Chapter 37

With the arrival of fall, the rhythm of time reversed. Long days unbroken by darkness turned into longer days without light. In November, after the Armistice, the gloom was lifted by the arrival of the German High Seas Fleet. Seventy-four battleships were interned at Scapa Flow to await the terms of the surrender and became a tourist attraction. Sam was offered a job captaining one of the sightseeing ferries departing Mainland six times a day, but his shipboard days belonged to the past. He watched the boats from afar, just as he stayed clear of the U.S. and British sailors who stayed behind to monitor the fleet in case Rear Admiral von Reuter, the German officer in command, attempted to restore honour to the Fatherland with a senseless act of revenge.

On the first day of summer, when days and nights again switched places, the German boats remained anchored in the harbour while Allied Forces debated their fate. It was a balmy Saturday, rays of sunshine piercing a bank of scudding clouds. The flu pandemic was waning and Sam had the afternoon off, the first time in months he hadn’t worked on the Sabbath. Only it didn’t feel like a day of rest. With nothing to divert his thoughts, uncertainty about the future left him restless.

He stood on the shore, one of two dozen locals and tourists basking in the fair weather. They watched a school group from nearby Stromness board the Flying Kestrel and cruise out on unusually calm waters to visit the massive fleet. Even at this distance, they could see the German sailors lining the glinting decks as the tour boat approached. Sam imagined their grim faces as a shipload of excited children came to gawk at the mighty vessels and jeer at the defeated enemy.

“Well, if it isn’t his lordship, keeping a safe distance from the action.”

Sam turned toward the familiar mocking voice behind him. Mikovski, his face once again ruddy with good health. The gold oak leaf on his collar meant he’d been promoted to Lieutenant Commander. Only recently had Sam let himself wonder what had become of him after the fire. Now he knew. Mikovski had remained in Scapa Flow with the U.S. Navy’s monitoring force.

Sam had a split second to decide how to respond. As a civilian, he was free to ignore him or say something rude. If Tomasio were still alive and wearing civilian clothes, he would have fired off a sharp comeback. But Sam was too shaken by the sight of Mikovski and insulting him wouldn’t bring back his friend. “Not much action to see these days, sir,” he replied evenly.

Mikovski didn’t goad him further. It was pointless, now that Sam had ceased being a threat. They stood in near-companionable silence, watching the tour boat chug toward the fleet. Mikovski’s self-consciously erect posture betrayed his awareness that those on the beach admired him. He embodied the victory that gave them the right to babysit the once-proud German Navy.

Then, without warning, the ships began to list to port or starboard. Some plunged headlong into the water, their sterns raised like the tails of monstrous whales. Equipment spilled onto the decks and cascaded into the water. Sailors, tangled in loosened hammocks and empty life belts, flailed and cursed, their foreign words needing no translation for the horrified onlookers. A few managed to swim to the Flying Kestrel where tiny arms strained to pull them aboard, but most sank beneath the dark oil that oozed across the ocean’s surface.

People onshore looked at one another in confusion. It made no sense that the ships were going down when not a single shot had been fired at them. In fact, the British Royal Fleet had headed out earlier that day for routine exercises. Mikovski was the first to realize what was happening. “They’re sinking themselves!” he cried out. That can’t be thought Sam, and the other stunned onlookers said as much out loud. Yet one by one it dawned on them that Mikovski was right. The order to scuttle the fleet must have come from the German Admiral himself. “Damn,” marvelled Mikovski. “He’d rather sink his own ships than turn them over to Great Britain.”

The sailors’ pitiful pleas were soon drowned out by a dreadful roaring hiss as steam billowed from the ships’ vents. Sam saw Mikovski brace for a fiery explosion, but there was only the slow, methodical submerging of the vessels. The first to go under, at 1200 hours, was the Friedrich der Grosse, the flagship of the Jutland Fleet that had attacked Hamble’s crew three years ago. Sam tried to run up the beach in search of boats to help with the rescue, but Mikovski held him back. His arms, laced through Sam’s elbows, were as unyielding as they’d once been wrapped around his ankles. This time, Sam didn’t bother to struggle against them. He turned back, but unable to watch the nightmare at sea, stared at Mikovski’s face. Now that he needn’t fear fire, the lieutenant watched with satisfaction as the enemy drowned itself. Sam, as if hypnotized by Mikovski, stood there too, until the last ship to sink, the Hindenberg, went down at 1700 hours.

Summer daylight lingered well into night-time, but the shoreline was shrouded in the dark clouds of self-destruction. After the glow of watching Germany’s demise, darkness descended on Mikovski too. His hands hung at his sides, and his chin sank as low as the vanished ships. “I guess the Brits won’t want the U.S. Navy here anymore,” he said feebly. “We’re no longer necessary.”

Sam couldn’t bear to see another man go down. He tried to think of jobs Mikovski might be qualified to do. “They’ll need someone to guard survivors, oversee salvage operations, or study the vessels to gather intelligence.”

Mikovski shook his head. “Nothing I’d be good at, Lord. Time for me to go home.”

“But you’ll stay in the Navy?”

“I’m only good at fighting and training others to fight. War’s over now. I’m back on the street.” Mikovski eyed the debris drifting toward shore. “I never thanked you for saving my life.” He extended his hand. Sam stared at the outstretched palm, loath to touch it. He’d never intended to save Mikovski. If not for the man’s relentless grip, Sam might have rescued Tomasio.

Mikovski nodded and lowered his arm. “Guess I was a bit rough on you and your friend.” He turned and trudged up the beach, his silhouette lit by the headlights of cars filled with late-arriving curiosity seekers. “Sorry,” he threw back over his shoulder as darkness engulfed him.

Sam was sorry to see him go. It made no sense. Not until the eerie daylight returned did he begin to understand. A defeated Mikovski left him feeling unanchored, not victorious. There was no one left now, except his father, for Sam to define himself against. Would he self-destruct, like the Germans, rather than surrender to Avram’s plan that he become a rabbi? Sam was safe on the shore, but he felt as lost at sea as the sailors who had drowned that day in a futile act of defiance.