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Page 23.
— viii —
My father may not have known right then what his purpose in life was meant to be, but he was drawn to life, buffeted like Odysseus. What really matters is that he spoke prayers while he scrubbed his sword in salt water—actually, a rusty pistol he found in a smashed lifeboat that beached, still-born, without having reborn a soul. Maybe the salt water was tears, shed for all the shipmates who died horribly before his eyes, in fire and oil, whom the useless boat might have saved. I even know that the legend on its broken little bow read H.M.S. Sturmer. But that was the steel warship, which never made it near shore after the torpedo atack, of which my father was the only survivor.
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