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〃Danke；〃 the foreigner replied。 He gripped his suitcase and began to walk toward the street beyond。
The jukebox began to throb in the Landfall Tavern as coins tinkled down through metal cylinders。 Its treble range had deteriorated； so all that came through the speakers was the bass guitar and the low thud…thudding of drums。 The bartender； annoyed because he'd expected this to be an easy day； drew mugs of beer and poured rum for the group of seamen who'd e in off the freighter to quench their thirsts。
At a back table； sitting alone； the foreigner sipped from a mug of beer； the corner was dark； and he was glad because he was not eager to have the men notice him there。 Before him on the table was a tattered piece of the Daily Gleaner dated four days earlier； which he had bought in Jamaica。 When he saw the item on the third page he'd had to sit down in his room at the boarding house and read it again very carefully。 Then again。 He'd made a telephone call to the paper and was referred to an officer at the police station by the name of Cyril McKay。 〃Yes；〃 the officer had told him； 〃it's under investigation now； yes； a small island called Coquina to the southwest of Jamaica。 Do you have any particular interest？〃
〃No；〃 he'd said。 〃Only curiosity。 I was a naval man； you see。〃
And now he'd reached the island。 He'd wanted to get out of the sun before starting that long walk up the hill。 He looked down again at the two…paragraph item； staring at the headline： WRECKAGE DISCOVERED。
So strange； so strange； he mused； how one's past never really releases its hold； it always remains…in a phrase； a remembered sight； sound； or smell…a sharp； aching feeling one might have watching the freighters cast off their lines and head for the open sea。 He felt swallowed up by those two words。 Wreckage Discovered。 After all those years？ Thirty…five； thirty…six？ He had just turned sixty。 More like forty years。 Enough time for him to grow older and grayer； for the muscles that had been firm and tight to turn to flab； for his long…unused sea instincts to bee dull。
And though he was barely sixty he looked older。 That was because of his time spent in the prison； suffering humiliations and beatings from a patriot of a jailer who had spent his fury through his fists； then had calmly sat down outside his cell to discuss the hopelessness of the Nazi cause。 The man knew how to beat his prisoners where the bruises didn't show； and they were told that if they cried out they might be smothered in their sleep。 The medical records would record them as having died of heart attacks。
He had never said a word。 When they took him to the black room and opened up a hole in the roof for the hot tropical sun to burn down on him he had kept his lips a tight； grim line。 Who was your mander？ the one who spoke German had asked； while the other； a younger man； had watched。 You're the only one who survived； there's no use in being loyal to them anymore。 They're dead； food for the fishes。 They wouldn't have been so cruel to you！ There are women and children back in the Fatherland who want to know what's bee of their loved ones！ Whose names are they going to have chiseled on the gravestones？ Your boat destroyed the Hawklin； isn't that right？ And then it got into Castries harbor and torpedoed a freighter moored there； isn't that right？
Sweat had streamed down his face； the sun had cooked him； searing his flesh through that ceiling hole； but he had not spoken because he was still one of them； still under orders； and he would never betray them as long as he lived。
〃Refill？〃 someone asked。
He looked up； the bartender stood over him。 〃Excuse me？〃
〃Another beer？〃
〃No。〃 The bartender nodded； moved away。 The German glanced around the room at the freighter's crew。 They hadn't liked him； he knew； they had scorned him； as if his pale flesh carried a disease they were afraid of catching。 But the freighter was the quickest way to get here and though the cabin he'd shared with a dozen cockroaches had been cramped he hadn't paid very much for it。 He had been on a lower deck； and at night he could hear the racket of the huge diesels ing through the bulkheads。 It was a good sound； a sound that reminded him of good men and other times and places。
Someone nudged him roughly on the shoulder and he turned his head。 Who was it； grinning from the dark with teeth as large as tombstones？ Yes； yes。 VonStagel； with his bushy red beard that made him look like a wild Viking。 And beside him in the smoky bar the morose； brooding Kreps。 Everyone at their cluster of tables was drinking； laughing and shouting； the sounds came from everywhere at once； glasses clinking； someone cursing drunkenly； others singing a bawdy mariner's song about the ladies left behind。
〃Hear； hear！〃 shouted Bruno； the big…shouldered diesel mechanic。 〃Bring on the dancing girls！〃
A roar of laughter； plates clattering； chairs scraping the floor。 The waiter placed a pink mound of pork on a bed of potatoes and sauerkraut before him。 He dug into it hungrily； for tomorrow it would be rations…moist eggs； lukewarm coffee； stale bread； and sausages that would rapidly collect fungus from the dank air。
〃。。。and so what was I to think？〃 Hanlin； the senior radioman； was asking VonStagel。 〃There was the petty officer…you remember Stindler； the pompous asshole…standing in the whorehouse balcony holding his prick out and parading so the good people of Berlin could see！ My God！ Well； anyway； the patrol wasn't long in ing； I can tell you； and they hauled him off in a wagon with his dick still hanging out of his pants！ And to think we all thought of him as a saint！ St。 Stindler we called him on U…172。 My God； how wrong could we have been？〃
〃And what happened to him？〃 VonStagel asked。 〃Did he get his piece or not？〃
〃Who knows about that？ I only know he's not signed on the new boat。。。〃
Farther down the table； Lujax； the E…motor mate； and Bittner； the diesel stoker； were talking quietly； absorbed in their conversation。 〃。。。dangerous waters；〃 Lujax was saying。 〃。。。Atlantic boiling。。。〃
〃。。。it's all dangerous now；〃 Bittner replied。 〃It's a question of strategies。 Who's the smartest； not who's the strongest。。。〃
A large Nazi flag had been tacked tightly across one wall so there wasn't a single wrinkle。 The chair just beneath it was vacant； the mander was noticeably； perhaps pointedly； absent。 The executive officers were talking； eating； drinking； but watching the door that led out into the street。
〃Sonofabitching Tommies almost got Ernst's boat last week；〃 Hanlin was saying between mouthfuls。
〃I heard something about that；〃 added Drexil； a fresh…faced； raw recruit sitting beside Hanlin。 〃It happened just off Iceland。。。〃
〃Sonsofbitches came out of the sun；〃 Hanlin continued。 〃Slammed bombs all around the boat； doused their tower pretty well； but they managed an emergency dive。。。〃
〃Damned lucky；〃 Kreps muttered。
Bruno was admiring the tavern girls； there were three of them carrying big trays laden with mugs of beer back and forth from bar to men； from bar to men。 Two of them looked fine…blond girls； firm…fleshed and youthful…and he'd heard stories a