The German shook his head slowly. ‘First Watch Officer.’
‘And the name of your boat?’
‘U-113.’
‘Thank you.’ Cottrell indicated Hufnagel’s wounds. ‘Just to be clear, we didn’t shoot you. We only torpedoed your sub.’
Hufnagel nodded wearily. ‘I know this.’
‘Would you like to tell me who did shoot you?’
The German moved his bedraggled head in the direction of the other survivor, closing his eyes again. ‘That man.’
‘A member of your crew shot you?’
‘He is the captain.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘You must ask him that.’
‘What did he shoot you for?’
‘Mutiny.’
‘Mutiny?’ Cottrell repeated in some surprise.
The medical officer interrupted. ‘I need to tie off that arm, sir. He’s losing a lot of blood.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Cottrell stood up to let the medic get at the German. ‘There’s one of our destroyers in the vicinity. She’s heading towards us now. We’re going to get you on her as soon as she arrives. All right?’ He saw Hufnagel nod slightly. ‘In the meantime, we’re going to scout round for any more members of your crew. We’ve got five of you so far.’
Unexpectedly, the first survivor, who had been silent up to now, began to shout in German, his voice hoarse, his expression wild. He was pointing at Hufnagel furiously.
Cottrell looked around at his petty officers. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Cottrell asked.
‘No idea, sir.’
‘What’s he saying about you?’ Cottrell asked Hufnagel.
‘He says I am a traitor, and that I will be shot when the war is won.’
Cottrell grunted. ‘Can someone shut him up, please.’
The sailor shook the German’s arm brusquely. ‘Stow it, Fritz. The war is all over for you.’
SS Manhattan
Having missed Thomas at breakfast, Masha went to look for him in one of his favourite refuges, the little triangular breakwater deck at the very front of the boat. Few passengers lingered there; it was filled with derricks and loading machinery, and always very windy, with a good chance of being drenched by spray. No hat or scarf was safe there. But she knew that Thomas liked to hang over the rail and stare at the empty horizon ahead, thinking his thoughts, whatever they were.
She found him sheltering from the wind in the lee of a winch motor, his chin resting on his knees, his arms clasping his shins. She sat down beside him. The cold had sharpened his features, making him look like one of those stray dogs one saw in Berlin parks, too aloof to beg for scraps, yet eyeing every morsel hungrily.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday,’ she said.
‘It’s all right.’
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned your mother. I know you must miss your parents. I miss mine. I miss Berlin. I miss all the people there.’
‘I’m sorry, Fräulein Morgenstern.’
‘Oh, you must call me Masha now. Haven’t we got beyond “Fräulein”? I hope we have. When you call me that, you make me feel like a schoolteacher.’ She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. ‘You remind me very much of someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone I was once very fond of.’
He turned to look at her, his cheek on his knee. ‘Do I look like him?’
‘I don’t mean in that way. But he cared for me, as you do. And he was always considerate and kind, as you are. He thought of ways to help me before I even knew that I needed help. You are the same. You will make some lucky woman a wonderful husband someday.’
He had nothing to say to that.
Masha went on, her voice even softer. ‘I am very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Thomas. You’ve been very gallant. I know that—’ Masha hesitated. ‘I think that you have perhaps developed feelings for me. Feelings that are more like those of a man than a boy.’ She saw that his cheeks were crimson now. She took her hand away from his shoulder. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you. I know how painful such feelings can be. Especially when there is no possibility of their being reciprocated. I mean only,’ she hastened to add, ‘that there is a gap of several years between you and me—’
‘I know all that,’ Thomas said in a tight voice. ‘I understand. You need not explain, Fräulein.’
‘Masha.’
‘Masha,’ he repeated, almost inaudibly.
‘I just don’t want you to be wounded. These feelings can help us to grow, or they can hurt us very much. I would rather it was the former than the latter. I would not wish to repay your regard by injuring you. But if you should feel pain, I want you to know that the pain passes. With time. It fades, and makes a place for new feelings to grow, feelings for someone else, someone who can share them with you.’ Masha looked at Thomas but he made no reply, his head hunched between his shoulders. ‘And by then,’ she went on, ‘I promise that you will have forgotten all about me.’
‘Please don’t say anything else,’ Thomas whispered.
‘I’ve been very clumsy. Forgive me.’ Masha picked herself up and held out her hand to him. ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast. You must be starving. Let’s go and have lunch.’
Since learning that Rosemary was not on the ship, Cubby Hubbard had been desolate.
He paced along the deck now, hunched around his wretchedness, passing the rows of deckchairs where happier passengers were lounging at their ease. The chances of his seeing Rosemary again anytime soon were vanishingly small. He could never get back to London until the war was over. Nor could she easily come to the States except under heavy escort. Guarded in a tower somewhere in England, she was more than ever a lost princess in a fairy tale.
He paused in his walk and leaned on the railing to stare at the rolling Atlantic which now separated him from Rosemary.
‘I presume,’ said a quiet voice behind him, ‘that you are wishing for wings to fly.’
Cubby turned. The words had come from a woman reclining on the lounger closest to him. She was in her seventies he guessed, wrapped in a diaphanous, embroidered shawl that looked as though it had come from India or somewhere, a large panama hat and a pair of dark glasses shading her face. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
She removed her sunglasses, revealing that her eyes, though lined with age, were a bright blue. She was lipsticked and powdered with great care to present an appearance of youth. ‘You don’t know the song? The water is wide and I can’t get o’er, neither have I wings to fly. My name is Fanny Ward. I don’t mean to intrude on your thoughts. I couldn’t help overhearing your exchange with Mrs Kennedy in the lifeboat the other night.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘It was her daughter you were speaking of? Rosemary, the eldest.’
Cubby nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘A very pretty girl.’
Cubby winced. ‘She’s the loveliest woman in the world.’
Miss Ward considered him appraisingly. ‘First love is a beautiful thing. There’s nothing like it.’
‘The whole business is hopeless,’ Cubby replied heavily.
‘Oh, it always is. In my young day, girls were never allowed to marry their first love. It simply wasn’t done. One’s parents swiftly intervened. The man was told never to darken the threshold again and one was packed off to reflect on one’s folly in some dull and remote location until the season was over. One was supposed to be grateful in later life. For having been rescued from a terrible mistake, I mean.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’ Cubby asked.
Miss Ward examined the brilliant rings on her fingers. ‘Well, I was rather a naughty girl, and I ran away to be with my first love.’
‘Did you? What happened?’