The Passenger Read Online Free

trembling eyelids only thin white crescents were visible. His lips were moving and he was mumbling quietly. When Lorenz crouched next to Grimstad he was unable to identify what language the professor was speaking, but the pattern of stresses and the vowel sounds suggested a Germanic dialect. Spittle adhered to the old man’s beard like threads of cotton. As Lorenz listened he detected regularities, insistent repetitions, and an underlying pulse that reminded him of religious chanting. He reached out and shook the old man’s shoulder. ‘Professor? Can you hear me?’ Grimstad’s head rolled lazily from side to side.
    â€˜Shall I get Ziegler?’ Kruger asked.
    Lorenz ignored the question and turned to address Sutherland. He spoke in English. ‘Does this man have a medical condition?’ The British commander communicated his ignorance with a shrug. Lorenz tried again: ‘Was he beaten? Did he receive a blow to the head?’
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ Sutherland replied. It was the first time the British commander had spoken, and his voice was hoarse.
    Lorenz glanced at Kruger and reverted to German. ‘How long has the professor been like this?’
    â€˜Not long,’ Kruger replied. ‘I came to get you as soon as he started acting strange.’
    â€˜Yes, but how long was that?’ Lorenz persisted. ‘One minute, two minutes . . . ?’
    â€˜About two minutes,’ said Kruger. ‘No longer than that.’
    â€˜Professor?’ Lorenz shook the old man’s shoulder with greater force. ‘Wake up!’ Grimstad snapped out of his delirium. His eyes opened and his right hand, moving with unexpected independence and speed, traced a triangle in the air, its simple, inclusive geometry seemed to connect the professor and the two commanders. The movement was too precise to be unconscious, and Lorenz was reminded of the sign of the cross, the symbolic unification of the trinity by means of two intersecting lines. This curious association made Lorenz feel uneasy. The old man blinked, drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. ‘Professor?’ Lorenz inquired. ‘Are you all right?’ Grimstad moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and whispered in perfect, deliberate German: ‘The fetters will burst and the wolf run free, much do I know and more can see.’ The old man closed his eyes and his head fell forward as if exhausted by the extreme effort. A small flat stone with smooth edges dropped from his left hand. Lorenz picked it up. Something had been scratched on one side: a triangle attached to a vertical line.

    D AWN. T HE WAVES WERE THE color of green glass; not the luminous, emerald green produced by light passing through a church window, but the inert, opaque green of a beer bottle. White streamers leapt from rising crests and hung in the air before finally succumbing to the pull of gravity. Lorenz hadn’t been able to sleep. He had been too preoccupied. Gazing across the sea, the same unanswered questions were continuously revolving through his mind. He tapped Juhl on the shoulder, indicated that he was about to leave the bridge, and climbed down the ladder that descended through the conning tower to the control room. Graf acknowledged his return, and without pausing, Lorenz marched to the forward torpedo room. It looked as if the two prisoners hadn’t moved. Blankets had been provided, and Grimstad had used histo make sitting more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and he was embracing his knees. Sutherland had remained standing, and his blanket was untouched. Lorenz inclined his head at Sutherland and extended his arm toward the crew quarters: ‘This way, please.’ The British commander limped between the occupied bunks, past the officers’ mess, and into the area between Lorenz’s nook and the radio shack. Fresh air from the bridge was passing through the compartment,