Once I could see that Christine was next, I approached the ticket vendor and said, ‘I would like a boat. Would it be possible to have one to myself? I would only need one person rowing and I'm not in a hurry.’
Behind the counter a miserable old man with bushy grey eyebrows looked back at me. He did not seem keen. ‘With only one oarsman you will hardly move forward, it will cost you a lot of money as I charge by the hour. Why don't you join one of the bigger parties?’
My response was icy: ‘I did not ask you to help me save money.’ He grunted something into his beard, which if I could only have understood the dialect, could well have been offensive. He called out to the bench, I presumed to say ‘Next please!’ but it was just a noise to me. Christine tried to get out of it but the others would not let her. A storm of indignation ensued amongst the older and younger colleagues: ‘
Sacra Teif, gehst net zua, du Luader, du faules!
’ (Holy Devil, get on with it, you crafty bitch, lazy thing!) Or something like that, I imagined. And even worse insults followed. She took her oar and marched defiantly towards the pier and the boat the man pointed to. She put the oar into a sling around her body which meant she was going to row standing up. All the while she did not look up from the ground in front of her, even when I brushed her skirt as I took my seat. The man gave us a hard push and we moved away from the pier at a snail's pace, through the rippled water that was crystal clear and shimmered pale green in the light.
The rowing boats used on the Königssee, called
plätten
by the locals, had a flat bottom and a curved bow like the Venetian gondolas, but they were difficult to row and not very stable. When there was only one person rowing, the oar had to be turned after every stroke which would slow down the boat. If you failed to compensate, then the boat would keep turning in a circle. Christine was standing behind me, while I was sitting on a low bench with a backrest. We both faced the direction of travel. I was still wearing my blue sunglasses and kept turning round, glancing back, enjoying the view of Christine and her rhythmical rowing movements. The water gurgled underneath the boat and the dark forests of pine were passing by along the shore. I had a bought a paper from one of the kiosks, a
Voelkischer Beobachter
, and I now used it to cover my bare knees. I had also managed to buy a few apples which came in a proper paper bag. I took a large bite. I did not particularly fancy an apple. I would have preferred a sausage, but I wanted to be able to talk with my mouth full so Christine wouldn't recognise my voice immediately:
If you have any queries regarding the flora, fauna or historic buildings of this traditional German alpine region, please do not hesitate to ask our oarsman who will be more than happy to help you.
I had read this on a sign next to the ticket office and I decided to make full use of my rights. We were passing a tiny island, full of both deciduous trees and pine trees with a picturesque stone image of a saint.
‘Would it be possible to make a stop here, fräulein?’ I demanded, my mouth full of apple.
‘This island is private and off limits,’ she rattled off. ‘Docking and landing is forbidden and not recommended as poisonous vipers are to be found amongst the long grasses.’ We continued and reached the western side of the lake where she stopped.
I took another large bite. ‘Please, fräulein, would you please tell me a bit about this area? I am a stranger here.’
She recited: ‘This part of the lake is called the
Malerwinkel
, the painter's angle. This is where painters come in all seasons to “angle”. I mean paint the lake,’ she corrected herself and continued, ‘to paint the lake in oil or watercolour. Fine artistic renditions of this picturesque spot can be bought at the sales kiosk of Angerer Crescentia. Her prices are reasonable and she is open all year round, even in the low season.’ This was the name of the lady I had bought the sunglasses from – my source of information and cloakroom assistant. She must be handing out commission to the girls who send business her way.
‘The tourist board guarantees,’ Christine continued, still reeling off facts, ‘that all painters are of Aryan descent and all the materials used are made using guaranteed Aryan production methods.’ In the short time she had been doing this new role she had memorised her facts well. We moved on, albeit slowly. Even the ripples we were creating were overtaking us. The water here was dark green and so clear that you could see the depths of the rock formations underneath us. Ghostly white branches of trees could be seen near the bottom of the lake and plump little fish swam amongst the white skeleton-like branches, their backs marked with black swastikas. No, that was just my imagination running away with me. They were black stripes that formed a similar shape in conjunction with their dorsal fins. Although the black insignia was to be found everywhere, and nature was lavishly decorated with them, the fish were not part of this campaign. This was not a matter of principle but more a technical difficulty, I thought.
The scenery changed once we turned a corner after the
Malerwinkel
. I now understood why the lake was famous. The further we went, the higher the cliffs became. Mountains, wild and beautiful, surrounded the lake. The view was breathtaking and in the background the pyramid-shaped peak was visible, covered in snow. A few miles in the distance a red dome could be seen with dark pine trees behind it, and surrounded by sheer limestone mountains.
‘Here you can see,’ my tour guide continued, ‘the ancient pilgrimage church St Bartholomew. The lake here is stocked with
aibling
, or arctic char. Would the gentleman like to travel as far as the church?’ This was said a little nervously with her natural voice. ‘With only one oar this could take hours.’
I took another large bite of the apple. ‘Just continue with the journey. I will let you know in good time.’ We were steering to the other side of the lake and her strokes were becoming a little more laboured. Here the rock faces were very steep, almost like a fortress. There was no space to pull in at all. On the natural blank spaces there were rock drawings, old crosses and washed-out colours. ‘These ancient petroglyphs depict the terrible fate of those caught in a storm on this part of the lake and who found nowhere to disembark with the steep cliffs surrounding them. The locals call them
Marterln
. According to local custom everyone who passes should say a prayer for the poor lost souls in purgatory. Storms can hit in a matter of minutes, especially in the autumn, and small single-oared rowing boats are particularly vulnerable. Would the gentleman like me to continue?’
‘Yes please, fräulein, carry on,’ I replied, still unfazed. She continued to push and pull the heavy oar through the dark green, still element. ‘At this very spot,’ she continued in her professional tone, but I could hear she was on the verge of tears of exhaustion, ‘it is customary to fire a shot so visitors can hear the wonderful sound of the echo that reverberates from the cliff faces. Once the gunpowder reserves of our boat company are used up, this practice will cease for the duration of the war. We only fire a shot if the passenger expressly wishes us to. Most of our customers decline these days. The gentleman wishes also to decline?’
I took another bite of the apple. It was the last one. ‘Dear fräulein, I have come all this way, from the other end of the Reich, only so I can hear the wonderful sound of the echo, so I must insist. Please fire the shot!’
This was the first time she looked straight at me, like a victim at the stake looking at their merciless tormentor. She said, ‘I am not very familiar with the workings of the equipment. My training was only brief.’
‘If you prefer, fräulein,’ I replied, ‘we can return to the landing place and you can refresh your training, and we can come back here straight away.’ The piece of apple in my mouth was by now quite small. She shook her head, her lovely eyes full of tears. She secured the oar, reached under the bench and pulled out an antiquated pistol so heavy she could hardly lift it with one hand. The barrel of this mighty gun was plugged with paper. She filled the gunpowder and lifted the murderous instrument high over her head. She hesitated a moment or two, struck with the dilemma of how to hold her hands over both her ears, while requiring one to pull the trigger. Her solution was not ideal. She lifted the gun as high above her head as possible and, pressing her arms against her temple and half-covering her ears, pulled the trigger. The explosion was hefty and sounded like the shot from cannon. I think she used a little too much of the gunpowder. The echo reverberated five times – six times – seven times – then there was silence. The pistol fell out of the girl's hands, scraped her knee and landed on her shoe. A lock of her hair was singed and her hand was dripping blood from tiny round black apertures. This was too much for poor Christine. Sobbing, she collapsed to the ground, a heaving mess of green linen, black wool and dishevelled blonde locks. My heart melted. I threw the blue shades into the lake and made my way towards the other end of the boat where the once proud girl had collapsed in a heap. I got down on my knees, which in this situation was not meant to be a position of reverence. As I had previously said, I was feeling sorry for the girl. By now, however, the boat was rocking so hard that I did not trust myself to walk upright. ‘Christl, Christl, don't cry!’ I tried to console her. ‘Everything will be okay!’
She had pulled the linen fabric of her skirt over her head and I had to carefully unwrap her. She hugged me with such force that the boat tilted dangerously to one side. I freed myself and urged Christine, ‘Please darling, stay calm. Do you really want us to die here and now, without having explained everything to one another?’
She was still holding my hand tightly. ‘Wilhelm, Wilhelm, to see you here! Please don't look at me too closely. These barbarians don't let me wear any make-up, not even a little powder and lipstick because it is deemed bad taste. Please do go ahead and cover my legs again. I bet you would not have thought that I would be wearing two pairs of fustian long johns, but it's very chilly here and easy to catch a cold. Look Wilhelm!’ She unbuttoned her jacket. She had pinned the brooch onto the floral winter dirndl. ‘I wear it day and night, even pinned to my pyjamas or my night gown, depending on which one I am wearing. Ever since you gave me this I knew that you would not give up on me. You travelled all this way to find me. But who told you that I would be in Berchtesgaden? What a silly question! Of course – you have excellent connections. If I think how well organised the whole thing is. First you put me to the test but I passed, didn't I? I felt so sorry for you when you were poor, do you remember? I even gave you my golf shoes! Now I understand why you did not need to take them with you. But Wilhelm, I must say, your helpers were not that clever were they? If I had put up a little resistance then both of them would have been full of broken bones. I was the German jiu-jitsu champion of 1935! I would have made a knot out of the skinny one and with him tied the fat man's hands behind his back. But I was as quiet as a mouse when I noticed straight away that they were pinning something on to me. I had nothing to give them anyway. I had to put up a bit of a fight to make it seem real, so I screamed a little when they let me go. A bit like this, two soft little tones:
Heah – ho
! Even this was too loud. An armed constable was already heading towards us and I had to call out to your people, “Bye bye, boys, take care!” so that the policeman would not fire off shots in their direction. The constable grabbed me so hard by my wrists that you could still see the red marks days later. He shouted: “What's going on, were you attacked?”
‘“Nothing is going on,” I replied. “I was just saying goodbye to my friends, you heard me, didn't you? Now please leave me alone!”
‘“Yes, you said goodbye at the end but before that you gave off a scream, I heard it loud and clear!”
‘“A scream?” I said. “You are a rude man. Don't you know that the Führer expects the police to be civil to the German people, especially to women? I was singing a song from
Tristan
, a German opera. Listen:
Heah-ho!
We were arguing whether I was singing the right melody, so I told my friends that the shops were still open and to run and get me the sheet music so we could check if we had the right tune. And then they went off straight away.”
‘“You are under arrest,” he said, gripping me even harder. “That will teach you not to ridicule the police.” He reached inside my handbag and the first thing he pulled out was my duty pass issued by the Gestapo. “Pardon me, madam,” he excused himself and then let go of my hand, saluting me reverently. We stood side by side for a while and then he accompanied me all the way home. He was good-looking really, and quite young for a constable.’
I was not really interested in her successes with other men. But there was no reason to be unduly jealous; I could sense that I was still her current favourite.
‘Why don't you reveal your true identity?’ she asked. ‘I realise you are already my prince charming but are in fact a true foreign prince, perhaps a prince of Denmark? The brooch was so special and truly original. Is it an old Danish heirloom? Or something from the colonies in the West Indies? I'm so happy you finally found me; I will never let you go and I will always stay with you! You must understand, I need something more constant, you see, you never know how long the thing with the Gestapo will last. They are more and more out of favour with the people. Things are not as well organised as they used to be either. When I got here and reported for duty no one was in the picture and they only had two disguises to choose from – not enough for me to find something I can really work with properly. One of the options was to be a waitress in the
Hofbräuhaus
, in the restaurant; the other was to work on the boats on the lake. I thought the second option would be more pleasant. Men are always rude and a little forward with waitresses. You have to walk through the restaurant carrying drinks, giving ample opportunity for men to pinch you or grab you where they please as your arms are full. And you can see things are no picnic here on the lake either. I have no interest in tracking down the unattractive sailor anymore. They should have sent him by now but he still hasn't made his way to the lake yet. I think it would be best for me to give up the operation and move in with you instead. I can understand if you are unwilling to marry me, if you are of royal blood, but perhaps I could become one of your court ladies?’