It was the expected out come, the only chance we had of rescue was by the enemy. It was a relief to see even them after a week of floating in the inflatable raft. As my companions waved their arms to get the attention of the enemy transport, preferring imprisonment to death, I was busy wrapping my journal in my rain coat. Once I was sure the water wouldn't get to it I threw it overboard. It was a romantic notion that it might be found someday, or wash up on a beach of civilization. They would take it from me once we were prisoners anyway and it had been such a comfort to me that I would rather run the very slim chance that I might see it again. Maybe, just maybe, someone would see my name and address inside the cover and mail it to me. Maybe I would survive the future of prison camps.
They claimed they had no time to question us right away. I suspect they just wanted to make sure we were more frightened and make us more aware of our captivity. This was suggested by how quickly they separated us once we were on board. I was thrown into a cell deep in the hold of the ship to wait. I didn't really mind, it was dark and stuffy but less cramped for all of its smallness than the raft had been. I sank down, back to the wall, an thought about my journal. I had read it so many times on the raft to pass the hours that my own written words were burned into my memory. Now, from the very first entry, my sharp, thin, handwriting danced before my eyes.
I have no idea how long this journal floated, caught in the jetsam under the bridge. Many people probably passed over it before it caught my eye. In my profession I can't afford to pass over free paper however, not with rationing and wartime prices. It was well worth the effort for me to scramble down the steep, muddy, bank to fish this journal, sodden, out with a stick.
I was panting for breath by the time I was back on the street, one of the few times I cursed the weakness and asthma that had guarded me from the draft. I was painfully aware that they people who were passing by were staring at my disheveled and muddy clothing as I flipped through the journal's damp pages. I would have been very upset had, after all that trouble, all the pages been full. I was relieved to see only the first few pages had been used, with what looked like blurred figures. I ripped out the pages and threw them in the nearest waste bin, making this journal truly mine. Looking at it now that it has dried, you can hardly tell anything was taken out of it at all.
I made it to my rooms without anything else happening, but I was hot with embarrassment by the time I had gotten there. People had stared at me all the way from the river, clearly noticing that I was covered with river muck, damp, and clutching a wet notebook like it was plunder. Once in my rooms I placed this journal behind the radiator to dry and changed my clothes. I had to hurry, my father goes to bed early and I wanted to make sure I had the chance to say a proper goodbye to him.
My father and I have never had much to talk about and after half an hour of sitting in his dim parlor awkwardly staring, I suggested we go for a walk. Walking along the docks, near my father's house, was at least more comfortable. It also seemed to make my father more social. As a former sea captain I suppose we were now in his element. From what I can remember from my childhood my father was never very comfortable in houses. Finally we ended up at the end of a long pier, surrounded by the ocean on all sides, and he actually initiated a conversation for the first time the entire night.
To be continued...
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