“We should go closer,” Thomas whispered.
Priska nodded. If she was even the slightest bit scared, Thomas couldn't tell. If caught, they would claim to be lost, but would it be a good-enough excuse? And for Priska, being found outside the crew's bunk room at such an unrespectable hour could have scandalous implications.
Thomas moved closer to the door of the bunk room, trying to ignore his heart thundering in his chest. He reminded himself he was supposed to be the fearless one. Outside the door was a bulletin board, on which news paper clippings from Der Stürmer were posted. “Complete lies devised to defame us,” his father had said about the Nazi newspaper when Thomas had first seen it in one of the display cases put up by the Reich. It had a cartoon depicting a Jew with a grotesquely exaggerated nose and lips, politely asking someone to make room for him to sit on a park bench. The next frame showed the Jewish man shoving the other man off the bench. The text that went with the cartoon explained that this was how Jews behaved in all situations, not just when it came to park benches.
The clippings they looked at now were dated only days before the ship had sailed. Dark, grainy photos showed grim-looking men, heads shaven and scowling.
Priska pointed to one of the men. “Wait, that man—”
“Shh,” Thomas told her.
He read the caption underneath to himself: Germany rids itself of scourge of the earth. Savage criminals leave on ship headed to Cuba. Thomas shuddered. He knew what the Nazis thought of them, so why did it always feel like a kick in the gut? Why did it always hurt all over again? Once again he found himself asking why the Nazis put them on this ship to begin with. If they believed Jews were the “scourge of the earth,” why were they serving them caviar and veal? Could it really be on the captain's orders alone?
Thomas had started to read the accompanying article when he heard footsteps.
“Go,” Thomas whispered, and they ran down the passage and back up the stairwell to the top deck. He listened to hear if anyone was following them, but it was quiet. Outside they stood still, catching their breath. Finally Priska said, “That man in the photo … the one with the shaved head? That was Günther's father. I'm sure of it. Günther's mother managed to get him released from Sachsenhausen on the promise that he'd leave Germany within three months. Many on this ship promised the same thing.”
Her words hit Thomas low in the stomach. Why hadn't his mother been able to get his father out of Dachau?
“It said he was a criminal but his only crime was trying to help people. He's a doctor, and when the Nazis said Jews couldn't practice medicine anymore, he kept seeing patients. What was he to do, turn away people who needed treatment?”
“Those papers are full of lies,” Thomas said. “They make us out to be criminals so everyone in Germany will be glad to get rid of us. And people believe it too. They want us gone.”
“Not everyone feels that way,” Priska said.
“Everyone,” Thomas said.
“Surely there are still some decent people in the world, and if they—”
“No,” Thomas cut her off. “You can't think like that. You can't trust anyone. We had close family friends, the Levins. The Levins had neighbors, a nice old couple. When the laws were issued saying that Jews were no longer German citizens, the neighbors came to the Levins and said they didn't care about the laws, that the Levins would always be Germans to them and were always welcome at their home. Frau Levin went over for tea with the old lady almost daily. They were close friends. Then one day the Nazis came and ransacked the Levins' house. The Nazis said there were reports that they'd been out after curfew and that they were Communists. They destroyed their furniture and confiscated their china and their jewelry. Then they took Herr Levin away.”
Priska looked at the deck. Thomas remembered how she had said her father wouldn't make eye contact when he was nervous about something.
“It was that nice old couple that turned them in … their friends.” Thomas paused and then said, his voice fierce, “There is no one you can trust.”
Chapter Five
Thomas stood among the many other passengers at the railing watching the activity below. They had arrived in the Cherbourg harbor to load supplies. Burly men hauled crates of fruits and vegetables up the gangway. A crane lifted the heaviest crates in netting straight onto the ship.
“The cowardly French,” Frau Rosen said. She stood a few feet down the railing from Thomas, taking a cigarette from its box.
“You can't blame them alone,” Oskar said. He produced a match and lit her cigarette. “Chamberlain signed the papers too.”
Frau Rosen exhaled a gust of smoke and said with a roll of her eyes, “Peace for our time. Hardly.”
Thomas knew they were talking about the Munich Agreement. Hitler had wanted to take the Sudentenland from Czechoslovakia, and he had been ready to take it by force. The French had an alliance with Czechoslovakia, and Czechoslovakia had counted on France's coming to its defense if Hitler attacked. But instead France and Britain went behind Czechoslovakia's back and brokered an agreement with Hitler. He'd get the Sudentenland and there would be no war—at least for the moment.
Thomas turned to look the other way, down the ship toward the giant funnels. He recognized the ship's captain, who had come to oversee the transfer, by his meticulous uniform. It had eight gold buttons down the front and gold stripes on the sleeves. His pristine white hat had a black brim. Thomas wondered how he kept it so clean, and if he perhaps had several of them. The uniform was missing one very important thing, however: a Party badge on the arm. Priska had been right—he was not a Party member. Thomas didn't quite know how this was possible. Everyone was a member now. Whether they agreed with Nazi ideals or not, it was near suicide not to join. The captain had a thin mustache and a pointy chin. He looked almost severe when, in fact, he was very nice. He said “Guten Tag” to every person he passed and even stopped to talk to a few, inquiring how they were finding the voyage so far. As he continued to the gangway, he kept checking his pocket watch.
“How many more crates to be loaded?” he asked one of the crew.
“Not too many. Twenty or so.”
He took out his pocket watch again and tapped it lightly with his finger. “Good. We need to get back on the open sea.”
Manfred strode up the gangway carrying a big bag. “Good day, Captain,” he said. “I've got the mail.”
An announcement was broadcast over the ship's loudspeaker that mail could be picked up outside the social hall on the promenade deck. In minutes, passengers surrounded Manfred. Soon all Thomas could see of him was an occasional glimpse of his hand as he held out a letter. Thomas listened to the voices:
“Is there a letter for me? Bermann?”
“My brother-in-law must have written.”
Manfred read the names out loud and people hurried away, clutching letters to their chests. Some ripped the letters open on the spot and others retreated to their cabins to pore over their relatives' words in private.
“Werkmann?”
Thomas's body jolted at the sound of his name. Then he remembered there was likely to be more than one Werkmann on a ship of nine hundred. Also, he couldn't imagine who would have written to him. He didn't think his mother would have, and he wasn't expecting to hear from his brother. Manfred searched the faces of the few people left.
“Werkmann, Thomas?”
No one stepped forward and Thomas realized it was for him. For a moment he thought the letter might be from his mother after all, perhaps with news of his father. He held out his trembling hand to Manfred. Manfred didn't release the letter and they stood there, each holding an end.
Manfred said, “Thomas Werkmann.” It seemed to Thomas that he was putting a name with Thomas's face.
Thomas hesitated, unsure why Manfred hadn't let go of the letter.
Manfred finally let go as Herr Kleist descended on him. He was breathing heavily, as if he had run from the other side of the ship. “I heard there was mail. There has to
be a letter from my son.” Herr Kleist gave his name and scowled sideways at Thomas as Manfred checked his empty bag.
“Nothing, sir, I'm sorry.”
Herr Kleist straightened his cap. “Nochmal, bitte schön.”
Manfred offered an apologetic smile but he didn't look in the bag again.
Herr Kleist wiped at his watering eye. “Will we be receiving more mail?”
“This is it until Havana.”
Herr Kleist's shoulders sunk. For a moment, in spite of how Herr Kleist had treated him, Thomas felt sorry for him.
“Only twelve more days and we'll be there,” Manfred said.
As Herr Kleist pleaded with Manfred to check once more, Thomas drifted off to open his letter. He couldn't bear Herr Kleist's lack of dignity any longer. The envelope felt as thin as the onion skins his mother left on the chopping board. The upright lettering on the envelope seemed strangely familiar to him, although he knew it was not his mother's. She had a more looping script. He felt both relieved and disappointed that it was not news from his mother about his father. It meant there was hope, but it also meant that they still knew nothing. He pulled out a single page. There were only a few lines of text, in the same proper lettering as on the envelope.
Dear Thomas,
I eagerly await your arrival in Havana. I hope the trip is going smoothly. When you get here, we can immediately begin trying to find a way to send for your mother. I don't know what to do about our father. I worry we will never see him again.
Godspeed.
Your brother,
Walter
“Who wrote to you?”
Thomas turned to see Priska peeking over his shoulder. She always seemed to find him, always seemed to sneak up on him.
He drew the letter to his chest. “My brother from Havana.”
“What did he say that's so private?”
Thomas was near to being annoyed with her. He wanted a few moments to himself to reread the short note and savor the fact that someone was waiting for him, that someone else in the world cared about him. But he saw Priska grinning at him, and he knew she was only teasing. He decided to play along. “He said that he's waiting for me … and our quota numbers have come up and we'll be off to America right away. He has jobs lined up there too.” Thomas found a smile creeping onto his face. He was never one to joke or dream, and he was finding it surprisingly fun.
“And a house too?” Priska asked.
“A mansion. In New York City. Right next to the Rockefellers.”
Priska laughed. He had made her laugh. But as quickly as Thomas's smile had come, it faded as he looked at the harbor. “Why haven't we left yet? The supplies are all loaded.”
“What's the hurry?” Priska leaned against the railing, as if trying to get as close as she could to the land. “It's nice to get a glimpse of the real world for a moment. Look, if you squint you can see the cars and the people all going about their day.”
Thomas thought of the captain and how he had kept checking his pocket watch. “The hurry is the other ships. If we waste time here, they'll reach Cuba before us.”
Thomas couldn't believe he had to remind her about the ships. Had she plain forgotten, or did she really not see them as a threat to their safe arrival? He didn't understand how she could just assume everything would work out.
“What did your brother really write to you?” Priska asked.
“Only that he's waiting for me and he hopes the trip goes smoothly.”
A very pregnant woman walked by, leading a toddler by the hand. The toddler was nearly dragging her doll on the floor, and her mother told her to be more careful and pick it up.
“That's Lisbeth and her daughter, Margot,” Priska informed Thomas. “She's due to have the baby any day now. Did you know that if you give birth on a ship, it's common practice to name your child after the ship? Francis is a good-enough name, but what if she were aboard the Imperator?”
“I didn't know that,” Thomas said, shaking his head at her. She was amazing in the way she befriended people so quickly and learned all about them. He wondered if there was a single person on the ship she didn't know yet.
“How much older is your brother than you?”
“Ten years. He's twenty-five.”
“Which makes you fifteen. I'm fourteen but my birthday is in August. When's yours?”
“December.”
“When did your brother leave Germany?”
Thomas almost couldn't keep up with her. She jumped from one topic to the next. “Nineteen thirty-four.”
Her lips moved slightly as she calculated the math in her head. “When you were ten.”
Thomas nodded. “He lived near Nürnberg, so I didn't really know him.”
“Why in Nürnberg when you lived in Berlin?”
“You don't quit with the questions, do you?”
Priska grinned. “No.”
Thomas explained how his father's first wife had died and his father had moved to Berlin for business. “Walter stayed with my father's first wife's parents. Then my father met my mother and remarried, and by that time Walter was no longer a child and it didn't make sense for him to come live with us.”
“Your mother isn't Jewish, but your father is. Do you celebrate Shabbos?”
“No,” Thomas said. After a moment's hesitation he asked, “What's it like?”
“Shabbos?”
He nodded.
“It's wonderful. I look forward to it more than anything. Sometimes during the week my father misses dinner or my mother has to visit a friend, but on Shabbos they're both home and we're all together as a family. My mother lights the candles and then we bless the wine, and the challah bread is the most delicious of all.”
The lunch gong sounded and Priska laughed. “As if on cue! Come on. Have lunch with us. I think Marianne fancies you. Have you noticed how she can't stop smiling whenever you're around?”
Thomas certainly hadn't noticed. He found himself blushing and then felt silly. Marianne was ten years old— still a child, really. But he had never imagined anyone fancying him before. “All right,” he said.
Thomas took one more look at the letter before folding it and putting it in his pocket. Once it was out of sight, he realized why the handwriting seemed familiar—it was very similar to his own.
At lunch the same waiter kept looking at Priska. He refilled her water glass when it barely needed it, and Thomas was sure it was just so he could get another look at her. Halfway through the meal, Manfred stopped by their table. He stood next to Priska but he addressed Professor Affeldt. “Are you finding everything to your liking so far?”
Professor Affeldt dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Yes, thank you.”
“As the captain's steward, I was asked specifically by the captain to make sure everyone has everything they need.”
“Yes, everything has been wonderful.”
Manfred took one more look at Priska and then retreated.
When he was gone, Thomas said, “The captain really isn't a Party member? How is that possible?”
Professor Affeldt shrugged. “Even the Nazis let something slip through the cracks every once in a while. They think Wilhelm Tell is such a wonderful example of German nationalism that they put it on at every chance they get. So much for the murder of the tyrant in the end—somehow they overlooked that part!”
“Do you really believe the captain is why we're being treated so well?”
“I suppose so.”
Priska smiled at Thomas. “Look who's asking all the questions now!”
Thomas continued, “I still can't understand why they would let us on this ship.”
Professor Affeldt pointed out, “They did charge us a lot of money.”
“But couldn't they have charged us as much to travel in steerage?”
“I guess we shouldn't ask too many questions, Thomas, but should be grateful for our good fortune.” Professor Affeldt added with more flare: “The day of fortune is like a harvest day. W
e must be busy when the corn is ripe.”
Thomas nodded. “Torquato Tasso.”
“You are well-read,” Professor Affeldt said.
Thomas smiled, reveling in the compliment. Then he saw Priska cast him a sidelong look.
“Thomas is always worrying too much,” she said, as if she had known him his whole life.
Thomas managed a smile, but he thought, And you don't worry enough.
Chapter Six
The next day Thomas decided to see what people were doing in the smoking room. He saw two men sitting across from each other. One man's shoulders were hunched over, and he was staring intently at the table in front of him. The man sitting across from him was also strangely focused on the table, although he sat straighter in his chair.
Goose bumps rose up Thomas's back and arms. He stepped closer. Yes. There was the board, the black and white squares, the handsome pieces. Thomas's hand immediately traveled to his pocket, and he felt the edges of the pawn. His breathing quickened. The room was hazy with pipe and cigarette smoke, but Thomas knew that was not the cause of his shortness of breath. He moved close enough to see the board fully.
It looked like an odd variation of the Guico Piano. Black considered his next move. Thomas was already analyzing an interesting move in the position. The first three moves were forced but beyond that it was murkier.
White cleared his throat.
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Black, and reached for his rook.
Thomas flinched. He traded rooks. It wasn't losing but he'd missed a better move.
“There was something else I should have done there,” Black said, shaking his head at himself.
“You should have taken his bishop,” Thomas let slip.
Both men looked up, noticing Thomas for the first time.
“The boy knows chess,” White said. He nodded at his friend. “But don't give him too much help or I'll end up losing.”
“You always win,” Black said. “I don't imagine that will change just because we're not on German soil anymore.”
The Other Half of Life Page 4