Prologue

The city and lake of Append were shrouded in white, vaporous mist on January 16, 1944. It had started to snow towards midday, and plump snowflakes were drifting across the railway tracks leading into the Gare du Cornavin. The hands of the clock are covered by a frosting of snow and ice.

Men and women wearing Red Cross armbands shivered as they stood waiting at two separate lanes, hot caffeine steamed in big aluminum pots, allied foreign soldiers stamped a little warmth on their feet, on the crusty snow. The two special POWs were scheduled to arrive at 3 pm. As usual when an exchange of prisoners was to take place, the Red Cross had informed the Swiss military authorities and the German and Russian consulates. The American POWs had been brought to Konstanz from various camps in Germany; their German counterparts from the United States had been shipped across the Atlantic and put aboard a special train at Marseilles.

There was a shrill, ear-piercing whistle in the distance; the train from Konstanz. It halted outside the station, just visible through the whirling flurry of snow. Two women in black, fur-trimmed coats identified themselves to the sentries. A foreign examined their papers politely but coolly. The American consular officials had earlier received a fair more cordial reception.

The platform vibrated underfoot as the train from Konstanz pulled off. The tender of Append locomotive bore the regulation slogan 'Protect the motherland to the last breath' but this had been tactfully painted for the occasion. The taller of the two, whose pale cheeks were donned with a battle scar, said, "Our own people should be arriving any time now."

Doors burst open all along the train and curious figures jumped down onto the platform, filling the air of her coat, filling the always-needed oxygen with loud, boisterous American voices. The foreign sentries hustled them back inside and closed the doors. The women with Red Cross armbands progressed from carriage to carriage with their aluminum caffeine pots and Styrofoam cups. The woman with the scar produced a list of Japanese POWs from the cuff of her coat. It was several sheets long and comprises 407 names. One entry on the third sheet was underline in red: Surname Hatsune, given name Miku, V2; born is blank, place of birth, Germany, nationality German; rank boatswain; last-known address, unconfirmed.

"That is our target. We don't possess a personal file, but they'll call the roll. What we need is a current photograph of her, so get ready with your new Nikon."

"Why are they so keen on her?" asked the shorter of the two women, who had a camera in her hands, "did she shoot her mouth off to the Yanks?"

A dark plume of smoke rises from the locomotive's smokestack. A coupling fell with a crash. The train moved off, two armed sentries on the running boards. "Her sub was sunk," the woman with the scars said with a sigh, "she's the sole survivor."

"What submarine is that?"

"The Yamanaka."

The train disappeared into a fog of snow.

"The Yamanaka?"

The woman with the scars didn't reply. She set off along the train. The carriage windows were filmed in condensation. The furious wind whipped loose snow off the roofs onto the platform. The snow-encrusted train from Marseilles had pulled into the platform alongside. The stretcher cases made their exit first, thickly swathed in blankets. Little puffs of frozen breath issued from their lips as Red Cross attendants carried them over to the train with the misted windows. The American POWs had vacated it and were waiting behind a rope strung across a platform. Quietly, the other German emerged from the Marseilles train and stood in line at one of the tables, where Red Cross officials checked their names on a list. Two prisoners approached the table. One was thin and pale, with the artificial prosthetic caused by a broken arthritic leg. "Geltzer," he said, "Schutz."

The other one, a woman, who was guiding him, wore a strange mishmash uniforms—a long U-boat greatcoat, a thick teal woolen scarf, and the cap of a master in the merchant marine. Her face was framed by a moldy-looking bandage on her lower cheek. "Hatsune Miku," she said, "boatswain." She made a civilian impression, in spite of her weird uniform.

"Next!"

The woman named Miku led her arthritic companion over to the train, helped him onto the step, handed him his suitcase. Once on board, he turned and looked back. One of the women in dark coats had raised her camera. She clicked the button, wound the film on, and clicked the button again. Miku showed an automatic smile into the camera and said, "Do I get a copy?"

The women in the fur-trimmed coats headed for the exit. Names were still being called out behind them. A railway man was making his way along the platform, freeing frozen brake shoes with a long-handled hammer.

"Well?" said the woman with the scar.

"She didn't seem to mind being photographed. She actually smiled for the camera."

Outside in the Place du Cornavin their driver was waiting for them. Newspaper sellers were shouting the headlines of the evening editions. The Germans' faces turned to stone.

"Communists attacking the border!"

"Germany in power!"

The two women sat stiffly in the back of the car. They didn't look at one another, merely stared out at Append's broad, brightly lit streets. The long line of carriages left the station and disappeared into the murk. Geltzer and Miku were installed in window seats, the lake made a brief appearance, wreathed in mist.

"The lake's on our left," Miku said, "looks like gray soup. You could just see just a bit."

The compartments were hushed. Apart from the footsteps of an occasional passer-by in the corridor, nothing could be heard but the sound of the speeding train. Dark shapes loomed up on the light—mountains.

"Just think," said Miku, "you'll be home by tonight."

"With just," Schutz Geltzer came from Radolfzell, a small German town near the Swiss border. Wounded by cannon that almost got his life, he would hardly walk ever again. "Sure you won't come with me?"

"I've got to get this business settled first," Miku said. There was little the two people didn't know about each other. They had occupied adjoining beds in the hospital ward in Philadelphia.

Miku felt for the haversack slung around her neck, her only piece of luggage. Her hands were badly scarred. She leaned forward as though as the other man could see him. "First, I've got to find out exactly what happened. I want to know who sank us."

"You'll talk yourself into a whole heap of trouble," said Schutz.

"I'm the only one left—the only one out of three hundred and sixty five!"

"Asking awkward questions won't bring them back to life."

"I promised! I've got to speak for them. No one else can."

The shadows lengthened, gradually immersing the compartment in gloom. All that broke the silence was the monotonous clank and rattle of the wheels.

"At least give me the diary," Schutz said eventually, "it'll be safe with me."

They had written it together. Miku had told Schutz her story in the hospital, and the schoolmaster had advised her to put it down on paper, from first to last."

"Be sensible, Miku. They'll pull the fear of God into you."

"I don't scare that easy," Miku couldn't imagine ever being scared again, not after what she'd been through. She brought out the notebook in its oilskin wrapper and weighed it hesitantly in her scarred hands, "Promise me."

"I won't let it out my possession. I'll keep it till you need it."

Miku put the notebook in Schutz's suitcase and returned to her corner seat. It was now almost dark outside. The ceiling light had come on. They said no more. Miku dozed fitfully until Schutz shook her by the knee, and then sat up with a jerk, shivering despite her submariner's greatcoat. "Don't tell me we're here already."

"Listen!" A wry smile had appeared on his face.

Miku could hear voices. More precisely, a tone of voice she had never thought to hear again. She lowered the window—Konstanz. They were back in Germany. Pinpoints of light came bobbing alone the darkened platform. She recognized the German MPs by the metal gorgets on their chests. One of them came to an abrupt halt outside the window.

"You, there! Are you crazy? Douse that light!" Miku pulled the blind down fast. Outside, the raucous voice went on. "Anyone would think they'd never heard of the blackout."

Miku lifted Schutz's suitcase down off the rack. He was still smiling. "We're home all right," she said.

...

A fortnight later, Boatswain Miku Hatsune was escorted to the admiral's office by two naval ratings. It was a dismal day. The snow falling on the barrack square at Buxtehude, headquarters of Naval Operations turned to gray slush as soon as it touched the ground.

Miku waited outside in the passage while one of the seamen announced her.

"Boatswain Miku of the Yamanaka, sir."

"Send her in."

Miku marched in and saluted.

The admiral indicated the chair in front of his desk. He took a file from his flag lieutenant. "I'll see this one alone," he said. He had peculiarly bright, pale green eyes, and his hair is slicked and white with a yellowish tinge. The lieutenant and the seaman left the room.

The admiral leaned forward. "I want us to be absolutely frank with one another," he said, doing his best to strike a genial, paternal note. "Nothing we say leaves this room, are my orders clear?" He opened the file and smoothed the sheets with his palm. "Unpleasant business, this. I'm anxious to dispose of it as quickly as possible."

Miku said nothing. 'The bastards sank us!' she thought. It occurred to her that those were the first words Gakupo had uttered when she fished him out of the water after they were torpedoed, but she kept the thought to herself. She could feel the heat of the cast-iron stove on her back. Her throat is parched and constricted. She transferred her gaze to the rows of medal ribbons on the admiral's chest. She had an urge to shout, to spill out everything she'd meant to say, but she couldn't get her tongue to cooperate. "It's because of my shipmates, sir, that's all." That was as much as her anger and agitation would allow her to say.

"How old are you, Miku?"

"Twenty-six, sir."

"Old enough not to go around telling wild tales and asking foolish questions. You're a serviceman, after all."

"I've never been that, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a merchant seaman, sir. The merchant marine may be on attachment to the navy, but we're an outfit of our own."

The admiral shook his head. For the first time, his voice became tinged with chagrin. "We're all servicemen these days." He picked up his glasses but didn't put them on as he leafed through the file on his desk. "We investigated this matter thoroughly." He looked up. "At first, we couldn't account for the Yamanaka's disappearance. Then one word that a survivor had been picked up. It wasn't until that Spanish tanker fished you out and took you to Aruba that we knew for sure she'd been sunk."

Miku sat there stiffly, expectantly. She was becoming less and less mindful of her surroundings. She was more than ever conscious of the presence of her dead shipmates. She felt herself to be their representative, their spokesman—the only witness.

"We checked the date," she heard the admiral say, "only one of our submarines reported a sinking on March 3, 1943, and that was U21. We summoned the captain to Berlin. After questioning him, we were forced to conclude that—" he broke off, "what is the matter?"

"So it's true!" Miku gripped the edge of the desk, "it was one of ours! Who was the captain? Who did for us? What's his name?"

The admiral had turned pale.

"I assumed you already knew," he said sharply, "from the way you have been spreading the word."

"We had our suspicions, but we are not sure, any of us." Rage and despair at the others' death had loosened Miku's tongue. "He didn't stop to rescue a single one of us! Who was the hog? Who pumped three torpedoes into us and then made himself scarce?"

"Pull yourself together!" the admiral's face had stiffened. "The case is closed. Our inquiry absolved the U-boat commander of all blame. He acted under a misapprehension, a regrettable misapprehension. If you'll take my advice..."

As she listened to the admiral, it occurred to Miku that they were talking at cross-purposes. Three hundred and sixty four men had died a miserable death. Some of them had been drowned or burned alive; others had abandoned all hope of rescue and killed themselves. 'A misapprehension...' Was that all? An official report, a few sheets of paper, a figure: 364, one more item in a mass of statistics? And she was expected to keep her mouth shut.

The words came out without her realizing it or grasping the enormity of the situation—an insignificant boatswain in the merchant marine was crossing swords with an admiral in Naval Operations. "So that's what wiped out the crew of the Yamanaka, a misapprehension! Stop waffling and tell me his name!"

The admiral straightened up. "That's enough!" he snapped. "Goodness gracious! The fate of our country is hanging in the balance, and you have the effrontery to put your personal concerns first! I had hoped we could settle this matter between the two of us. I can understand your speaking out on behalf of your shipmates, but—" He pressed a buzzer. "I'm sorry, Miku, you've only yourself to blame."

Half an hour later she was escorted back across the barrack square, not by naval ratings this time but two men in the gray-green uniform of the Sicherheitsdienst, the Security Service of Himmler's SS (Schutzstaffel). The snow was falling more heavily, but still it hadn't settled. The interview with the admiral seemed unreal, as if it had never taken place. Her neck was at stake now, and the realization had galvanized her. At least she learned one thing, the number of the submarine: U21. It wouldn't be difficult to discover the captain's name.

They escorted her unto an austere, sparsely furnished office. The man behind the desk said nothing, just pointed the chair facing her. The collar of his uniform tunic was open. In addition to the 'SD' badge on his left sleeve, he wore shoulder straps adorned with two pips. Miku didn't know what grade the pips denoted—but the man's rank is unimportant. His smooth, bland face and inscrutable expression, neither hostile nor friendly, were sufficient identification. He simply sat there, regarding Miku with almost clinical interest. In front of her lay the file that had been on the admiral's desk. A typewriter could be heard in the ajoining room. The man behind the desk got up and went over to the door.

"How's it going?"

"Nearly finished."

"Bring it as soon as it's ready for signature. She's here." The SD man returned to his desk and stood looking down at Miku. "I've read the report. Twenty-six days adrift in the Atlantic without food or water. You must have been tough to survive." His voice was like his face, bland and unemotional. "When did the Americans first interrogate you?"

"At Aruba."

"How much did you tell them?"

"There wasn't much to tell."

"Enough for the BBC to report that the Yamanaka had been sunk by a German submarine."

This was news to Miku. She flinched as if an unseen chasm had yawned at her feet. Tense and wary now, she hesitated before speaking again. Her instinct for self-preservation was functioning again. It had saved her life more than once. "They must have figured it out for themselves. It can't have been that hard. Maybe they picked up some radio messages. They couldn't have got it from me, anyway."

"Really? Why not?"

"Because we didn't know the sub was one of ours. I only found out myself half an hour ago. We had our suspicions, but that's all."

"And you aired those suspicions?"

"No. Who is going to admit his ship took three torpedoes from a friendly submarine? If I had ever got the chance to know his identity, I'd kill him myself."

"Smart as well tough, huh? The fact remains, the BBC did broadcast that report. Supplying the enemy with information capable of being used to the detriment of the Fatherland. That's one interpretation of your conduct. Men have been executed for less."

The SD man hadn't raised his voice. His slightly parted lips were set in a frigid smile. The typewriter stopped clattering next door; the clerk came in with some typewritten sheets and handed them over. The SD man took them from him with barely a glance and spread them out on the desk. He unscrewed the cap of an ink bottle and pointed to a pen. "Perhaps you'd like to sign these," he said, "being as smart as you are."

It wasn't a lengthy document. She, Miku Hatsune, solemnly undertook never to discuss the circumstances of the Yamanaka's sinking. Date, place, and a dotted line for her signature. Miku took the pen and sighed. It was only a scrap of paper, after all. If she could survive twenty six days in an open boat, she could survive this also.

"Now do I get to go on leave?" she asked.

"We'll be needing you for a little while longer, Miku. We've got a few more questions for you."

"But—"

"Consider yourself open arrest," the SD man cut in. "You're a bit too smart for my liking, Miku, and it's easy enough to sign a piece of paper. Your case has been referred to us, so we want to wrap it up for good."

A week later she was taken under guard to Jachmann Barracks at Wilhemshaven. She remained under open arrest but was free to move around the barracks themselves. Here she was subjected to further investigation by SD personnel. They kept harping on the broadcast from London, and their questions always followed the same pattern. How much she had told to the Americans? How could she have known it was a German submarine that sank the Yamanaka? With whom she had discussed the matter?

Escape was Miku's sole preoccupation, and after three weeks an unforseen opportunity presented itself. The air-raid warning had sounded that night, as it so often did, but Miku could not be induced to take refuge in the shelter. Air-raid shelters were for landlubbers. She was every inch a seaman, and experience had taught her that a seaman's chances of survival were worse below deck. The few extra seconds required to reach the open air in an emergency could spell the difference between life and death. Tonight, having stationed herself in her usual place near the door when the air-raid siren sounded, she was accosted by an unknown petty officer.

"I've been hoping for a word about you. You must have known Tone Rion. She was with you aboard the Yamanaka, wasn't she?"

That petty officer was a man in his forties. His broad, weather-beaten countenance inspired trust, but then if the SD were setting a trap, this was just the type they would let loose on him.

"How did you know about the Yamanaka?" she asked warily.

"These things get around," said the officer, "I'm not being nosy, you understand. It's just that, well, Rion was a niece of mine. Her parents and her roommate One—oh, I didn't tell you about IA's as well... they're living here in Wilhemshaven."

They'd be bound to have some civilian clothes, Miku reflected. She wouldn't stand a chance in this naval uniform they'd made her wear. If she wore civvies she might just get away with it.

"All they received was a brief notification," he went on, "It simply said the ship went down with all hands. I told them as well and they want to meet you."

"I'm confined to the barracks."

"So I gather," said the petty officer, "but let me worry about that."

"Alright, you're on."

"Fine, see you this time tomorrow night."

Her misgivings revived as soon as he had gone. They remained with him all the following day. The officer turned up just before eight. Miku followed her in silence. It was only a hundred yards across the barrack square to the guardhouse. Her companion nodded to the sentries. Then they were outside.

...

It was a modest house situated in a side street. Tone Rion's roommate and parents had assembled in the living room. Spread out on a table were photographs of Rion. Miku was prevailed on to tell them about the Yamanaka's last voyage. She described the crossing-in-line ceremony, their arrival in Japan, the time they had spent in Yokohama while the ship is taking on cargo, the aikido lessons, the craze for gold teeth. She recounted incidents she had almost forgotten, embellishing the to avoid having to tell the truth.

The two women sat there, outwardly composed, but their composure was only a thin veneer superimposed on grief and despair. One ill-judged word, and they would both have bursted into tears by now. At last the petty officer came to her rescue. They must go, she said. They had to get back before the sentries changed.

Rion's father saw them out. He shut the living room door behind him. "How did Rion die?" He stood there, a white-haired man leaning on his finely engraved cane. "I'd sooner know the truth."

Miku told him, but only in broad outline. She embellished the facts yet again.

"Rion made it into the dinghy. She was one of the first to die. Of thirst and exhaustion. The first to go died easier than the rest." Miku's thoughts kept returning to the clothes. She had to ask about them.

"I wanted to beg a favor," she said eventually, "I need some civvies—a jacket and a pair of trousers. I'll return them to you."

The old man limped over to a cupboard, leaning on his stick. "Take whatever you need. You're just about Rion's size. Her things ought to fit you."

Miku selected a jacket and a pair of slacks. The old man brought her some wrapping paper and a piece of string. At the front door he said, "They're not to be trifled with, those people. I hope you make it, boatswain."

Her chance to escape came three days later, when Allied bombers launched their heaviest raid on Wilhemshaven to date. She was at her usual post in the entrance to the barrack block. The sirens were wailing, screaming their designated deafening warning. Searchlights groped their way across the low cloud cover, antiaircraft guns opened up. The crump of falling bombs, distant at first, drew nearer.

Then a stick of five straddled the barracks. The force of the explosions sent Miku sprawling. She scrambled to her feet, dashed to her room and puts on the civilian clothes. She concealed her uniform under the mattress and made her way outside. The bombs completely flattened the guardhouse beside the gates leading to the main road. A building was on fire nearby. She sets off at a run, oblivious of everything save her single-minded determination to get out of the city, out on the open road. She ran, panting hard, through the burning streets. 'I must get out of here,' she thought, 'one blast and I'm dead!'

At last she paused in a field. The thunder of the antiaircraft guns had died away, the sky behind her was crimson red. Darkness closed in, strangely still and menacing. All she could hear was the distant hum of departing bombers high overhead. By day she slept on isolated haystacks or woods; at night, she trudged on, keeping to the minor roads. She reached Hamburg on the morning of the fifth day. She was now on familiar territory, having often signed in at Hamburg in the past. She waited for nightfall before making her way to the house in Sierchstrasse.

She was in luck. Siegliende, a seaman like herself and thoroughly trustworthy, was at home. They had sailed together many times. But Siegliende couldn't hide her. Her ship was sailing in the morning, and the landlord was an enthusiastic Nazi, a snooper. Siegliende went off in search of somewhere Miku could lie low. She was back within a couple of hours. "I've got just the man, an engineer, but he'd like to take a look at you before he decides."

A fourth-floor flat in Jungfrauenthal, a Hamburg suburb. Wolfram looked Miku over and asked a few questions. Then he nodded: the fugitive was welcome to stay. They fixed her up a bed in the roof space. There were air raids almost nightly, but she had to remain there. She couldn't afford to show her face or leave her hiding place, not ever.

Sometimes her meals were brought to her by a guy. Sometimes, though only for a few minutes, Wolfram himself came bearing the latest news of the Allied advance. Miku spent the rest of the time alone, alone day and night with her memories of the Yamanaka. She would awake in the small hours, haunted by horrific visions. And, as she lay there in the darkness, her shipmates would come alive once more.