Any Survivors (2008) Read online

  ANY

  SURVIVORS?

  ANY

  SURVIVORS?

  A LOST NOVEL

  OF WORLD WAR II

  MARTIN FREUD

  TRANSLATED BY ANETTE FUHRMEISTER EDITED BY HELEN FRY

  Front Cover: U-boat commander (Mary Evans Picture Library)

  First published 2010

  The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  © Martin Freud, 2010

  Translation © Anette Fuhrmeister

  Preface © Helen Fry

  The right of Martin Freud, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7596 7

  MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7595 0

  Original typesetting by The History Press

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Prologue

  1 Lights Out!

  2 Sealed Order

  3 Counter-espionage on Holiday

  4 The New Role

  5 Tightrope Walk in the Dark

  6 In the Deep

  7 Dangerous Game

  8 Arrest

  9 The Nightmare

  10 Division of the Loot

  11 The Gift

  12 Kraft Durch Freude

  13 Health Resort, Headquarters

  14 The Königssee

  15 A Guest at Berghof

  16 The Relentless One

  Translator's Notes

  PREFACE

  It is every historian's dream to stumble across something significant in a battered old case in a forgotten attic. However, that is precisely what happened with Martin Freud's unpublished novel Any Survivors? I discovered it quite by chance whilst rummaging through papers which the family had lent me for writing Freuds’ War. The manuscript was amongst several papers in a tatty briefcase, both of which had seen better days. The novel, which ran to over 330 typed pages, was written in German except for the opening scene which was in English. When I read the opening scene, I wanted to read on – who was the survivor pulled out of the freezing water by men on a British destroyer? And what was his connection to the U-boat crew that had perished? Whilst my German was not sufficient to understand the bulk of the text, I knew already from my study of Martin Freud's life that much of what he had written in the past was strongly autobiographical and I suspected that this might be true of this novel which is set in the Second World War. During his lifetime Martin Freud published two books: the first his autobiography Glory Reflected and second, his novel Parole d’Honneur which is heavily based on his experiences in the Austro-Hungarian Royal Horse Artillery in the First World War.

  The manuscript has been translated from the German and edited in such a way as to keep closely to the style and ambiance of the original.

  Martin Freud was the eldest son of Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis. Born in Vienna on 7 December 1889, Martin grew up in an environment where he was aware of his father's international reputation and fame, and spoke of being ‘content to bask in reflected glory’. Martin was close to his father, whom he described as having ‘ein froehliches herz’ (a merry heart). From 1914 until 1918 he fought for his country on the Russian and Italian front lines during the First World War, during which time he was awarded seven medals for bravery, two of which were Military Crosses. Just days before the Armistice was signed in November 1918 he was taken as a prisoner of war by the British in Italy and spent nearly a year in an Italian prisonerof-war camp until the summer of 1919. When he was finally released he returned to Vienna and trained as a lawyer. On his thirtieth birthday in 1919 he married Ernestine Drucker and settled into married life. They had two children: Anton Walter (1921) and Sophie (1924). During the 1930s Martin ran his father's press as Director of International Psychoanalytical Press (Verlag). The offices of the Verlag had moved to 7 Berggasse, just down the street from the family home. In March 1938 Freud's world and that of Austrian Jews was turned upside down when Hitler marched his troops over the border into Austria and annexed the country. After a period of house arrest and two tense months in which it was not obvious the family would get out, visas were finally secured. Martin left for England a month before his parents and settled in London. His marriage had deteriorated and so Martin and Esti separated. Esti stayed in France with their daughter Sophie until forced to flee from the Nazis again, eventually settling in America.

  With the outbreak of war in September 1939, Martin and son Walter (now in England) were classified as ‘enemy aliens’. In June 1940 Martin was interned by the British government at Huyton near Liverpool, from where a few months later he enlisted in the British army's Pioneer Corps. Disillusioned with life in a labour corps, he was eventually invalided out in June 1941 and took up reserved war work travelling the country as an auditor for the National Dock Labour Corporation. It was during this particular work that he may have gained the inspiration which forms the basis of parts of this novel. This is not an unreasonable assumption because most of his unpublished short stories which exist amongst the family papers are largely based on his personal experiences; likewise his autobiographical first novel Parole d’Honneur. Martin worked for the National Dock Labour Corporation until c. 1948. When he left, he opened a tobacconist shop near the British Museum. Later he moved to Hove in Sussex where he lived with his partner Margaret, until his death on 25 April 1967. His ashes are interred in the family section at Golders Green crematorium.

  During his lifetime Martin had no success in getting Any Survivors? published. However, four decades after his death this has come to fruition and is a welcome addition to the Freud family contribution to the literary world.

  Dr Helen Fry, author of Freuds’ War

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Are there any survivors? Any survivors?’ asked the commander of the British destroyer.

  ‘Just the one, sir. A young sailor. He is conscious and unhurt. Spitting a little blood, the poor chap. I don't think his lungs could cope with the Davisapparat.’

  ‘What is he saying?’

  ‘Well sir, he won't stop talking. His English is terrible but he insists he is not part of the U-boat crew.’

  ‘What a cheek! He appeared at exactly the spot where we sank the U-boat. And who does he pretend to be? A cruise passenger or a leisure traveller …?’

  ‘Sir, I don't think he means any harm. He's just expressing himself a little awkwardly in our language. He's saying: “I am supposed to be a member of the crew but I am not a member.” He may well be confused from the shock of being submerged in the icy water. He keeps repeating that he must tell his story. Would you like to hear it, sir?’

  ‘Nonsense! Not now. The man should be taken to quarters, given some warm clothes and put to bed with a hot toddy. Tomorrow, as soon as we land, he will be taken to hospital.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  What a dirty trick to pretend he is not a member of the crew.

  Well, here is the story …

  1

  LIGHTS OUT!

  September 1939

  I was thinking … and when I was thinking simple things, I
thought in English. I had been living in London for over a year. Although I was not exactly a maharajah in my home town, I was at least a young man with a profession and the opportunity to progress in my career. A dental technician is a useful and reputable occupation and even well paid. And here I was now living as a refugee in England with no work permit, forgetting the little I had learnt in my previous life. People treated me like one half of a pair of gloves found lying on the street – of no commercial value.

  I'm sure my mother was right to persuade me to leave the country. I can divulge only a little of my past as my mother is still in my home country and anything I say, write down or do, could harm her. I will say only this much: I am from a country that used to be free and happy until Hitler came along and forced us into submission with arms and no resistance.

  I received some aid here in London but not to the extent that I could live it up in the Grosvenor House or even anywhere in Mayfair; I was living in King's Cross in a basic boarding house. Unfortunately it so happened that I was the only young man in the house. The other guests, mainly elderly ladies, were also from countries that Hitler had already occupied – or was going to in the near future. The more prudent amongst us did not wait but emigrated well before he seized power.

  My room was a tiny garret on the top floor, just big enough to sleep in but with no real space in which to live during the day. Once, when I was in the communal living room, I had no time to relax because all the ladies started bossing me around and asking me to do things for them. As they were older than I, and female too, they believed this was their right. If they had their own way I might have spent all day on ladders, hanging blackout curtains and filling gaps with black paper to achieve perfect darkness.

  I should have started with the fact that war had just broken out. As I headed for the lounge, I could overhear one of the ladies saying: ‘Where is that insolent lazy-bones hiding?’ It was one of the elderly ladies with a very deep voice. ‘I’ve been looking for him all day. I want him to go to the W.W. for me to get some more drawing pins before they run out.’

  ‘I don't know what you mean,’ said a lady with a much higher voice. ‘I don't think he's insolent. He is modest and shy and often looks at one with his kind eyes. I tell you it makes me feel quite motherly towards him.’

  ‘That's only when he wants something from you; some toast made or some trousers ironed.’ Now this was slightly unfair in my opinion; it was over a week since anyone had made me any toast or ironed my trousers.

  I came into the room. ‘Please excuse me,’ I said. ‘You were speaking about me.’

  I don't think I put that quite right; I should have said ‘Excuse me for listening in’ but I wanted to be as polite as possible. My aim was to take a book from the shelf, and there was the danger that they would come up with another thing for me to do, as in: ‘Leave the book there and go and fill some sandbags instead.’

  All this took place yesterday. As I came into the room today, there was no one there. It was unusually quiet. I took out a book on Charlotte Corday since I was researching the history of famous murderers of tyrants. Not that I wanted to murder a tyrant myself. Personally, I didn't feel I could murder anyone, even less a tyrant, but I was interested in the method: how to plan grand deeds and how to execute them, peaceful deeds that are not murderous ones.

  I was daydreaming, pleasantly seated on the biggest and most comfortable sofa. The only good reading light was to my left. The Charlotte Corday book was on my lap, with my thumb marking the spot where the beautiful murderess buys a kitchen knife from an ironmonger near the Palais Royal at the crack of dawn. My legs were dangling down the side of the seat and to my right there was a glass of water. I gazed at the cheap clock on the mantelpiece, its hands gratifyingly inching towards 7 p.m. Any minute the dinner gong would sound. I was only on half board, entitled to breakfast and dinner. This arrangement was more appropriate for those who worked and lunched in the city. Shouldn't the gong have sounded by now? Earlier today there had been some unrest: furniture was shifted, doors banged and phones rang. The silence now was pleasant in contrast.

  I heard footsteps and quickly sat up straight, removing my legs from the cushion. It was only the chambermaid with whom I was having a minor feud. My circumstances dictated that I could not tip her but that was no reason for her to treat me with contempt and not speak to me in her mother tongue, which was Scottish. She came in, took the clock off the mantelpiece, stuck it under her arm and left the room without saying a word. Aha, I thought, we’re having soft-boiled eggs for dinner or something that needs to be timed accurately. She came back in. This time she took my half-empty glass of water without a word of apology and disappeared again. Aha, I thought. Frau Pokorny has visitors and they are serving orangeade for which they need more glasses. Frau Pokorny lived comfortably – her daughters were married and living in the United States and sent her money regularly. The boarding house charged 6d per glass which was surely a 100 per cent mark-up since sugar and fruit were still cheap.

  The girl came back again, this time approaching me directly. I clutched my book resolutely. She grabbed the reading lamp, unscrewed the light bulb and stuck it in her apron pocket. She used a cloth to hold the bulb so as not to burn her hands; then left me behind in complete darkness. This seemed to me to overstep the mark of what I could endure. I was a paying customer even if I was being helped financially. Besides, I was no more than three days behind with the rent. Ready to complain to the chambermaid, I carefully felt my way out of the room.

  The hallway was full of boxes. The chambermaid was now unscrewing the bulbs from the lamps in reception and filling a basket with them. The doors to the bedroom on the ground floor were wide open and all the rooms empty. There was no sign of the landlady. On the desk I found a letter addressed to me. It was the weekly bill which was normally due in four days time. I owed 15/4 and this morning's breakfast was the last meal they were charging me for. Underneath the bill I found the following:

  Dear Mr …, I trust that you will pay the outstanding amount of 15/4 as soon as you receive your next benefit payment. We are closing here and are moving to a new site. I am only able to take the ladies with me, as we are already at full capacity. I'm sure you will find somewhere else to stay.

  Yours sincerely,

  …

  It was not only water and light that had been taken from me; it was now the roof over my head. I could just about see into the kitchen downstairs. The crockery and cutlery was all packed up and there was no sign of the gong either.

  ‘When are you closing up?’ I asked the chambermaid. She shrugged and remained silent. I may as well have spoken to her in Farsi. The sooner I left, the sooner I would find somewhere else to stay. Two men came in and started to remove the suitcases. Emergency lighting on the stairs enabled me to make my way up to my room to pack. Only when I had opened and closed all the cupboard drawers did I realise that there was nothing I could pack because I had no possessions. There was no point in taking a pile of old papers and magazines. My spare shirt and second pair of socks were in the wash with little chance of retrieving them now that I owed laundry money. I put on my shoes with the bitter feeling that horses and cows could grow new hooves but the heels on my shoes would not grow back. They would only wear down further. My slippers weren't worth taking either. I packed only my razor and toothbrush. The towel and bedding were part of the hostel inventory. My flute was already in my trouser pocket and I had sold my coat last April. I had never owned a hat. I was as ready as I could ever be.

  But … where were my documents?

  I remembered they were being held at the central office responsible for refugees, and since they were in the process of moving premises as well, my papers had been deposited safely. In case we were interned, they promised they would send the documents straight to the Lagerkommando. My mother can't write to me now the war has broken out so she won't mind if I don't have an address for the time being.

  ‘Adieu, Mansarde,’ I calle
d. ‘Goodbye to all you mice! You’ll miss me when you look for cheese rinds under the bed.’ At dinner I liked to save a piece of cheese to eat in bed at night. I went back downstairs and deposited the Charlotte Corday in one of the baskets the maid was now filling with books. There was little hope that these items would arrive in one piece, as there were light bulbs at the bottom and books on top. But what can you expect from a chambermaid who won't even speak to you in her native tongue?

  If I hadn't walked the route to King's Cross so often in daylight, I would have been lost. The darkness was merciless. It was a blackout because of the war. From time to time, when I could see nothing at all, I stood still and waited. When cars passed and shed their lights on the streets for a few seconds I got up and moved a few metres further on. I had no real plans of where to go. Five pennies was all I had. If only I owned luggage or better clothes I could have stayed in a boarding house and lived on credit until my next payment. But from the way I looked, I could expect no courtesy. My only item of respectable clothing was the immaculately kept gas mask with a brand-new white hemp cord; but everyone knew that these were free, not for sale and compulsory to carry around. I had a few telephone numbers of fellow emigrants who lived in posh hotels but I wasn't brave enough to invest my few pennies in the risky venture of a phone call. And how would they treat me in reception? My heels were worn and my tie was pieced together from bits of one of the ladies’ old dressing gowns.

  It had been some time since the last car had passed me to cast a faint light on my path. I should have spent less time thinking and more time paying attention. Now I was truly lost. I could hear cars passing in the distance but I must have landed in a side street with no traffic. I rationalised – I may be lost but even if it seems like I'm in the midst of a deserted mine, I am in a million-strong city. Within a few metres of here there must be people in their dressing gowns and slippers, playing with their offspring, making toast and reading the Evening Standard. If it weren't for the blackout curtains I could make them out, I was sure of it. Someone had to come by and help me out sooner or later. I felt around for something solid and sat down. Something crashed to the ground. I must have knocked over an empty milk bottle in the darkness. It shattered but luckily I was unaffected as there was no dampness and the stones remained dry and warm. As I was seated comfortably I thought that I might as well continue my train of thought …