A Sea Change

by Michael Arditti

  ‘That isn’t true! You just want to make me feel better.’

  ‘Why should I lie and risk turning you against your grandfather?’

  ‘Because he’s dead, so you think it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh it matters. But the truth matters more. I’m saying this not simply to fill you in on family history –’

  ‘I have a right to know.’

  ‘Maybe. But to bring home how complicated life really is. It can’t be neatly set out in black and white like the two times table. There are hundreds of different shades.’

  I shut myself in my cabin for three days. In answer to all inquiries, I said that I was sitting shivah, although I never uttered a single prayer. At a stroke the world had changed. In the past, it had been neatly circumscribed: at home; at school; in the streets. There was safety in boundaries, even when they were made up of Nazi do-nots. Now everything was as fluid as the view from my window. The only boundary left to me was my bed. I yearned to escape from the ship and pictured it striking a rock, with myself as the sole survivor, swept on a piece of driftwood to some deserted isle. Neither grief nor snakes nor an unbroken diet of pineapples could override the attractions of solitude. I yearned to withdraw and dreamt of a Jewish tradition of hermits who lived in caves or of rabbis who stood on pillars. In trying to free me from the weight of the past, my aunt had left me with a present as painful as a Gestapo torture. I was not naïve. I had known that grown-ups weren’t perfect long before I went to kindergarten, but I had presumed that their misjudgements were confined to children. I never realised that they could be as blind to one another as they were to me. The facts of the matter hadn’t changed. My father was still a brute who had hit my mother (my own fists clenched instinctively), yet his motives turned out to be as complex as those of any king I had studied at school. The revelation of his desire to write brought back memories of childhood nights, when my room had been transformed into an enchanted forest or a sultan’s palace or a great auk’s nest. Recalling the stories he had told me made me ponder the ones that he might have told himself, especially of the War. Uncle Karl had died but he had survived, to be measured forever against a memory. To my surprise, I felt a rush of filial sympathy, although the sensation brought no relief. Life might no longer be black and white, but mine was an all-pervasive grey.

  Aunt Annette and Sophie made repeated attempts to rouse me, offering such inducements as swimming and sunbathing by day and films and concerts by night. Once Sophie brought in Luise, who padded over to the bed and, with a sad cry of ‘She sick!’, laid her face on mine and gave me a dachshund kiss. The Professor’s wife looked in briefly, although I suspected that her primary aim was to inspect the cabin. She brought me a life of Heinrich Heine, borrowed from the ship’s library, with print so small that it might have been designed to inflame my headache. My mother punished me with a visit from the Doctor and then lingered while he made his examination. After plying me with endless questions about my health – plus the occasional one about my mood to show that he was modern – he assured her that there was no cause for alarm: I was simply suffering from ‘growing pains’. He prescribed ‘a good dose of sea air’, as though it were a radical cure rather than an ubiquitous commodity.

  In the event, I followed his advice, albeit incidentally, after opening the greetings card that had been pushed under my door. It was from Johanna, who had made it herself out of pictures she had cut from magazines. The result was an extraordinary mish-mash, with Emil Jannings feeding a cream cake to the Sphinx, while Martin Luther sat at the wheel of a Bugatti. After laughing out loud at the incongruities, I found myself deeply moved that she should have taken such trouble. I was overwhelmed by the thought that, moments before, she had been standing … stooping outside my door. I pressed the card to my nose and, although the dominant scent was glue, I was sure that I could detect traces of something sweeter. I studied her words like a Talmudic scholar. No simple hope that ‘we will soon be resuming our talks’ can ever have been subjected to such scrutiny. Having exhausted the message, I focused on the script, which was exquisitely neat and rounded, the antithesis of my own spidery scrawl. I pondered on the differences in boys’ and girls’ writing and, unwittingly, found myself picturing the exquisite neatness and roundness of Johanna’s breasts. I then turned my attention to Joel and Viktor and the whole company of sailors, all older and better-looking than me, who had no doubt exploited my absence to try to supplant me in her affections. At once, the atmosphere in the cabin became unbearable. I still felt the need to escape but now the prison was of my own making. After agonising over tactics, whether to trumpet my emergence or to take people by surprise, I opted for the latter, joining the crowd on its way to dinner. First, however, I scrubbed every pore. Then, basking in my restored cleanliness, I put on a fresh, unripped shirt. As I examined myself in the mirror, I noticed something different – older even – about my face, which I attributed to the hardened look in my eyes.

  Luise greeted my reappearance by clapping so loudly that a passing waiter asked if it were my birthday. The rest of the table accorded me a welcome that was more muted but equally warm. Only my mother felt the need to inject a sour note, countermanding my order of roast beef, which she claimed would be too heavy on my stomach, and substituting steamed fish. The Professor’s wife then leaned across the table and, in an ear-splitting whisper, commiserated with me on my diarrhoea. I was shocked, but not surprised, to find that my mother had stripped me of my mourning clothes and banished me to the lavatory. The Professor’s wife, however, showed no qualms about recalling an evening when she had been in the throes of dysentery but, at Erwin’s insistence (she flashed him a look of gentle reproach), had attended a formal dinner at the university. She had been seated at the top table next to the Dean (I wondered whether imparting that titbit might not be the point of her entire narrative) and, every time that she needed to go to the ‘you know where’ (a remark which, for some reason, she directed at Luise, the one person who had not the least idea where), the entire hall was obliged to stand. My father responded with the story of how he and some college friends had placed a laxative in their professor’s food. Once again I was amazed at the double standards of the adult world. If I had told such a story, let alone perpetrated such a prank, I would have stood accused of puerility but, when my father did so, everybody laughed.

  After dinner I made a tour of the ship. Although I hadn’t dared to formulate a plan, even to myself, I found that I was heading for all the places where I had walked with Johanna. Her absence fuelled my most extravagant fears. In frustration, I ran down a corridor and straight into Schiendick, who was supervising the removal of the Führer’s portrait from the social hall. His resentment at the transfer of the picture, which he treated as reverently as if it had been painted by Dürer, flared up at my clumsiness. I wondered whether, among the mass of anti-Jewish laws, contact with an Aryan image constituted a form of pollution. ‘This is what happens when we take down the Führer’s portrait,’ Schiendick screamed. ‘It is defiled.’ I tried to retreat, but the picture was blocking my path. ‘These people owe their lives to the Führer’s generosity. And what do they do? Spit in his face.’ One of his assistants reminded him that the portrait was being moved on the Purser’s orders, so that the Jews could hold their service, at which Schiendick let out a stream of invective against ‘that Jew-lover’. Then, yielding to the same impulse of which he had accused me, he aimed a ball of spittle at my feet.

  I was confused by the reference to a service, given that it was Tuesday evening and the hall would be put to many other uses before the Sabbath. So I crept inside, to find some twenty or so passengers decorating the room under the direction of the Rabbi. Potted plants and palms had been brought from all over the ship and placed in the centre of the floor. Two elderly men were draping floral shawls over the balustrade under the critical eyes of their owners. The foliage looked more suitable to a party than to a service so, in an attempt to glean information without exposi
ng my ignorance, I asked one of the men about the shawls. ‘The synagogue is always filled with flowers on Shavuot,’ he replied. ‘These seemed like the next best thing …’ I don’t expect you children to know about Shavuot (I admit that I barely did myself), but, as a festival, it’s second only to Passover, which precedes it in the calendar. In biblical times it was a celebration of the wheat harvest, hence the greenery. Later, it came to commemorate God’s gift of the Torah on Mount Sinai, and the greenery became a symbol of the moment when the rock burst into bloom. As I write, I already hear you snort. We live in a world where miracle refers to nothing more remarkable than a racehorse or the effects of a ten-day diet. Meanwhile, the truly miraculous is downgraded. I recently read an article arguing that Moses’ crossing of the Red Sea was a mistranslation of Reed Sea, making it less an expression of divine providence than an adroit piece of orientation. Whether or not the rock actually burst into blossom, it remains the perfect image for the flowering of faith following God’s offering of his covenant.

  Struck by the echo of our own exodus, I volunteered my services to the Rabbi, who immediately set me to work heaving pots. I found it a relief to exercise my muscles rather than my mind. The transformation complete, he announced that he would lead the Shavuot vigil, at which I slipped off, determined to return the following day.

  Shavuot is a joyous festival and I subscribed to its mood from the moment I awoke. Lapping up the sunlight that streamed through the window, I languidly stretched out, until a glimpse of the clock sent me leaping out of bed and into the bathroom. Examining my face in the mirror, I realised that the change I had previously identified was to be found not in my eyes but on my upper lip. I ran my fingers over the smattering of down that felt like one of my mother’s softest brushes, and realised with a mixture of triumph and trepidation that I could finally shave. I was at a loss, however, how to proceed, missing my grandfather more than ever as I released the catch on his razor. I lathered my moustache and, in my enthusiasm, spread the foam to my cheeks, but I still could not bring myself to risk a blade which seemed more likely to draw blood than cut hair. I washed off the soap and replaced the razor, masking the reek of my failure in a liberal sprinkling of my grandfather’s cologne. I made my way to the dining room, where my mother inexplicably chose to kiss me. She drew back with a start. ‘Karl, what is that smell?’

  ‘It’s Grandfather’s cologne,’ I said defensively. ‘I thought I might as well use it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘But you don’t have to use it all at once.’

  My father, intent on impressing my mother with his concern, inquired how everyone planned to spend the morning now that we had only three days left at sea. Swallowing a dismissive reply, I asked the Professor’s wife to pass the toast. My mother, with an uneasy glance at me, announced that she planned to paint. I assured her that the light was perfect, at which Aunt Annette handed me the honey without being asked. My father added that he had promised to take Luise swimming, prompting her to slap the table so gleefully that the Banker spilt coffee down his sleeve. He accepted my mother’s apology with a wan smile, which he failed to extend to Luise. Sophie offered to share pool duties until noon, when she had arranged to meet a friend. From the looks that were exchanged across the table, it was clear that this friendship had become common knowledge, and I wondered how far it had progressed during my absence. My father asked tentatively if I would care to join them. Resigned to my refusal, he seemed taken aback when I coupled it with thanks. I explained that I was going to the Shavuot service, trying hard not to let it sound like a reproach. I acquired two companions in Aunt Annette and the Professor’s wife, the latter explaining that she always looked forward to Shavuot, partly because of the cakes (although I doubted that she needed any excuse for over-indulgence), and partly because it was when she had been confirmed. I was surprised to learn that she had been brought up in a Reform congregation, much to the horror of her Orthodox grandparents who had considered it tantamount to apostasy. I was even more surprised by her insistence that, in current circumstances, it was essential for Jews of all traditions to sink their differences: our adversaries were powerful enough without our quarrelling among ourselves.

  One difference became apparent as soon as we entered the hall. The women were sent to sit at the side while I took my place at the centre among the men. Although loath to relinquish my masculine prerogative (not least when I was finally set to enjoy it), I felt such segregation to be more suited to a farmyard, a feeling that intensified when I found myself facing Johanna. I was amazed. Given her hostility to Judaism, she was the last person that I would have expected to see. At first I feared that she had come from a spirit of devilry, the mock-your-enemy principle I myself had adopted at the zoo, but the warmth of her smile reassured me, suggesting that she was driven by intellectual curiosity or even a flickering of faith. I tried to keep my mind on the service, but her presence was a constant distraction. I sneaked a second glance and received a further smile, before burying my head in the prayer-book in case she should think me insincere. I wondered whether she might even have come in the hope of meeting me, until I realised that there were far easier ways of making contact and, in any case, she could have had no idea of my plans. I tried to concentrate on the readings but, while salvaging enough Hebrew to catch the drift of Deuteronomy, I was totally perplexed by Jeremiah. I decided simply to sit back and enjoy the chanting. The Rabbi was a match for any professional singer. In another life he might have graced the stage of Bayreuth. Even so, I could have wished for a less Wagnerian length of service. Half the congregation drifted out, including the Professor’s wife (I wondered wickedly whether it were a replay of the university meal). Johanna and I stayed put until the final hymn, after which I hurried to greet her.

  We were at once easy and embarrassed in each other’s company. She complimented me on the cologne, which I prayed had faded since breakfast. I thanked her for the card, claiming that it must have had healing powers. She blushed and said that she knew it was childish but she could think of no other way to reach me. Having looked for me everywhere, she had sought out my mother who had told her that I was sick and not to be disturbed (given the diarrhoea with which she had previously saddled me, I presumed that the delicacy was Johanna’s own). I asked how she had spent the time, hoping desperately for a ‘pining in the cabin’ or else a ‘sitting in the sun, grappling with Viktor’s copy of War and Peace,’ although I preferred to keep that connection to a minimum. She replied that she’d done nothing special, just wandered around, enjoying the general mood of celebration. Even her mother was happy. Having made friends with a group of widows who had taught her the rules of canasta, she was playing for shipboard pfennigs every afternoon. What’s more, a middle-aged chemist from Augsburg had been paying court to her. I asked what he was like and she offered the single word ‘clammy’, which might have amused me had I not dreaded an equally blunt description of me. Then, as casually as if I were speaking of clouds on the horizon, I asked whether she had seen anything of Viktor or Joel. Her reply delighted me: ‘Joel may be your friend, but he’s dreadfully pompous. He thinks he knows everything, but it’s like he’s made himself memorise a page of the encyclopaedia every day since he was ten.’ I could barely stop myself kissing her. It was clear that she had no interest in either of them but had simply been civil for my sake. I declined to press the point, however, since I knew that girls hated losing face. I asked, instead, what she was doing at the service. She explained that, after hearing people talk about it at dinner, she had wanted to see for herself.

  ‘It’s odd. I didn’t understand a word. In church, at least there’s the occasional Sancta Maria to help you find your bearings. The men were shouting out different prayers like market-traders. The women were pushed to one side like slave-girls in a harem. The Rabbi’s voice was so deep that it seemed to bubble up from the engine room. Even so, I found it tremendously moving. You may think I’ve been swayed by having found out about my fat
her, but it seemed to speak to something in my innermost being, bringing out feelings I didn’t know were there.’

  ‘Jewish feelings?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘Just feelings. I don’t have to give them a name.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I was too hasty before … no, not hasty, blind. I thought Jews were sad, clinging to the past like my grandmother refusing to put in electricity. But, here, everything seems different. Their faith –’

  ‘Our faith.’

  ‘Your faith defines your lives in a way that shames my own Church, which hasn’t raised a finger against the Nazis. It seems to see them as a commercial opportunity rather than the enemies of Christ.’

  ‘Who was after all a Jew.’

  ‘He was everything.’ Her voice grew serious and I anticipated a theological discussion but, to my delight, she took a different tack. ‘Besides, if I’ve changed, it’s because of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Is that so hard to believe?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just too much to hope.’

  ‘I like you a lot. I didn’t appreciate it till you weren’t around. Even that way you have of clicking your fingers … No, don’t stop! Well do, but not just on my account.’

  ‘I only do it when I’m nervous.’

  ‘You can’t be as nervous as me.’

  I have no idea whether I moved to her or vice versa (a confusion which was as real at the time as it is in memory), but we found ourselves kissing. Every sensation in my body had gathered in my tongue. For the first time I understood the place of kisses in films. They didn’t hold up the action; they were the action. I wondered if my previous ignorance had been due to a lack of experience or of vocabulary. I marvelled that anyone could be so uninspired as to use the same word for Johanna’s passionate embrace as for Aunt Annette’s powdery peck. The Greeks had a range of synonyms for love; the Germans should have an equally wide one for kisses. Then Joanna rolled her tongue along the roof of my mouth and the need for words of any kind disappeared.