The Ocean Liner

by Marius Gabriel

  ‘It breaks my heart to see him so sad.’

  ‘Indeed, he is sadder than the last latke that has been left on the saucer, and is starting to curl at the edges.’

  ‘You cannot be serious for one moment, can you?’

  ‘I could try, if there was anything to be serious about.’

  ‘But there is not?’

  ‘There is not.’

  ‘Well, I am glad your life is so free of trouble, dear cousin Rachel. Have you finished your breakfast?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then let us go to the promenade deck, and watch you vomit it up for the seagulls.’

  Rachel clasped her hands prettily. ‘Oh, can we? What an appealing idea. Let’s not delay.’

  But as Masha rose from her chair and turned to go, there was a ripping sound. The coat which she always wore had caught on the edge of the table. She clutched at the fabric in dismay, turning pale. ‘Rachel! My coat!’

  ‘Quick, take a hold of it.’

  ‘Help me.’

  Rachel snatched up the torn hem of Masha’s leather coat, rolling it in her fingers. ‘Quickly. Back to our cabin.’

  In this somewhat ungainly fashion, with Rachel holding Masha’s coat absurdly like a page lifting the train of a queen, they made their way out of the dining room. Stravinsky did not look up as they passed, but Katharine stared at them curiously.

  Luckily, the cabin which they shared with a young Hungarian woman who spoke neither German nor English was temporarily empty, the bunks unmade and feminine clothing scattered all over the floor. They locked the door, and Masha carefully took off the coat.

  The tear was a bad one, and the contents of the hem were sliding out, a thin chamois leather pipe. Masha unfolded the soft leather to reveal a string of dark-red rubies. ‘They nearly fell out in the restaurant. The stitching has all ripped away.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  Masha shook her head. ‘I can’t sew like our grandmother.’

  ‘Let me try.’ Rachel got the little sewing kit out of her suitcase and sat down to inspect the coat. ‘The mend will be conspicuous,’ she said seriously, for once not making a joke of the situation. ‘What if the American customs officers notice it?’

  ‘Do you think they would confiscate the stones?’

  ‘They will make us pay duty.’

  ‘With what? We haven’t got a penny.’ The German authorities, indeed, had allowed each of them to take only the farcical sum of ten Reichsmarks, less than five American dollars, out of the country. And one suitcase of clothing apiece.

  Masha, who had inherited a house in Berlin, had been forced to relinquish her title in the property to the State before she could get a ‘Jewish Passport’, entitling her to leave. Then, too, there had been the crippling emigration taxes which had been imposed on the family for the privilege of letting the two girls escape. The necessary documents required filled a thick dossier.

  Nor was there any great welcome waiting across the Atlantic. To have had even a remote chance of entering the United States, the Morgensterns had been compelled to find several sponsors willing to give affidavits. They were required to prove that they could support themselves which, considering that they had been robbed blind by the Nazi state, was almost unfeasible. They had then been given numbers in a waiting list within the small quota established for Germany. The girls had been forced to undergo a humiliating physical examination at the United States consulate. It had all seemed impossibly hard until, at the very last moment, their numbers had come up. They had left Bremen with the iron gates almost literally crashing shut on their heels.

  This little string of red stones represented the final gasp of a once-wealthy family, now reduced to pauperdom.

  The girls stared at one another, the last two latkes on the saucer. ‘I could wear them round my neck from now on,’ Masha suggested.

  ‘Everybody would see. They would be stolen long before we reached New York.’

  ‘On board this ship? Surely not.’

  ‘My dear cousin, what planet do you think you inhabit? We are Jews.’

  ‘But not everybody hates Jews.’

  ‘When you find someone who loves us, would you kindly let me know? I’ll just have to make as good a job of it as I can,’ Rachel said.

  Masha nodded. She watched Rachel sewing the maroon lining, her fair head bent over the work, and reflected – but did not comment – upon the interesting fact that this was the first time since leaving Germany that Rachel had neglected to vomit up a meal. ‘You’ve never told me whether you were ever in love, Rachel.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘Not a word. You never talk about yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for one moment. Why are you so enigmatic?’

  Rachel examined her stitches closely. ‘I’ve learned to keep myself hidden away, like these rubies.’

  ‘So there was someone!’

  Rachel lifted her shoulders. ‘Perhaps there was a certain someone.’

  ‘Tell me about him!’

  Rachel’s smile had a certain secretive quality. It lifted the corners of her eyes, turning her high cheekbones into little apples. ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Masha scoffed. ‘I told you about Rudi, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you told me about Rudi.’

  ‘Well, then. What was his name?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘At least tell me his first name!’

  ‘I can’t even tell you that.’

  Masha was fidgeting with excitement. ‘Somebody famous, then!’

  ‘No. Not famous.’

  ‘What, then?’ Masha’s eyes opened very wide. ‘Married!’ she gasped.

  Rachel drew up the crimson thread carefully. ‘No, not married.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ She laid her hand on her mouth. ‘Oh. I’ve guessed.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘A Gentile. And your family objected.’

  ‘You’re very clever,’ Rachel said, ‘but that was not the difficulty.’

  ‘What was the difficulty, then? Tell me!’

  ‘Stop asking questions. You’re distracting me.’

  ‘And you’re exasperating me!’

  ‘If I don’t make these stitches neat, the customs men will confiscate our precious rubies.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Masha exclaimed. ‘I told you all about Rudi.’

  ‘Of course you did. You are incapable of keeping a secret.’

  ‘There shouldn’t be secrets between us.’ When Rachel didn’t reply, but just kept smiling and sewing, Masha went on plaintively, ‘I think you’re very unkind to keep things hidden from me. I know hardly anything about you, and we’re first cousins. We used to have fun when we were children, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We used to play duettinos by Clementi together on the piano, do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘And then they started keeping us apart. When I asked to see you, they said you were a bad influence.’

  Rachel seemed wryly amused. ‘Did they indeed? Well, you should be warned.’

  ‘But we only have each other, now. And I like your influence.’

  Rachel lifted her cool blue eyes to Masha’s. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. You’re rather cynical, you know. You don’t have a good word to say about anybody. But I’ve grown to like that. It makes me feel grown-up.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m too romantic. I know it. I always have stars in my eyes. You help me to question things.’

  ‘Well, the question before us now is whether this repair will pass muster,’ Rachel replied, lifting the hem of the coat to show her cousin. ‘What do you think?’

  Masha examined it critically. ‘A man on a galloping horse might not notice.’

  ‘We shall have to be content with that. Be careful not to catch it on anything again, or you
’ll be scattering precious stones like the girl in the fairy tale. Let’s go and get some sun.’

  They went up to the deck together, with Masha none the wiser about this mysterious love-affair of Rachel’s.

  ‘At least,’ she begged, ‘tell me his initials.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be such a tease? You’ll make me hate you!’

  ‘I hope not,’ Rachel said gravely; but no matter how Masha pleaded and bullied, Rachel refused to be drawn further on the subject.

  Southampton

  The discussion between Rosemary and her mother about Cubby Hubbard was not going well.

  ‘You never used to be a liar, Rosemary,’ Mrs Kennedy said, her voice rising sharply. ‘The Devil has got into you.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ Rosemary said sullenly.

  ‘If you’re not lying, then Nurse Hennessey is. And I know which of the two of you I believe. Look at me, Rosemary. She says she woke up at two in the morning to find you coming back into the room. Where had you been?’

  Rosemary refused to meet her mother’s eyes. ‘I didn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘You went to Mr Hubbard’s room, didn’t you?’

  For a moment, it seemed as though Rosemary was going to deny it again. Then her face, which had been set in a scowl, crumpled. ‘I love him.’

  Mrs Kennedy groaned, turning away from her daughter with a mixture of pity and disgust. ‘You poor fool. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything bad.’ Rosemary’s cheeks were red, her eyes shining with tears.

  ‘Of course you’ve done something bad. I don’t expect you to understand difficult things, but this isn’t difficult. Going to that man’s bed is a mortal sin.’

  ‘It’s not a sin if we get married.’

  ‘Is that what he tells you? That’s nothing but a wicked lie. He only wants one thing.’

  ‘We’re going to get married and have a house. And a baby.’

  ‘A baby! You can’t even look after yourself. How could you look after a baby, you poor fool?’

  ‘I’m not a fool.’ Rosemary had been sitting on the bed, still huddled in her dressing gown. She rose to her feet now. She was considerably taller and bigger than her mother, and with her swollen face and wild hair, she was intimidating. Mrs Kennedy took a step back despite herself. ‘Don’t call me a fool!’

  ‘You’re worse than a fool. You’re in deadly sin.’

  ‘Why am I different from everyone else? Why do you treat me differently? It’s not fair!’

  ‘I treat you as you deserve to be treated.’

  ‘You don’t love me.’

  ‘Of course I don’t love you when the Devil is in you.’

  ‘He’s not. He’s in you.’

  ‘How dare you challenge me, Rosemary? Say the Act of Contrition right now.’

  ‘You spoil everything. Everything.’

  ‘Get on your knees and say it.’

  ‘I can have a baby. I can get married. I will. I’m not retarded. I’m not bad.’

  ‘Look at yourself,’ her mother retorted. ‘How could you possibly be trusted with a helpless infant? If you had a baby, you’d kill it in a week.’

  Rosemary could feel herself slipping into chaos. ‘I would not kill my baby.’

  ‘That man is degrading you for his own filthy lust, twisting you round his finger. You will never see him again. Say the Act of Contrition right now. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest—’

  ‘I won’t say it. I will see him!’

  ‘I forbid it. The thing is finished, Rosemary.’

  Rosemary ran to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Mrs Kennedy found she was trembling. Her stomach ached. She’d always been able to reduce Rosemary to obedience, or at least wretchedness, but it was getting harder and harder. The child had her father’s strength, her father’s will.

  She went to the window and looked out on Lime Street. The cars were moving slowly in a steady drizzle. Most had already been fitted with the odd little hoods on their headlamps that were supposed to make them invisible to German bombers during the blackout. Every day brought the war closer. And the Manhattan, inexplicably, was stuck in France.

  What was she going to do about Rosemary? It had happened without her being aware of it. The child had been shut away for so long in convents and special schools, while she got on with the other eight children. She’d done her best, nobody could have done more, but she’d had to give her time to the ones who were—

  The ones who were right in the head.

  She was her father’s daughter. She had that in her which also drove her husband, that lust. That refusal to understand that carnal desires were shameful and sinful. She saw Joe in Rosemary’s face, that sexually confident grin. She heard Joe in Rosemary’s laugh, in the way her voice coarsened when she was thwarted. She smelled Joe in Rosemary’s shameless appetite for life.

  Hadn’t Joe flaunted his mistresses in front of them all for years? He’d had the pick of them, film stars, starlets, chorus girls, the famous and the infamous, he’d had them all. He was with the latest one, a buxom secretary, right now. What example was that for a child? And if she reproached him – for his brazenness, because God knew she never reproached him for his sin – he laughed in her face.

  From such a father came such a daughter.

  She’d subordinated her life to Joe’s ambition, his pursuit of power and wealth. He’d given her much in return, but the pain he had inflicted over the years was incalculable, though she could never speak of it to anyone. The thought of coping with Rosemary’s lust from now on was horrible. How would she manage her? Nobody could manage her.

  By the time the nuns had told her what the girl had been up to, it was too late. Rosemary’s virginity was gone. Her innocence was gone. She had become corrupted. So beautiful to look at, but rotten inside, rotten before she was ripe. Sneaking out to rut with strangers. Drinking and smoking. And with her limited mental capacities, she couldn’t even understand what she had done wrong. Any more than a bitch in heat could understand that it was wrong to run after—

  And now here there was this cheap nobody filling her head with absurd ideas of wedlock and motherhood. As though Rosemary could even say her Hail Marys or recite her ABCs. She was no more ready for marriage than she was to fly to the moon. Ten to one he was in it for the money. That kind of man always was. He was looking to be paid off.

  Jack had gotten nowhere with him. As for Joe, it was beneath his dignity to deal with a boy who played the guitar in a nightclub. Hadn’t it always been Mother who’d administered punishments, with a hanger out of the closet? While Dad just grinned? She would have to speak to Cubby Hubbard herself.

  Mrs Kennedy went to the bathroom door and banged on it with her fist. ‘Rosemary, come out.’

  ‘I won’t!’ came the tearful reply.

  Mrs Kennedy tried the handle. The child was too simple to even lock the door. It opened, revealing Rosemary huddled on the floor next to the sink, crying bitterly. Mrs Kennedy felt that visceral wrench of mingled revulsion and pity again. ‘Get up,’ she said quietly. Slowly, Rosemary pulled herself to her feet. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen almost shut with crying. ‘Wash your face,’ Mrs Kennedy commanded. ‘You’re coming to church with me. You’ll make a full confession to the priest. You’ll take Communion with me. And then I am going to speak to Mr Hubbard. I’m going to put a stop to this.’

  ‘No, Mother!’

  ‘Wash your face and get dressed.’

  ‘Please don’t do this.’ Rosemary clutched at her mother. ‘Please, Mother. Please don’t. Please don’t.’

  ‘You leave me no choice,’ Mrs Kennedy said coldly. ‘Let me go, Rosemary.’

  But Rosemary was sliding towards her, her face turned blindly up to her mother. ‘I’m begging you, begging you, begging you. Please don’t. Please, Mother.’

  ‘Get up off your knees.’ She tried to prise her daug
hter’s fingers from her clothes, but Rosemary was strong, and the flimsy material ripped. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  Rosemary’s fists pounded into Mrs Kennedy’s thigh, sending her staggering back. The girl was no longer articulate. A scream of rage was swelling from her throat, piercing and inhuman. Her eyes had rolled back in her head. Her limbs flailed, legs kicking out, fists pounding at anything near her. Mrs Kennedy backed away. These frenzies had been common during Rosemary’s childhood, when she’d been frustrated in a cherished desire, but she’d hoped they were over. In a child they had been bad enough. In an adult woman they were frightening. ‘You can scream your head off,’ she said breathlessly, ‘it’s not going to make any difference.’

  She went to call Luella Hennessey, leaving Rosemary to thrash on the floor.

  Cubby Hubbard’s thoughts were with Rosemary. He was remembering the first time he had seen her, at her sister’s party in London. He’d glimpsed her across the room, so pretty and yet looking overwhelmed by it all. Her eyes were beautiful, but somehow blind. And when he’d asked her to dance, she’d seemed astonished. Later, she’d told him that men never asked her to dance, at least not a second time. They seemed frightened of her. Sometimes they laughed and said cruel things behind her back.

  He’d been astounded by her, once he’d got close to her; by her beauty, her innocence, her vulnerability. He’d been filled with a powerful need to protect her. He could think of little else from then on.

  She didn’t just need protecting from the world, from the predatory men he’d soon learned about; but from her family, too – those arrogant Kennedys, to whom she was an embarrassment, to be hidden away. With all the boys heading for Washington, a crazy sister was not an advantage. So they kept her locked up like something shameful. What did they think was going to happen to her? Did they think she’d be happy to rot in an ivory tower the rest of her life?

  He sat at his breakfast table now, staring at the starched white linen in front of him. Getting Rosemary away from the Kennedys would not be an easy task. She was like some princess in a fairy tale, protected by dragons. But once they were married, she would be his, his alone. There would be nothing anyone could do to come between them or take her away from him.