delivered justice for their smoking, drinking, and whoring, and for an instant Hellwig considered death an adequate retribution for the beatings that Janzen had given him.
Scarface turned to him, either satisfied that his words to Tall American had accomplished what he had in mind, or simply because the words had been useless.
“How are you? Are you feeling better?” Scarface asked. His German was clumsy and the accent made the words sound stilted and awkward.
“Yes,” Hellwig said. He tried to appear calm although his hands still shook uncontrollably. He noticed Tall American’s eyes narrow.
“You’ll be taken back to England. A prisoner of war camp. You understand?”
“Yes,” Hellwig said, his eyes unconsciously drawn to the long scar on the man’s face. He remembered one American movie. Cars raced down deserted city streets and from the darkness, a horrible thunder of a dozen machine guns.
“You won’t be harmed,” Scarface continued. Tall American stood silently behind the other American, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. It was then that Hellwig noticed the holster and pistol on the man’s hip. Tall American followed Hellwig’s eyes, glanced down at his hip, looked at Hellwig, and smiled. The eyes taunted him and the smile said, “You understand that I will use this, don’t you?”
“I have some questions,” Scarface said. His voice was soft and low and his eyes bore sincerity. It might be a trick, Hellwig cautioned himself. He may appear to be friendly and then the torturing will begin, but the thought drifted away. He felt strangely superior, as if selected by God to survive, to be plucked from the dismal life aboard S-204, and despite the absolute terror of the last few minutes, granted salvation by the Almighty because he was deserving. The idea filled him with strength and the arrogance of those who defeated death even if the victory were won by pure happenstance.
“You come from Cherbourg? Yes?”
Name, rank, and identification number. That was all that you’re to tell the enemy if captured, Hellwig had been told, over and over. Above that, say nothing, the instructors had ordered him at Swinemunde. Nothing. Hellwig shrugged, concentrating on the coffee. It was much better than anything he had tasted before but he wished it were tea.
Tall American said something and Scarface tossed a curt reply over his shoulder. They did not like each other, Hellwig saw that well enough, but a disquieting thought snuck into his mind: can Scarface protect me?
“You will protect me?” Hellwig whispered to Scarface. He let his eyes dart in the direction of Tall American so that the meaning would not be lost.
“Don’t worry,” Scarface said. “But you must answer my questions. Do you understand me? You must answer all questions that I put to you — truthfully.”
Hellwig felt the coffee cup slip from his hands as Tall American eased the pistol from his holster. Scarface saw the shock on Hellwig’s face and looked over his shoulder. He stood and put himself between Hellwig and the Tall American, blocking the German sailor’s view of what was going on. Hellwig could hear if he could not see. He heard the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered in the big pistol and Scarface’s soft voice berating Tall American, and finally Tall American’s short, harsh replies.
Hellwig realized that everything before had been a lie. He was not superior and death had not been cheated; it was simply playing a cruel game with him, and he would die after all, and God had not granted him salvation. God had abandoned him, and the others were probably alive and would live for many years, and that he was the only one who would die. The thoughts rushed at him, mocking him for being a fool and for thinking that he was safe and would never suffer again.
Tall American pushed Scarface to one side, and suddenly the huge muzzle of the pistol filled Hellwig’s vision. A tiny cry escaped his throat as the hammer clicked back.
Scarface was still arguing with Tall American, but Tall American wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on Hellwig, and a single word screamed out at Hellwig from his mind: murder.
Scarface was talking rapidly at Tall American but the words had no effect, so finally he turned to Hellwig and said: “You have to answer my questions or he’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Hellwig gave a clipped nod, but he wasn’t sure if he had responded to Scarface’s question because he was trembling again. “Yes,” he said, His mouth was so parched with fear that it was difficult to talk.