by Hitoshi Goto
“Hah. Well, they weren’t exactly holding hands, but they looked quite intimate drifting side by side on the water line. Before we carried them here, we searched the sand but we didn’t find anything suspicious. Although it’s possible that if there had been anything, footprints included, it could have been washed away by the waves.
“Hmm,” Andrew said, and looked at the man who had been standing uneasily next to the constable for a while. He was short, with a stoop. His face was sunburned, and deeply wrinkled and shadowed, and his black stubble was flecked with white. He wore dark overalls and a flat cap, and carried a raincoat in his hand.
Andrew looked up at the sky. The clouds were low and black, but the rain appeared to have stopped altogether.
“You’re the one who found them, are you?”
The man cowered as though he’d been dragged out in front of the Inquisition. “Ah, aye,” he answered nervously.
Walsh was still crouching down searching the bodies, so Andrew took out his own notebook.
“I’d like you to give me your name and occupation, and the circumstances in which you found these two.”
“Right oh, gov. Um, er—”
“And you can leave out your ‘Um, ers.’ Just give it to me straight.”
“Uh, yessir.” The man stiffened, not moving even to wipe away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Me name’s Simon Azebury, and I was a fisherman until three years ago. Aye, I live here, on the Petit Bôt bay, just down the road. With the wife and daughter—I mean, three years ago me daughter was evacuated to her aunt’s place in Hove, near Brighton. So since then it’s just me and the missus.”
“What do you do now?”
“I’ve been conscripted into those works by the Boche,” Azebury spat, then hunched his neck and looked furtively around. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”
Andrew looked amused. “Don’t worry. I’m hardly going to denounce you to them for something like that. So, where were we? The Boche have conscripted you into those works, you said?”
Azebury grinned, showing his gums. He was missing a front tooth. It suddenly occurred to him that he missed his daughter and wanted to see her.
If she looks anything like her father, life isn’t going to be much fun… hail Mary.
Azebury had no idea what was on Andrew’s mind, and grew quite animated. “That’s right. This morning the rain was something terrible and no way was I going to ride me bike, so I left home a bit earlier, around five thirty. God, the weather was something awful. Oh, by the way, me jobs up north in the Vale, overlooking the Grand Havre. It’s six miles away, so I usually bike it.”
Spittle flew from Azebury’s mouth as, now quite talkative, he related what had happened. Andrew listened carefully with no trace of distaste on his face. Walsh had now stood up was listening with them.
“Tell me what they looked like when you found them.”
“Yessir. Well, as I said it was raining cats and dogs when I left home. It’s stopped now, but… well I had me brolly with me but the wind was something else. I was just thinking maybe I wouldn’t go to work after all when a gust caught the brolly and took it off to the beach.”
“And?”
“And so I ran after it, but it was too fast for me and I couldn’t keep up. But then I caught sight of something drifting at the water’s edge. I had a really bad feeling about it, but went to have a look anyway, and there I found ’em. Looked just like a pair of lovers what had committed suicide, they did. I was so shocked me legs went all wobbly.”
“A lovers’ suicide? The man was Japanese, you know.”
“What? Well I never! But with the way we’re grovelling to the Boche, that probably means he’s an ally,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
“Where exactly did you find them?” Andrew asked.
“Over here, Detective,” Azebury said, and headed down the beach with remarkable agility with the two detectives rushing after him. Coming to a stop, he pointed to the middle of a small inlet. It was just a very ordinary sandy beach.
“Wasn’t there anything else suspicious?”
“Not particularly, no. I’m a law abiding citizen, I am, and I didn’t lose any time in rushing back home to call the police…” He stopped and looked up at Andrew, studying his expression nervously.
Andrew had heard the essential points, so he beamed and put his notebook in his suit pocket. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Azebury. I’ll submit the necessary paperwork to the German military, so don’t you worry about that. You couldn’t go to work since you were fulfilling your duty as a model citizen. Take the rest of the day off!”
The man smiled broadly showing his gums.
He had just sent Azebury off home when there was the sound of engines and a Kübelwagen and motorcycle came into view.
“Well, speak of the devil!” Andrew said with a straight face.
Memorandum
A year after this I was again contacted by my brother-in-law Kenichi, the naval attaché stationed in Berlin. It was August 1943.
Even I could tell that a turning point had been reached in the war in the year since I’d seen the grand parade in the Champs Élysées. The German army had suffered a defeat in Stalingrad, and it was quite obvious that the Soviet army was driving them back. Currently the reports were of fierce fighting in the vicinity of Kursk. Elsewhere, the German army had been within reach of Alexandria but had met with resistance from the allied forces and in the end were expelled from Africa, and now the Allies were landing in Sicily. France was still in the iron grip of the Germans, and daily necessities were becoming scarce. This was particularly evident in the dwindling food supply.
Hardly any details of what was happening in the far-off Pacific War reached me, but it appeared that Japan was engaged in a fierce battle with the US in the region of New Guinea. In the midst of that, the news of the death of Commander in Chief of the combined fleet, Admiral Yamamoto, was widely reported in Paris. On the side of the Axis powers, the progress of the war was looking bleak.
“There’s something I want you to do for me, Yasuo,” Kenichi told me on the other end of the phone. “Can you come to Berlin?”
I hadn’t been to Berlin since the Olympics seven years earlier. I had a visceral dislike of that imperial capital of discipline and swastikas ruled by the Germans. I declined, but my brother-in-law wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“What I want to ask of you this time goes beyond simply observing the conditions of the people,” he said. “It’s a matter of utmost importance that will determine the fate of the Empire. I’m asking you on behalf of the nation of Japan,” he beseeched, without telling me what exactly it was about. “Also Setsuko wants to see you.”
I hadn’t seen my sister in ten years. Hearing her name I succumbed and agreed to go.
†
I took a first class carriage on the train from Paris Gare de l’Est to Berlin via Saar. I wouldn’t have travelled first class had I been paying for it, but the Navy arranged my ticket for me. The carriage was divided into a number of compartments, and I chose one in the middle. I was the only passenger from Paris, and a faint smell of machine oil hung in the carriage.
The train was virtually empty until we entered Germany, although some passengers boarded at every major station we stopped at. From what I could see from the window, they mostly seemed to be military personnel.
For most of the journey I was alone in the compartment, but eventually the door opened and an officer wearing a dark grey uniform came in. He must have been six feet tall, slim, blond and blue-eyed, in his early forties. A fine example of what the Nazis called Aryan.
He glanced at me as he took off his cap and hung it on the hook. I noticed the Totenkopf skull-and-crossbones insignia. Ever since that parade along the Champs Élysées, even I knew that this signified he was an officer in the SS. His collar badge was a ra
ther complicated pattern. Normally, the simpler the collar badge the lower the rank, which indicated this officer must be quite highly ranked.
He took a seat and crossed his legs, his highly polished long boots slightly thrust my way.
Perhaps he felt my eyes on him, for he abruptly returned my gaze with his piercing blue eyes. He said something to me in German, but when I shrugged he asked, “How about French, then?” His pronunciation was good, with the guttural R’s properly enunciated. He made quite a different impression from the image I’d had of German officers.
“French is fine,” I answered.
“You’re Japanese, I suppose?” I nodded briefly and he went on, “The ancestors of the Japanese people were the Ainu, who were Aryan. I read somewhere that this means Japanese people are also Aryan, although I must say you don’t look it at all,” then added with a wink, “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude to one of our allies.”
I was revolted by his evident racial prejudice, but that last wink made him more likeable.
“Are you connected to the Japanese military?”
“No, I’m an artist.”
He narrowed his eyes and appeared to be appraising me. “Really? So you’ve come from Paris, then?”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t be Foujita, would you? But surely you’re way too young.”
Hastily I waved my hands in denial. “Foujita went back to Japan when the war started. My name is Hoshino, although the French generally call me Oshino.”
“Hoshino?” For a while he was sunk in thought, until eventually he said, as though he’d sensed my gaze on him again, “Don’t look at me like that! I imagine you’ve been told that the Germans in Paris, especially the SS, are all barbarians. I’m in the SS now, but originally I was in the Wehrmacht and I know all about the samurai spirit.”
“But that parade in Paris last year…”
“By the SS?”
I nodded.
“Oh, you mean that one in July, I suppose.”
“General Dietrich was frankly impressive. Even though he’s shorter than I am.”
“He did all kinds of jobs in his teens, like tractor driver and butcher apprentice, you know.”
“Really?”
“He hasn’t received any education as a military man at all. He was working as hotel bellhop. For some reason the Führer took a shine to him and before we knew it he’d been made head of the SS. Even though he has zero knowledge of military affairs. He drinks a lot, too. Although he is indeed an exceptionally brave man. A lot of soldiers idolize their officers. Also, the divisions you saw at the parade are now of fighting the Soviets in Russia.”
“Are you sure you should be telling me all of this?”
The officer shrugged. “It’s what the British call an open secret. The Kursk offensive launched in early July is at deadlock after the Soviets mounted a fierce counterattack. Far from occupying Kursk, now even Kharkov is in danger. You’re from an allied nation, so I don’t suppose it matters if you know that much.”
“But I might be a spy…”
“That’s worrying, indeed. But I just happened to join you here in this compartment. At the time you left Paris I was still dithering over whether to drive or take the train back to Berlin, so for you, us meeting here like this is pure coincidence. It’s not like you could have planned to approach me here like this. Well, I’ll ask you nicely. Your ID, please.”
When I hesitated, the officer smiled and took his notebook out of his pocket.
“I’m sorry, but in this country unlimited powers of search are afforded to people who work for the organisation I belong to. We can also send you to prison. Of course, I won’t do that, though.”
He checked my ID and visa, and returned them to me.
“So you really are Hoshino. Gutenberg invented movable type printing, the pride of Germany—and the technology that provided you with your travel documents. Although recently his invention has caused me a lot of headaches,” he went on with a self-deprecatory laugh. “My name is Klaus Sonnenberger. I’m in the Reich Main Security Office.” He gave a mischievous wink, but when I didn’t react he continued, “Okay, next question. You’re an artist, but you are going to Berlin. Why? I’m not interrogating you, by the way, I’m just interested personally.” He leaned forward.
“My brother-in-law is a naval attaché stationed there.”
“Is that so? So your sister is in Berlin? You must be looking forward to seeing her. Unfortunately I don’t know anyone in the Japanese navy, but I’ve heard it’s the best in the world. Is the Pacific front holding up, I wonder?”
“I don’t know anything about military matters…”
“I don’t suppose you do. I shouldn’t have asked such a question of an artist.” He looked at the sketchbook on the seat next to me. “May I take a look?”
“They’re only preliminary sketches.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, taking the book from me. He leafed through a few pages before stopping at a landscape with light watercolour touches. “Hmm, this is really similar to Foujita. It’s not really a picture.”
I was about to say something, but he stopped me with his hand. “There were a lot of Japanese artists in Paris before the war, weren’t there? But they all imitated French art, and seemed to lose their uniquely Japanese identity. At best it’s a compromise between Europe and Japan. Fortunately the Japonisme fashion from the last century was still remembered like a lingering fragrance, so it’s true they liked the exotic colours. But that’s not enough. In German we call it Aufheben, a tension between preserving and changing, but how can one express this in French without critically elevating oneself? But Foujita really worked hard to express his individuality as a Japanese, didn’t he? And that’s what I get from looking at your sketch. It has the same kind of samurai fighting spirit as Foujita’s did. The Japanese artists in Paris were divided into the two camps of Foujita and Saeki, but you are closer to Foujita,” he said passionately in one breath.
I was astonished by his understanding of Japanese Western-style artists.
“You’re wondering why I know so much about it? That’s simple. I majored in art history at university, and I also studied in Paris for a while. It was only later that I joined the military. Please remember that there are also men like me in the SS,” Sonnenberger said with a chuckle.
August 1943
Potsdamer Platz, Berlin
He liked this place. How long had it been since he’d started coming here regularly?
Fifteen years. Thinking back, when he’d first come here this area had probably been at the height of its glory. The splendour and mystery cultivated during its seven hundred year history had resulted in three opera houses, as well as three outstanding variety entertainment halls, and countless theatres, cabarets, and cinemas.
And more than anything else, the numerous famous coffeehouses: Café Regina, Romanisches Café… and the Café Rumpelmayer he often frequented on Kurfürstendamm.
But Café Josty, in one corner of Potsdamer Platz, was the best. The days when, as an art dealer, he would discuss exhibitions at a cosy first-floor table had really been fun.
What about the people who now rushed back and forth before his eyes? He had the feeling that at some point the smiles had disappeared from their faces. Of course he knew why: it was the war.
Even so, during the first two years of the war it had not crossed the mind of any Berliner that Germany might not win the war. Even if there were occasional air raids by the RAF, they never caused much damage, while German victories were reported one after another on the radio and in cinemas and newspapers. Food had become steadily scarcer, but once the war was over that would surely be remedied by a lasting peace and supplies from the expanded colonies in the east.
Unhappiness had begun to show on people’s faces around the time Germany invaded the Soviet Union. At first
they had thought it would be a repeat of the blitzkrieg in Poland and France, but from around October, when they reached Moscow, the pace of the onslaught abruptly slowed.
In the New Year Germany’s 6th Army was annihilated, and in March Berlin was directly hit by an Allied Forces air raid. Subsequently people no longer looked so confident, and it was as though everyone had started wearing the expressionless masks of the Venice Carnival. Perhaps they had come to the clear realisation that they couldn’t win this war.
He drank the last of his dandelion coffee and put the cup back down on its saucer.
There was a plant with leaves he didn’t recognise growing thickly in the flower beds around the square. He’d never seen that flower before. No, he had seen it somewhere. It struck him as familiar… Well, it didn’t matter. He channelled his thoughts elsewhere.
Even so…
He sighed deeply.
The Gestapo would never even dream that he could be conducting spy activities right under their noses here at their headquarters. Although his role as controller of the British spy network in Berlin probably couldn’t continue for all that much longer.
Even so…
The same words replayed in his head, and again he sighed.
His contact should be appearing soon. He had no idea what kind of a person to expect.
He glanced at his watch again.
He picked up his cup of dandelion coffee again, leaned his head back and poured the last remaining dregs down his throat, and unhurriedly replaced the cup on the saucer. Then he leisurely unfolded his newspaper and spread it out. It was in Swedish. One of the many foreign-language newspapers published in Berlin.
What would be his mission this time?
Meanwhile…
Zehlendorf, Berlin
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of the Abwehr, was visiting the home of General Major Hans Oster, former deputy head of the counter-espionage bureau, in the leafy Zehlendorf neighbourhood. For some time he had been nervously pacing around the room with his small body leaning slightly forward. Canaris, who had Greek blood, normally had his silver hair parted precisely to one side, but today it was ruffled, as though to show his irritation.
