Thomas thought once more of the newspaper clippings he and Priska had seen. So Manfred wanted to play chess with a criminal. Was he that desperate for a partner, or did he just want to prove his racial superiority?
“You're afraid I'll beat you?” Manfred asked.
“No, that's not it at all.”
“Then I'll get the board.”
As Manfred took the board and pieces out of the cabinet, Thomas knew he could have protested further. But the truth was he yearned for a game. His body tingled as he and Manfred set up the pieces of the simple wooden set.
His father's pieces, including the pawn he carried, were made of ivory. The pieces always felt cool, as if they had been stored in an icebox. The black pieces had been stained and were more brown than black; the white had been left the natural bone color. The pawn he carried was white.
Manfred held out his closed hands to Thomas. Thomas pointed to his right hand. Manfred opened his hand and gave Thomas the black piece. Sometimes Thomas's father claimed he actually preferred to play black. Even though it put a player in a slightly weaker position, he used to say that Black always knew a little more than White. Having to play the second move meant you got a glimpse into your opponent's mind, and then you could react accordingly.
Thinking about his father made Thomas uneasy. The fact that he was here, playing Manfred, made him believe for the first time that his father could actually be dead. He desperately wanted to be in the back room of the print shop, looking at his father across the chessboard. And would his father be disgusted to see him playing a Nazi? Thomas didn't know.
He took a moment to clear his mind, as he liked to do before a game began. Forget everything else—his brother's letter, the other ships, how he found himself hoping to see Priska whenever he went on deck, whether he should even be playing Manfred to begin with—and concentrate on the game.
“Good luck,” Manfred said.
“Yes, good luck,” Thomas replied. But chess had nothing to do with luck, which was perhaps what Thomas loved most about the game.
Thomas was surprised to find that Manfred disregarded one of the foremost rules of chess: that the center has to be controlled by pawns and that you have to work to support this control. Manfred ignored the center, focusing instead on developing his bishops to long diagonals. After the first few moves, Thomas was confident he'd win. While he took the center with solid pawn pushes, Manfred seemed content to let his pieces merely stare at it from a distance. Thomas followed the lessons he'd learned from his father and from studying the games of the great German chess master Emanuel Lasker. It seemed as if Manfred had never even had a proper chess lesson or bothered to emulate the masters.
Soon Thomas controlled the entire center. He pushed another pawn, grabbing even more space. Manfred moved both his bishops only one square diagonally and then just let them be. “What do you know about Priska?” he asked. His voice startled Thomas.
“What do you mean?” he answered.
“Where's she from?”
“Dresden,” Thomas said.
Thomas moved his knight out, twisting it so that its eyes stared across the board at Manfred's king, whose defending knights were sideways.
“Dresden, that makes sense.”
“Why?”
Manfred invited Thomas to take the center of the board at will, and Thomas counted on its destroying him later in the game.
“She's very cultured,” Manfred said.
Thomas glared at Manfred. “Unlike some other people on this ship?”
Thomas thought how Manfred had a way of saying certain things as if they were casual and harmless, when really they seemed calculated and cruel. Thomas wasn't going to let him get away with it, no matter what the consequences.
Manfred moved his pieces quickly, letting them thump against the wooden surface. Thomas moved his pieces gently, realizing that it was the strength of the move, not the force of it, that won games. He reminded himself to play the board, not Manfred, and so he kept his eyes locked on the black and white squares.
Thomas moved his pawn. Manfred shrugged and then quickly moved his knight to attack the center that Thomas had built. Thomas was sure it would take just a few additional moves before he won; Manfred couldn't possibly survive without pawns in the center. Manfred was breaking every rule except for developing all his pieces.
“It's clear she's from a good family,” Manfred said.
“You might be surprised to find that many of us Jews are from good families,” Thomas snapped back.
Manfred glanced behind Thomas. “Guten Tag, Herr Holz,” he called out.
Thomas turned to see the Ortsgruppenleiter raise his arm in salute. “Heil Hitler !”
Manfred lowered his eyes and returned a less invigorated “Heil Hitler.”
The Ortsgruppenleiter took one of the sandwiches from the table at the side of the room and lingered nearby. He chewed loudly and it made Thomas feel nauseated.
“Are you on a break?” Holz asked Manfred.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you usually mix with passengers on your break?” He emphasized the word passengers as if it pained him to refer to them as such.
“I usually do what I please on my break,” Manfred said. “After all, it is my break.”
“The captain does not set rules for his steward? About mixing with passengers?”
“We're simply playing chess,” Manfred said.
“I see that,” the Ortsgruppenleiter replied.
He stayed awhile longer, methodically eating the sandwich. Finally he saluted again and left. When the door had shut behind him, Manfred sighed.
“You don't like him,” Thomas observed. Manfred didn't answer and Thomas added, “Are you going to be in trouble with the captain for playing me?”
Manfred shook his head. “The captain wants us to be welcoming to the passengers.”
“I hear we have the captain to thank for being treated so well.”
Manfred nodded. “He's a fair man. He has high standards for how he runs his ship, no matter who is traveling on it.”
“And the Ortsgruppenleiter doesn't agree with him.”
“No,” Manfred conceded. “Ortsgruppenleiter Holz certainly does not.”
Thomas was surprised at how forthcoming Manfred was, and he took the opportunity to find out more. “The officers in the Party uniforms … are they always on board?”
“No, they were only recently assigned to the ship.”
Thomas reached for a knight, about to make a defensive move, when what was happening suddenly hit him—his powerful center was crumbling as Manfred's bishops and knights pressured it into vulnerability. How had he not seen as much? Was it because he was distracted by their discussion? Manfred had seemed as if he didn't know the first thing about chess, but now Thomas realized it might be just the opposite.
Thomas remembered his father telling him about Aron Nimzowitsch, who played very unconventional opening moves that flew in the face of masters like Lasker. He wondered if Manfred knew of Nimzowitsch and Lasker after all. Perhaps Manfred modeled his play after Nimzowitsch and it was all a carefully laid-out plan. Yet Nimzowitsch was a Jew, and it was hard to believe Manfred would aspire to the play of a Jew.
No matter what, it was too late to do anything now, and as Thomas defended, the pressure only grew stronger. Thomas pulled back from the board and closed his eyes. He opened them again, hoping to see things differently, to find a way out. But there in front of him was his disoriented army, and he couldn't get around the fact that there was no point in playing on. He could hardly look up at Manfred. He tipped his king over. He kept his eyes down for a moment, trying to think through what had just happened. Had there been a method underneath all of Manfred's crazy maneuvers, or had Thomas just let his opponent escape? He wanted to believe the latter, that Manfred really wasn't a good player and that Thomas had just gotten distracted and played beneath his level. He looked up, hoping to see the face of someone buoyed by an un
expected win. Instead he saw the steady gaze of a man who knew just what he was doing.
Chapter Eight
“All they have is war novels,” Thomas lamented to Priska. Boredom had set in again, and they were looking over one of the shelves in the library. Thomas fingered the spines of the books: Die Gruppe Bosemüller, Aufbruch der Nation, In Stahlgewittern.
“It looks like someone from the Reichskulturkammer has been here,” he said.
Thomas kept looking as Priska drifted over to the window.
“Here's one that might be all right—” Thomas said, but Priska cut him off.
“Look,” she said, a devilish grin spreading across her face. Thomas came over to the window and saw what she was pointing to—Ortsgruppenleiter Holz was fast asleep in one of the deck chairs. Thomas was surprised he had let himself fall asleep in public. He looked almost helpless with his cane lying against his chair.
Priska whispered to Thomas, “I have an idea.” Before he could ask what it was, or discuss its merit, Priska was on her way out the door. She snatched Holz's cane and quickly switched it with the cane of an elderly woman who was also sleeping nearby. Both were wooden, but Thomas noted that the woman's cane seemed to be made of a different kind of wood. It was mahogany, whereas Holz's was a lighter color.
Priska motioned for Thomas to follow her. They waited on the other side of a large crate. Priska's face was full of anticipation. When Holz woke, he bolted upright, as if he was ashamed he had fallen asleep. He immediately reached for his cane. The moment his hand was on it, he tensed. So much for playing a trick on him for any length of time, Thomas thought. In that one moment, he had realized it wasn't his cane. He jumped out of his chair, searching the area. He located his cane against the woman's chair and grabbed it. He tucked it under his arm and jabbed her leg with her own cane. “Aufwachen!”
She startled awake and looked at him with scared and confused eyes.
He barked, “You had my cane.”
“Entschuldige, mein Herr,” she said. “I must have gotten confused and taken it by mistake. Please forgive an el derly lady's careless mistake.”
He took her cane and threw it at her. It hit her across the chest and she let out a small yelp. She stood up, took the cane, and shuffled off. The Ortsgruppenleiter stepped toward her empty chair. Thomas saw him pick up something from the armrest. It was silver and glinted in the sun. He slipped it into his pocket and headed off down the deck.
“Did you see that?” Priska asked, coming out from behind the crate. “What was that he took? A cigarette case?”
Thomas nodded. “I think so.”
“I didn't even think he'd notice the cane so fast. He must have been disgusted at the idea of a Jew touching his cane.” Priska shook her head. “I feel terrible. I never thought he'd take it out on her, or steal her case.”
Thomas furrowed his brow, replaying the scene in his head. It was true that Holz would likely have been disgusted; but then why didn't he automatically wipe the handle clean with a handkerchief?
“How can we get her case back?” Priska said.
“I don't know. I'm not sure we can.”
Priska sighed.
“Come on,” Thomas said. “I think I found a book.”
Thomas had never slept very soundly. Back in the apartment in Berlin, there had always been too much going on. He would wake in the wee hours of the morning, listening to snippets of conversation. It was late at night that his parents worked on ways to conceal the information they smuggled out of Germany. They came up with what Thomas thought were ingenious ways to hide papers. They hid them in secret compartments in hairbrushes, mugs of shaving cream, and cigarettes. Once, his father had even designed a way to hide papers in a chessboard. Sometimes when Thomas woke up, his father would hand him what seemed like an everyday object. Thomas's job was to try to find how it opened. If he found it right away, it was not a good-enough hiding place. The next step was making sure the item would fit with the courier's appearance. An unkempt man, for instance, would be unlikely to carry a hairbrush. A man carrying cigarettes should have yellow fingernails. If the item didn't make perfect sense for the person carrying it, it would likely be taken away and the person interrogated.
Once his father went into hiding, there were no more mornings when Thomas found an object to test out. At that point, Thomas was up almost hourly through the night, worrying about his father. And since boarding the ship, he had also woken often, still immersed in dreams of his old life. Even before he would open his eyes, he would smell sweet onions all around him, as if his mother was preparing his favorite meal, Gulasch. Or he would see the sun setting over Berlin, like when he and his parents used to take walks, in the years before curfews and the signs saying NO JEWS ALLOWED. They would roam the city, walking by the Rathaus and the Friedrichstadtpassagen before both were taken over by the Nazis.
On Wednesday morning Thomas was startled awake to find his bunk tilting from side to side. The privacy curtain was swaying. He climbed down from his bunk, did a cursory wash and comb, and went up on deck just as it should have been getting light out, only the sky was dark and cloudy. Between the strong wind and the pitch of the ship, it was hard to walk steadily. Every time he thought that he had found his footing, the deck lurched again, throwing him off balance and nearly to his knees. Nearby, a man had fallen down and a deck boy was helping him up. The wind howled in Thomas's ears. He made it to the railing to see waves crashing against the side of the ship, sending up sprays of water and white foam. Looking out at the swells, he understood for the first time why people referred to the sea during a storm as angry.
After a few moments in the relative safety offered by the railing, Thomas tried to make his way to the dining room. He moved from one solid object to the next, finding stability on a stanchion, a lifeboat, and finally the door to the dining room. He peered inside at the near-empty room. The wooden sides around the tables were up to keep the plates and glasses from sliding to the floor.
He spotted Priska, Marianne, and Professor Affeldt among the few passengers and journeyed across the room to their table. He slid gratefully onto a seat without waiting for an invitation to join them.
“Guten Morgen, Thomas. You're not sick?” Priska asked.
“No. Are you?”
“Not yet. My mother's a wreck, though. She's still in the cabin but we couldn't bear it any longer.” Priska grimaced and held her nose with her fingers.
A waiter approached, cradling a half-filled cup of coffee. He placed it gingerly in front of Professor Affeldt. Nearby, a few other passengers sipped coffee and nibbled on toast.
Professor Affeldt had dark stubble on his face, but Thomas knew it was better than the cuts he would have endured had he tried to shave. This morning Thomas had been especially grateful that his beard was still light and he only needed to shave every few days. Professor Affeldt motioned to the menus that sat untouched on their table. “Girls, have something light if you want, and then we need to go check on your mother.”
“Can't we stay here with Thomas?” Priska asked. “It's so awful in there, Vati.”
“Thomas will keep an eye on us,” Marianne said, smiling at him. She wore her hair in pigtails, tied with red ribbon.
Thomas remembered what Priska had said about Marianne fancying him. Never having had a younger sibling to look up to him, he found himself enjoying her attention.
Professor Affeldt sighed. “Yes, I suppose. I'm going to try to bring your mother up onto the deck—some say it's better to be up top in the sea air. You can meet us there.”
He finished his coffee and got up to check on his wife. Before he left, Priska covered his hand with hers. “We'll meet you on deck soon. We'll give you a break—you must be exhausted.”
“Thank you, dear,” he said, and smiled proudly at Thomas. “This girl is always looking out for her papa.”
Thomas smiled back, but he wondered why Priska was so protective of her father. They watched him walk away, looking like a dru
nkard as he staggered with the ship's rolling.
Priska ordered plain toast with fruit. Thomas stuck to black coffee. Marianne, despite warnings from both of them, ordered a full breakfast of sausage and eggs.
The food arrived and Priska took a small bite of her toast. The bananas and strawberries slid around on her plate.
The ship came up against a big swell and everything tilted even more. A woman nearby gasped, and then there was the sharp crash of broken glass.
Priska picked at her food while Marianne scraped her plate clean.
“You really are something, Marianne,” Thomas said.
She swallowed the last bite and both Priska and Thomas laughed.
“Vati will be up on deck with Mutti soon,” Priska said. “We better go help him.”
Marianne sighed. “Can't we stay a little longer? What can we do to help?”
“Whatever he needs us to do,” Priska scolded her. “Don't be so selfish.”
Marianne looked away, and Thomas thought again how protective Priska was of her father.
Thomas walked behind the girls onto the deck. At one point Priska lost her balance and Thomas reached out to steady her. Somehow she ended up almost entirely in his arms, her body for a moment pressed against his. He had his hands on her waist and he was close enough to kiss her. He felt all his blood rushing to a part of his body he generally tried not to think about. Flustered that the thought of kissing her had occurred to him and that his body might betray him, he quickly let go.
She straightened her dress and thanked him. Thomas noticed that her face looked red with embarrassment too. “I'm going to fall right on my Hintern like Frau Rosen,” she said. “Serves me right!”
He laughed, trying to act as if having her so close hadn't affected him at all, and he hurried up the stairs.
On deck, people slumped in chairs. A few stood clutching the railing. Claudia ran by, her hand pressed to her mouth. Deck boys hurried by with mops and buckets on their way to swab up a mess. The smell of vomit lingered, despite the strong winds.
The Other Half of Life Page 6