Penguin Books Australia

Part One

He woke, and in the darkness heard the sound of screaming. For a confused moment he thought it was the girl, but that was impossible; it had been twelve years ago and part of another lifetime. He was not on board the ship; he was alone in a dank concrete cell, wrapped in a blanket on the hard stone floor because there was no bed, nothing but a malodorous slop bucket, and the nauseating glimpse of an army of cockroaches scuttling away from it.

The next scream shocked him into full consciousness. It came from the room above, and was unmistakably a man in terror as experts of the military police, the Kempetai, tortured him. This was a part of their technique, allowing others to hear and thus share the consequences of being interrogated; unnerving those awaiting similar treatment, knowing the victim would soon be confessing, spilling his guts, admitting to whatever crime they might decide to level against him. As if in confirmation of this, the screams stopped; the ensuing silence was infinitely more threatening.

Despite the cold, he began to sweat. He wondered who the victim was, what he had done, and whether he in turn would be taken up into that room and questioned? If so, could he stand the pain? The Kempetai were known for their draconian methods; nothing was too extreme. In his seclusion, he faced the prospect that he may not be able to remain silent. Few managed to do so, even the bravest, and he did not consider himself brave. Therefore, he must somehow avoid being tortured. To do that, he had to convince them he had nothing to hide, which would be difficult, for there was a great deal to hide, matters he had vowed to keep secret. Revealing them would not only betray others, but condemn himself.

He knew his future was perilously speculative even if he survived interrogation, because for the past three days – since his arrest – they had been shooting prisoners in the courtyard behind the prison. Constantly he had heard the booted tread of escorts, the snap of command followed by a volley of rifle shots. Executions without ceremony. One of the paradoxes of this arcane land. Opponents considered heroes were beheaded in the Bushido tradition. Spies and traitors were hanged after the most rigid formal trials, whereas those arbitrarily classified as enemies of the state were summarily shot. In these demented days, it was not difficult to be an enemy of the state.

Particularly for those with European features, marked out for special attention. Stared at with dislike or suspicion in the street, stopped by random patrols, ordered to produce their papers, sometimes forcibly taken to the nearest police post, their names checked against a register to prove they were neutral foreigners as they claimed. Never before had they known this overt antagonism, where appearance and racial origins made them outsiders, 'despised gaijin', instead of accepted residents who had lived here most of their lives, a great many even born here.

The hatred was like a rampant virus, but it was not only directed at foreigners. In a land that once prided itself on decorum and traditional courtesy, Japanese civilians had been pulled off trams in Tokyo and beaten for the crime of not being in uniform. Their attackers were mostly groups of soldiers on leave, sometimes riot police, and once he had seen a large party of women berating two middle-aged men, demanding to know why they were not prepared to die for the honour of the Emperor. One man had listened to the tirade impassively, then politely bowed, reached for a walking stick and limped slowly away.

Bands of officials, recruited as 'economic police', stopped people in the street, accusing them of hoarding black market goods. They made embarrassing public searches, while other people, strangers, gathered to watch the hapless victim's humiliation. Such incidents were now daily occurrences. The mood in the country was one of anger and disenchantment. If this was how they treated their own, what would they do to him if they knew the truth?

Trying not to think of his present plight or uncertain future, he chose instead to remember that other life of his childhood. Knowing what he did now – about the past and about his own family – he felt surprise that it had seemed so safe then, so uncomplicated and secure.

Kobe had been a tranquil place when Sam was ten years old. His family's home, the substantial residence of a prosperous French businessman, looked down on the bay of Osaka. The two-storey house was set in spacious grounds; a pond containing golden carp was the centre of a much-admired sculptured water garden, and on the lawn there were cherry trees and clusters of maples. In spring and autumn, the grounds were vivid with colour.

His father had come to the Far East from Paris as a young man, and after meeting and marrying his mother, a twenty-year-old White Russian refugee, had started an export firm specialising in cultured pearls. It had prospered and brought them a comfortable lifestyle. Henri and Tamara Delon were a handsome addition to the French colony in Kobe and became leading figures in the close-knit foreign community. They had remained childless for a considerable time, for so long in fact that their friends assumed there would be no family. Sam was told they had been married nine years before his arrival. The birth of his sister, Angelique, had come less than eighteen months later.

When Sam was ten and Angelique nine, their father came home from the office one evening and surprised them with the news that instead of their usual holiday trip to France, they were taking a vacation in Australia. They would enjoy the sunshine and the beaches of Sydney. It had all been arranged by an exchange of letters with a good friend, Miss Florence Carter. They were to stay in a hotel at a seaside resort, and would meet Miss Carter, who was not only a fine lady but also Sam's godmother. Sam was startled; it was the first time he had heard of her, and until then he was unaware he had a godparent at all. The subject had somehow never been mentioned, and he wondered why.

'What shall I call her,' he asked his mother, and received no answer. So he raised the question with his father. 'Is she to be Miss Carter or God-mama?'

He hoped it might bring a smile, but his father seemed preoccupied, and muttered that no doubt it would work itself out. His mother appeared upset, as though she disliked the prospect of this journey, or perhaps did not like Miss Carter. He became aware his parents were having rows, and often at night heard raised voices from their bedroom, his mother's accented English in moments of stress replaced by an angry stream of her native Russian. Though he didn't understand the words, the acrimony was unmistakable. The friction puzzled and disturbed him. It increased noticeably as their departure drew near.

They boarded an almost new Dutch passenger liner, the Batavia Star, at the end of November. Winter was due in Japan, summer in Australia lay ahead. It was to be a leisurely three-week voyage through the Dutch East Indies to Perth and Sydney. The first week was pleasant, the sea calm, the weather warming with each day as they approached the equator. His mother seemed to relax; both his parents were more amicable than they had been for months. They all went ashore in Saigon and, while the vessel refuelled, spent the day sightseeing.

It was on the second night out from Indochina, en route to Djakarta, that the ship caught fire.