The Saboteur's Confession

“Yes, by 1910 the Germans had more or less given up trying to compete with Britain’s naval power, Mr. Forrester.”

“But you’re saying they never stopped trying to find weaknesses in the Navy’s ships, am I right?”

“Precisely, or all ships, to be exact. Commercial and naval vessels alike. They wanted to poke holes—pun intended—in the British fleet wherever possible. Even if that meant orchestrating accidents at sea that would cause significant embarrassment. The Kaiser wanted to diminish the British Empire figuratively and, over time, literally.”

“These accidents—were they acts of sabotage?”

“That depends on your perspective. To the Germans, they were strategic moves. To the British, unfortunate coincidences. The Kaiser believed in winning the symbolic war, exploiting any opportunity to tarnish British pride. He knew Britain’s image of invincibility was a fragile thing.”

“This is what they told you?”

“My recruiter made it very clear. Herr Schroeder—”

“Schroeder? That’s the name you mentioned earlier, correct?”

“Yes, Adolf Schroeder, Adolf still being a perfectly ordinary German name back then. He explained that Britain feared humiliation as much as defeat. And so, Germany sought to exploit that weakness. Accidents, blunders—they all chipped away at Britain’s confidence and global standing.”

“And you agreed to help? To actively work against British interests?”

“It wasn’t about the Empire. It was about vengeance. My father lost everything—our home, his health, his dignity—because of British banking policies that devastated Argentina in the 1890s. He died cursing the British meddling in our lives. How could I not be moved by that?”

“Why confess this now, at 81 years old?”

“I want peace, Mr. Forrester. An unburdening of my soul before I leave this world. But don’t mistake this for complete repentance. There are parts of me that still harbour resentment.”

“Resentment strong enough to justify the lives lost?”

“I live with those ghosts, Mr. Forrester. The faces of the dead haunt my nights. But the anger, the need for justice—those feelings have never fully faded. I regret, but I also understand why I did it. I was a young woman, driven by pain and loyalty to my family.”

“And it started with RMS Olympic, correct?”

“Yes. Olympic was targeted because it was obvious it would serve in a wartime capacity. My role was clear—gain access, cause disruption.”

“You were hired as a stewardess. Why you?”

“Really, Mr. Forrester? Must I spell it out? I was young, striking, and, most importantly, forgettable in the larger scheme. A face men admired, but one they never spoke of.”

“So, you admit you used your appearance to manipulate?”

“Yes, and to great effect. The Olympic’s captain was no match for a few well-placed smiles and subtle glances. I was in his quarters the night before the collision with HMS Hawke, plying him with enough alcohol to dull his judgment the next day.”

“You’re saying the collision wasn’t an accident?”

“Not entirely. The captain’s inebriation played a role. The premature starboard turn that led to the Olympic ramming the Hawke? That was his mistake, but one I engineered.”

“And the Germans?”

“Ecstatic. The incident was a humiliation for the British Navy, a symbolic victory for Germany. They immediately began planning the next move.”

“Which led to Titanic?”

“Yes. Titanic was to be Britain’s crown jewel, a symbol of her industrial might. I was sent to ensure its maiden voyage would end in calamity.”

“You were aboard Titanic as well?”

“Of course. Captain Edward Smith welcomed me back without hesitation. I had proven my loyalty and competence on Olympic—or so he believed.”

“What exactly did you do aboard Titanic?”

“I manipulated Smith. When warnings of icebergs came, I challenged his resolve, his masculinity. I goaded him into maintaining speed, into pushing the limits of what the ship could handle. And when he hesitated, I made sure his tea was laced with a substance that would cloud his judgment.”

“Cocaine?”

“Among other things. I wanted him confident, reckless, and distracted. The result, as you know, was catastrophic.”

“But you saved a child during the sinking, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. A small mercy amid the chaos. That child’s cries are among the few sounds that still comfort me. But saving one life doesn’t erase the weight of the lives lost.”

“After Titanic, you said no more. Yet you were on Britannic during the war.”

“Yes. I refused at first. The devastation of Titanic had broken something in me. But when the war began, they presented me with an offer I couldn’t refuse. My task was simple: steer Britannic into danger.”

“You were aboard when it hit a mine?”

“I was. The explosion was deafening, the chaos indescribable. I barely survived, pulled under by the ship’s propellers before being rescued. Perhaps that near-death experience was my penance.”

“Did you ever feel fear in those moments, or was it regret?”

“Fear, regret, anger—it all came in waves. As I clung to the lifeboat’s edge, I could feel the cold, sharp water tearing at me, the screams around me blending into the roar of the sea. I thought of my father then, of his voice telling me stories of honour and vengeance. Perhaps it was his voice that made me let go.”

“You risked your life again and again. Was that bravery or guilt?”

“Both. I don’t think one can exist without the other in this context. Each mission demanded bravery, but guilt fuelled it. I told myself I was balancing scales, though I knew deep down I was only creating more chaos.”

“Why tell this story now?”

“Because the truth matters, even if no one believes it. The British Government won’t acknowledge their failures, and the Germans won’t celebrate my actions. But I can’t carry these secrets to my grave.”

“What do you hope to achieve by revealing this?”

“Peace. Perhaps understanding. And maybe, just maybe, a reckoning with the past.”

“You think this confession will lead to change?”

“Not at all, Mr. Forrester. But it’s not about them. It’s about me.”

“And you’re certain of your truth?”

“Absolutely. Every word of it.”