Listen to the Moon by Michael Morpurgo
He stood up to go, and straightened his cap. He was much taller than I had thought. “As you see, my cabin is not very comfortable. But it is the best room on the boat. I must ask you not to leave my quarters. I have given Seemann Wilhelm Kreuz the responsibility of looking after you during the rest of your stay with us.”
He looked down on me, long and hard. “I think you are angry with me, or perhaps you are sad – this is why you do not speak. My little Christina, she is the same sometimes. You are angry perhaps because I am German, I am the enemy, and I sink ships. Sadly, this is true. This is what I am. This is what I do. We may be at war, but I am a sailor, we are all sailors. We love ships. To sink a ship, to watch it go down, is a terrible thing. War makes men do terrible things. You have a right to be angry, a right to be sad.” He turned up his collar and was pulling aside the curtain to leave, when he remembered something. He reached deep into his coat pocket, pulled out my teddy bear and handed it to me. “Seemann Kreuz found this. He says it is yours. It is not likely, I think, to belong to anyone else.”
I was overjoyed. I tried to thank him, tried to speak, but no words would come out.
He left me then, but I was no longer alone. I had my teddy bear. I looked into his smiling face. I loved this bear, but I had no idea why. It is hard to explain how it is not to have memories. But I shall try. You are lost in a world you do not understand, a world in which everything and everyone is bewildering, a world with which you have little connection, to which you do not belong. It is as if you are locked in a darkened room with doors all around instead of walls, where every door you try to open is locked fast against you. There is no way out. Some light does creep in under the doorways, so you know there is light out there, that it is the light of memory. You have memory. You have a glimpse of it under the doors, but you can’t open the doors, you can’t reach it. You know you must be someone, come from somewhere, but that you will only remember when the doors open, when the light floods in.
As it was, I had no idea at the time what a submarine or a U-boat was, nor even what a German was, or that there was a war. So nothing the captain of the whale-ship told me had made any sense. All I knew was that this tall man with a silvery beard had given me back the teddy bear that I loved. It was soggy, soaked through, but I had it back. He had been kind to me, and I liked him.
I should have stayed where I was in his cabin, as he had told me, and, had it not been for the gramophone, I would have done so. The music was familiar, but I didn’t know why. It was piano music. No one was singing any more now. Pulling aside the curtain, I stepped out and wandered down the passageway. I could see on either side of me that the men were mostly asleep on their bunks and in their hammocks, their blankets pulled up over their faces. A few were still awake and watching me as I passed by. One of them sat up on his elbows and called to me. “Allo! Allo! What is your name? I speak English, Fräulein. Little girl, I have chocolate. You like chocolate?” He was reaching out to me, and offering me a piece of chocolate from the flat of his hand. “Is good, sehr gut, mein Kind.” I took it and ate it. It was good too. “You like our boat?” he went on laughing. “Sehr komfortabel, ja?” I walked past him.
There was an open door ahead of me and I wanted to see what was inside. I was about to step through when I felt a hand on my shoulder holding me back. I turned to see who it was. It was my rescuer, Wilhelm Kreuz. He was shaking his head and frowning at me. He wasn’t angry, just telling me I should not go any further. “Torpedo room,” he said, and it was clear he was not pleased with me at all. “Nein. You must not go in there. Verboten. Verstanden?” He took me by the hand and led me back down the passageway towards the cabin, much to everyone’s amusement. But I could tell Wilhelm wasn’t amused one bit by all the whistling and catcalling that followed us down the boat. He made me sit on the bed and he drew the curtain behind him. Then he crouched down beside me and gave me a ticking-off.
“Here,” he said, wagging his finger in my face. “Du musst hier bleiben. Here. Understand? Verstanden? Stay here.” Then he sat back on the chair, looking about him, wondering, I could tell, what he was going to do with me.
“Chess,” he said suddenly. “We play. I teach you.” The chessboard he took down from the shelf above was broken in two, and, when he emptied all the pieces out and set them up, there were two pieces of chalk for two missing white pawns – they wouldn’t stand up for long because of the vibration of the boat. So, sitting at the little folding table in the cabin, watched by the teddy bear that sat smiling by the chessboard on the table, Wilhelm Kreuz and I played chess, for hours. He didn’t need to teach me. Somehow, I knew. I had no idea how. He played well. But I played better.
I thought about that afterwards, that maybe Wilhelm was just being kind and letting me win. I shall never know. I only knew that while I was playing, nothing else seemed to matter except what was happening on the chessboard, my next move, his next move. I have often wondered since how it was that, when so much else was forgotten, I knew so well how to play chess with Wilhelm, how to beat him. I was able to play instinctively, knew how every piece moved, how to think ahead, set traps, avoid traps, anticipate what his next move would be. I could play chess, and that had to be from memory. So I must have been remembering something, understanding something. I was aware of it even then too, that I did have some powers of recall, some understanding, but it was patchy and fleeting. Nothing seemed to be joined up. Nothing seemed to make much sense to me, except chess.
Hours must have passed playing chess that day with Wilhelm. He did not try to talk. Speaking English was clearly not as easy for him as for the captain and his accent was heavy. His face was set with concentration, frozen in a frown, except when he thought he had made a clever move. Then he would smile at me with satisfaction, in triumph even, sit back, folding his arms and chuckling to himself.
My next move would often take the smile off his face, and then he would cast his eyes to heaven, shake his head, and slap his own wrist in frustration. He was always very polite and shook hands at the end of each game, and applauded my victories. And he was funny too. When he lost, he would sometimes wag his finger at my teddy bear, pretending to tell him off. I didn’t understand exactly what he was saying of course, but I think I caught the gist of it. I thought he might have been telling the teddy bear not to help me, to keep out of it, that it wasn’t fair to have to play against two of us. Then he would turn the teddy bear round, so that he couldn’t watch the next game. And after I had set up the pieces for the next game I would turn the teddy bear round again, and he would chuckle. I liked his chuckle. It was not put on, as laughter so often can be, but came naturally to him, easily, as easily as his smile.
It was in the middle of a game, some time later, that someone called for Wilhelm from outside the curtain. It was the captain’s voice. Wilhelm got up, shrugged on his coat and cap, showed me the watch on his wrist and circled his finger round three times. He would be gone for three hours. He laid me down, gave me my teddy bear to hold, put the blanket over me and showed me that I must pull it up over my face so that the drips gathering above me did not fall on me while I was asleep. Then he saluted, and left me. The whale-ship might have been damp and dripping, the oily, sweaty stench of it might be stifling, but it was warm, and I had my teddy bear, and there was music playing. The churn and rumble of the engines was regular, rhythmic; I was soon asleep.
I WOKE NOT KNOWING WHERE I was at all, only that it was dark all around me, pitch-black, not a chink of light. I could hear the chuntering of engines, and whispering voices nearby, muffled and urgent. My ears were popping, and I had the strongest feeling that my stomach was sinking, and yet, in spite of that, I was somehow floating upwards, rising feet first and steeply, and then rocking so violently that I had to hold on to the sides of the bunk to steady myself. I was still struggling to remember where I was. It was the stench of the fumes that finally reminded me.
I heard the sound of the curtain being pulled aside, and a sudden light f
By the time Wilhelm came back some moments later, I was sitting there on the bed, teddy bear in hand, ready to go and waiting, but where I was going and what I was waiting for, I had no idea. Wilhelm wrapped a blanket round my shoulders. “Mein Mutti,” he said, “she makes this for me. It is for you to have now. Warm, you must be warm.” He was smiling then as he tapped my teddy bear on his head. “Und you have also your little friend. Das ist gut. To have a friend is always good.”
He helped me to my feet, took me by the hand, and led me out of the cabin and down the passageway, past the bunks and the hammocks, past all the faces gazing at me. Some of the sailors lifted their hands in silent farewell. Some nodded and smiled as I passed, and said, “Auf Wiedersehen.”
One or two said, “Goodbye, little girl.”
I was climbing a ladder then, Wilhelm helping me up, and suddenly I was out in the cold, fresh air, the night all about me and the surging sea and the stars. Some distance away I saw land, the shape of what looked like an island lying low and dark in the sea. A life raft was waiting in the water below, two sailors at the oars, one of them holding on to the ladder. It would be a very long way down that ladder.
“Seemann Kreuz will help you. You will not fall.” I recognised at once the voice of the tall dark figure who stood before me now. It was the captain. I could see the shape of his peaked cap against the sky.
“I hope that you have enjoyed your stay in our boat, that you found my bed comfortable,” he said. “I wish we could bring you in closer to the shore, but it is not deep enough in these waters. There are rocks everywhere in this place, like teeth waiting to bite us. So Seemann Kreuz and two of my sailors will row you to the nearest island. On my map it is called St Helen’s. It is small, not many houses, not many people. There, I hope you will soon find someone to look after you, and food and shelter. But we shall not put you ashore with nothing. We should like you to have a small gift so you will remember us. Seemann Kreuz will give you some water, and some sausage and some rabbit bread also.”
He laughed as he shook my hand. “Off you go, gnädiges Fräulein. I am happy we found you on your piano. All my men are happy too. And we do not often have much to be happy about when we are at sea. You must go now.” He saluted me then. “Auf Wiedersehen, little silent girl. Remember us and we shall remember you.”
I turned and looked down the ladder at the heaving sea below, the life raft rising and falling against the side of the boat. My legs would not move. I could not do it. I could not climb down that ladder, not in a million years. Wilhelm must have known it, because it was his idea to crouch down and give me a piggyback. I went down the ladder, eyes closed, clinging on tight round his neck. Then we were sitting in the life raft and being rowed away, leaving the submarine quickly behind us, until soon it seemed no more than a distant shadow resting on the ocean.
No one spoke in the life raft. My eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness now. There were a few stars out. On the tiller, Wilhelm was leaning forward, searching the shoreline for the best place to bring the boat in. We came round the head of the island where waves were rolling in, where cliffs reared high and rocks lay tumbled into the sea in piles, and then at last, to my great relief, into much calmer waters. As we neared the shore, the two sailors dipped their oars ever more carefully, pulling on them slowly, so we were gliding silently through the sea. We saw a broad strand of sand bright under the stars. Here they rowed in and beached the boat.
Wilhelm leapt out into the shallows, and was pointing up now towards the dunes. I saw then what he had already noticed – a house, with dark windows, and a single chimney, and a white gull perched on top. I knew gulls liked to warm themselves on chimney tops. So there would be a fire, and I would soon be sitting close to it, warm and safe. Wilhelm lifted me out of the life raft and set me down on the sand beside him. He crouched in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Here is England. You go to the house, ja? They will look after you now.”
He handed me then a tin flask, and a small paper bag. I could feel the sausage inside, and the bread. “Wasser,” he said, tapping the flask. “Wasser. Ist gut. Food also. For you, and for your little bear, if he is hungry.” The sailors were calling to him from the boat, urgently. “Ich kann nicht bleiben, mein liebling,” he went on. “Wir müssen nun gehen.” He reached out, touched my cheek. “Entschuldigung,” he said. “I go now. I am sorry. For the Lusitania, I am sorry.”
Then he turned, pushed the boat out and was gone. I watched them rowing away and stayed there until I could see them no more. I was sad to be alone again, and fearful too, as I looked about me. This was a strange and dismal place. The island seemed to me to glower like a dark frown, and the sea growled and hissed at me. This was not a place I wanted to be. But there would, I reminded myself, be a fire in the house at the top of the dunes, and people to welcome me in, and hot food, and a bed. I began at once to walk up over the steeply shelving sand. The gulls, perched on the rocks everywhere I looked, were eyeing me as I passed. I hoped whoever lived there in the house would be more friendly than they were.
I should have been longing to meet these people, to hear English voices again. But I knew there would be questions, lots of questions about who I was, where I had come from, how I had arrived here, none of which I could answer. What little I did remember, and this was very little, my tongue could not speak. I did not know why that should be either. So how could I explain myself, explain any of it?
As I came up the track towards it, the house loomed larger than I had imagined it to be, a sturdy, stone-built place, severe in its aspect, with close-cropped grass all around. The gull on the chimney did not move even as I approached the front door, but sat there as still as the house. I think I realised already from this stillness that it was empty, that no one lived in the place, even before I discovered that there was no front door, no glass in any of the windows. I stepped over the threshold into a house that was almost entirely open to the night sky. There was a fireplace set into the end wall, stone seats on either side, but I could see no other sign that the house had ever been lived in, no furniture, no nothing. The place was a deserted ruin, where only bracken lived now, and brambles, and ivy that climbed up the walls and out through the windows. Above me the gull shrieked suddenly, as if to tell me, “My place! My house! Go away!”
Then, squawking at me angrily, it lifted off and flew up into the night.
It came on to rain then, a blustering downpour that drove me to seek shelter at once. The open fireplace was all there was. Here, under the only part of the roof still intact, I would at least be dry and out of the wind. I made my way through the undergrowth, and crawled into the fireplace. I sat on the stone seat and huddled there in the corner under my blanket. I would wait there till first light, I thought, until I could see properly where I was going, then go and find another house, one still lived in, where there would surely be the friendly faces and the welcoming warmth I had been hoping for and expecting.
Cold, and colder with every hour that passed, I could not sleep. That night was the longest of my life. I thought it would never end. As soon as the stars left the sky, at the first hint of grey light that night before dawn, I was up and out of that gaping house, relieved to leave its emptiness behind me. I took all I had in this world with me: my blanket, my teddy bear, the water flask, and the bag of food they had given me, and set off with hope in my
It did not take me long to discover, with sinking heart, that there was no other house at all on the island. I did find in among the bracken the remains of what might have once been a house or a chapel perhaps, for there was a gravestone there with a name carved on it, so weathered that I could not decipher it. But besides those remains, and besides that ruin where I had spent the night, there was no other human habitation to be found. There were, I could see, lots of other islands all around, dozens of them, scattered over the sea, as if some giant in a rage had cast fistfuls of boulders into the ocean. And I could see also there were houses on many of these islands, but all of them were far away, too far for me to swim to. I could see boats too, several of them – fishing boats, rowing boats, some drawn up on the beaches, some moored off shore, a few of them out at sea. There were boats out there, people out there, houses out there, if only I could reach them.