‘No, she’s the one I damaged. It’s you I’ve hurt.’
I mulled over his words the next morning as I made my way to the social hall for Sabbath prayers. The room was packed although, as the Rabbi’s grim smile acknowledged, despair was as prevalent as devotion. With my mother opting to paint (had she been Marie Antoinette, I felt sure that her last request would have been for crayons to sketch the scaffold) and my father asserting his agnosticism, Aunt Annette and I were the sole representatives of our family. Our motives, however, were very different. Whereas she came to beg God to deliver us from our enemies, I came to challenge him as to why he had delivered us to them. He thwarted me, however, by failing to reveal himself, and I sat through the service in growing frustration. Allowing my gaze to wander, I turned towards the women where, to my joy and surprise, I saw Johanna staring intently at the Rabbi. I tried to attract her attention but she refused to respond, as though a single stray glance would threaten her hard-won commitment. While my own ear gradually retuned to the language I had studied two years before, I feared that three hours of impenetrable Hebrew might send her running back to the Latin mass. The sermon, once again, was in German, although, as the Rabbi expounded on his text, a dispiriting verse from the Prophet Amos: ‘God said, You only have I known of all the families of the earth, therefore I will punish you for all your iniquities’, I should have preferred Swahili.
‘Privilege brings responsibilities,’ my grandfather used to say when setting off to visit one of his charities. It seemed to me, however, that the privileges God had granted the Jews had brought us nothing but prejudice and pain. Christians managed things better. Their God suffered on their behalf rather than the other way round. I determined to consult Johanna, who had a unique vantage point, but, when we met after the service, she had no time to discuss anything, let alone the finer points of theology.
‘Please try to understand,’ she said. ‘I have to go straight back to my mother. She needs me more than ever.’ I tried to look sceptical but sympathetic. ‘She’s always felt guilty about my having had no father. Now she feels guilty that he’s a Jew: that she’s condemned me to a life of persecution.’
‘That’s the price of belonging to the chosen people.’
‘You’re not serious, are you? The chosen people chose themselves: they were the ones who wrote the story. Besides, isn’t everyone chosen by God? That’s why I like the idea of angels: each one of us with a guardian angel watching over us on God’s behalf. Jews do believe in guardian angels?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Believe in them? We invented them. Then sometimes,’ I said pointedly, ‘they come down to earth in human form.’ My words, which I was afraid would sound mawkish, moved her to tears, but she refused to give way. Mouthing ‘I love you,’ she scurried back to her cabin.
I went out on deck, averting my eyes from the Florida coast as resolutely as I had from the Michaelskirche as a child. My fellow passengers felt less constrained and gazed wretchedly at the glistening shore which, barely a week before, had held such promise. One man shook his fist at it and muttered a stream of imprecations, but the gesture served only to emphasise his impotence and was met with an embarrassed silence.
Climbing to the top deck, I found my mother at her easel, as indifferent to the public gaze as a student copying an old master in a museum. Although she was facing the sea, her picture was of life beneath its surface. The St Louis, identifiable only by the name on its stern, ploughed through an ocean filled with exotic fish and plants, above a seabed covered with coral-like bones or bone-like coral (I knew better than to question the ambiguity). While I was looking over her shoulder, desperate not to say the wrong thing, a sprightly old man approached from the other side and, after studying the canvas intently, showered her with compliments which made her blush as red as one of her fish. When he slipped away, expressing regret at having disturbed her work along with the hope that she would allow him to buy it, I was sure that he must be mocking her. So, following him down the steps, I asked what he knew about painting. Showing no offence at my tone, he replied that, until his dismissal, he had been professor of art history at the Akademie der Künste in Berlin.
‘And you think the picture is good?’ I asked, striving to conceal my amazement.
‘I think it’s excellent. You have a very talented mother.’ I felt as flustered as if he’d praised her breasts. ‘I’ve admired her work for years. I long hoped to acquire one for my collection.’ He paused as if to wonder whether it still existed. ‘But I was always too late. Whenever I went to an exhibition, the paintings had all been snapped up. Imagine my delight at learning that she was a fellow passenger. I feel inspired to start collecting again.’
As he tipped the brim of an invisible hat and sauntered off, I struggled to assimilate this new perspective on my mother’s work. I thought of my grandfather’s pre-emptive strikes and judged that he ought to have trusted his daughter a little more and protected her a little less.
The day dragged on interminably. The children had exhausted the possibilities of the sports deck and were forced to entertain one another with Chinese burns and hair-pulling. The adults had exhausted the possibilities of the cinema, with only the most devoted fans of Grethe Weiser able to sit through another showing of The Divine Jette. The rush to use up every shipboard pfennig before docking at Havana had left people with no money to buy drinks, let alone throw parties. The stewards became largely ornamental. Morning coffee and afternoon tea were the only diversions, although the band no longer requested our favourite songs but played doggedly through their repertoire. Even the library offered no escape since its shelves were packed with atlases and guidebooks. I longed for a respite from Sir Walter Scott and envied Viktor the compendious delights of War and Peace – or rather War or Peace, since the Gestapo firemen had ripped it in two almost exactly along the lines of its title. I went early to bed, hoping that dreams would provide some relief, but my mountain hike with Berlin school friends showed such disdain for our plight that I despaired of my unconscious.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of my father’s snoring, but my irritation soon turned to alarm that it might be a further similarity between us and that my snores would disgust Johanna as much as his did me. I hurried up on deck where, turning my back on the mirage of Miami, I trained my binoculars on the sky, to be transfixed by the sight of a solitary bird trailing the ship. Its sweeping white wings and long hooked pink bill were unmistakable … but even the Wandering Albatross would not wander so far off course. Yet, despite the weakness of the lenses, the more I observed it, the more confident I grew of my identification. I decided to appeal to the one man on board who would give me a definitive judgement. I knew that, as a fellow ornithologist, he would never forgive me if I denied him the sighting. So without a second thought, I ran through the restricted area, this time easily locating his cabin. For all my haste, I remembered to wait for a reply to my knock. On entering, I was horrified to see Schiendick, who was now so cocksure that he pre-empted the Captain and asked how I dared intrude. The Captain cut him off with icy calm, as much to assert himself as to question me. At the mention of the albatross, he leapt from his desk and told me to lead the way. Schiendick looked nonplussed. ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he said.
‘Oh but I have,’ the Captain replied, heading for the door.
‘I’m talking about the need, the absolute imperative, to head for home – our return is a matter of concern in the highest echelons of the Party – and you set off on a wild goose chase with this Jew!’
The Captain stared at him with contempt. He stood several centimetres shorter than Schiendick, but his inborn authority made the taller man cower. ‘You can make as much mischief as you like in Berlin – and I’ve no doubt you will. But I am still the Captain of the St Louis and I warn you that, one more word, and I shall relieve you of your responsibilities. What’s more, I shall see to it that you never work on another ship. Now leave my cabin.’ Schiendick obeyed, flashing us bot
h a look of pure venom. I rejoiced at having witnessed his upbraiding, although I feared that he would make me pay for it later. Pausing only to grab his binoculars, the Captain led the way outside. I regretted that none of my friends were at hand to see me in such august company, as we climbed to the observation deck where he quickly spotted the bird, wheeling and diving above the ship. His eye was so much more experienced than mine – and his lenses so much more powerful – that I was thrilled when he confirmed the identification. ‘Its size means it could only be a Wandering or a Royal. It’s not always easy to tell them apart, especially when they’re young. So what decided it for you?’
‘First, the bill. It’s pink, while the Royal is more yellow.’
‘Go on.’
‘Then the shape of the head is sharper.’
‘True, but still not conclusive.’
‘But, most of all, the plumage. The Royal has the same black-tipped tail but a lot more black in the wings.’
‘That’s certainly the case for the Northern Royal, but not always for the Southern. Don’t look so glum. You’ve done splendidly. But I’ll let you into a secret. See the brown patch on its crown?’ I studied the bird, which was now almost vertical in the sky. ‘And the brown smudge on its chest?’ I nodded, not wanting to miss a moment of its flight. ‘Those are the giveaways. They’re unique to the adult male Wanderer. And, to judge by the marking on the upper mandible and the almost entire lack of colouring on its wings, I’d say that this one was aged between ten and twenty. Well done! I’m most impressed.’ His praise made up for all the swimming cups and essay prizes withheld from me at school. He spoke again of the albatross that he had sighted in the Azores, explaining that even non-migratory birds could sometimes be found thousands of miles from their natural habitat.
‘So I might still find a bee hummingbird when we land in America?’
‘You might,’ he replied cautiously. His solicitude, together with his treatment of Schiendick, emboldened me and I asked about the danger of our returning to Germany. ‘I shan’t pretend that it doesn’t exist,’ he said, ‘but you have my word that we’ll explore every other avenue first.’
‘There are an awful lot of Jews in America.’
‘You must have realised by now that not everyone views that as a blessing. I’m as ignorant of how things are run in America as the Americans appear to be of events in Germany, but I do know that President Roosevelt is up for re-election, which means politics taking precedence over principles.’
‘I hoped we’d left politics behind in Cuba.’
‘They follow us like a trade wind. But you mustn’t despair. I shouldn’t really be telling you this….’ I knew from his smile that it was only a half-shouldn’t, like a white lie or a ‘cross my heart’ with crossed fingers. ‘But we may have found a haven in the Dominican Republic. Your representatives in New York are negotiating with them even as we speak. As I understand it, they require some sort of bond to be placed for every passenger.’
‘If it’s a question of money,’ I said, ‘my family has accounts in America. You need only speak to my mother …’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Though, once a figure is agreed, no doubt another will be thrown in for good measure. All this haggling over lives is quite sickening. I feel like the master of a slave trader.’ He composed himself. ‘No matter. It’ll be over soon. Now I must go back to the bridge. By the way, I’ve informed your Passenger Committee of the offer but I’ve asked them to keep it to themselves – and the same goes for you.’
‘Not a word, I swear.’
‘Thank you. And thank you again for the albatross. It was a real pleasure. Here.’ He held out his binoculars. ‘Would you like to try these? I wouldn’t even take that pair to the opera.’ I wavered, acutely conscious of the trust he was placing in me and aching for stronger lenses, but the fear of damaging them made me decline.
We spent the morning cruising along the coast, once again attracting the attention of the local fishing fleet which followed us with, we suspected, a full complement of photographers on board. It was dispiriting to discover that the Americans were as ready as the Cubans to profit from our plight. Just before noon, a US naval cutter swept past, sending the passengers on deck into a flurry of waving. I, however, kept my hands deep in my pockets, entertaining no illusions as to what lurked beneath the breeziness of its flag. The only way that it would ever allow us to land would be if, having accidentally shot at us, it was forced to rescue us from the sea. With the chances of our being afforded a refuge in America receding by the hour, hope arose from an unexpected source. At lunch, the Professor told us not of the offer from the Dominican Republic, as I might have expected, but of a renewed offer from Cuba. He was convinced that, this time, the government was acting in good faith, even if that faith were dependent on the raising of a substantial bond. Provided that their negotiations with the Joint Distribution Committee were concluded satisfactorily, they were prepared to house us on the Isle of Pines, a few miles off the mainland. Since he had little information about the island, Aunt Annette suggested that I, as resident travel guide – a phrase that the Professor’s wife purported to find hilarious – should consult my Baedeker. Needing no further encouragement, I hurried down to the cabin and leafed through the book, thankful that I had resisted the urge to drown it in Havana harbour. I was disappointed by the meagre description. The island seemed to be devoid of any notable or redeeming feature. I returned to report that it was fifty-seven kilometres wide, sparsely populated, and covered in rich vegetation, while keeping the fact that it was a former penal colony to myself.
No sea can ever have been as inconstant as the one on which we sailed. One moment we were being buffeted by disappointment and, the next, lapped by hope. Yet even those passengers who remained suspicious of the Cuban offer couldn’t fail to be heartened the following morning by the pod of dolphins frolicking in our wake. As they showed off their acrobatic skills as brazenly as schoolboys, it seemed that Nature herself were confirming our change of fortune. For once we had a subject to photograph, rather than the other way round. My own change of fortune was confirmed when Johanna announced that her mother had abandoned her sickbed and was drinking coffee with the chemist, leaving us free to stroll about the ship as happily as honeymooners or – not to tempt fate – a couple who were newly engaged. Once again we had a chance to make plans, starting with how to survive on the island. We agreed that we had outgrown school and resolved to resist any attempt by the teachers on board to persuade us otherwise. We determined, instead, to find some secret cove, courtesy of Robert Louis Stevenson, where we could spend our days, safe from prying adults.
Our deliberations were lent urgency by the sight of an overdressed couple hauling their luggage up the steps. My initial sense of déjà vu gave way to a newfound optimism, which must have been widely shared for, by the end of the afternoon, the deck resembled a dockside, prompting me to return to my cabin to pack. While grateful that grubby clothes required no folding, I trusted that the laundry facilities which had been reduced on the ship (in theory, to save water; in practice, to compound our humiliation) would be restored on the island. I decided to put on my last clean shirt and gave thanks for my foresight when, escorting Johanna to the social hall after dinner, I found that the dance floor, which in recent nights had been deserted, was teeming. Virtually every passenger of waltzing age was present and Johanna refused to grant me an exemption. I was relieved, at least, that the floor was too crowded to allow anything more intricate than swaying. Besides, after a few moments, I lost my self-consciousness and became conscious only of her. From time to time, we bumped (in both the ‘hello’ and the ‘ouch’ senses) into family and friends: my parents who, to judge by their capers, were seeking at once to revive their youth and bury the intervening years in oblivion; Christina, bent on charming her chemist while protecting her toes; Joel, whose jokes about young love gained piquancy from his own grey-haired partner; Aunt Annette, whose unofficial widowhood
offered scope for the Professor both to display his chivalry and to escape his wife. The one person not on the floor was Sophie who sat, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Helmut. Twice during the evening Johanna dispatched me to ask her to dance and, to my surprise, she accepted. Each time, I could think of nothing but my feet.
At eleven o’clock, Johanna and I went out on deck where we yielded to the desire behind the dancing. I found that fingers, lips and tongues could move as harmoniously as toes. We climbed inside a lifeboat and I placed my hand casually on her knee. To my delight, rather than slapping it away, she gently opened her legs. Terrified of going too fast, or too far, I edged higher, brushing against the cotton of her pants. Although my knowledge of female anatomy was, to say the least, sketchy, having been gleaned either from the glazed statues in the Altes Museum or from childhood glimpses of Luise, my hand made instinctively for the moist cleft between her thighs. I had never realised that my fingertips could provide so much pleasure – and not just to myself since, far from indulging me, Johanna clearly responded to my touch. For the first time in the two years since my body had begun to betray me, I felt no shame at my arousal. On the contrary, as she rubbed it through the frustratingly thick trousers, my penis became source of pride. I judged that my joy would be complete if she would only slip her hand beneath my waistband and, while I quite understood her reluctance and refused to destroy the evening by suggesting it myself, I longed for her to take hold of it: to legitimise it and make me whole.
Matters, however, had gathered their own momentum. My heart threatened to burst from my chest like a chick from an egg. My breath was as short as if I had swum the hundred metres freestyle. Scared of offending her, I made out that I was about to sneeze, but the power of her kiss tore through my pretences. My body felt as if it were exploding and waves of warmth surged over me. Johanna was so sensitive to my excitement that she broke into a sympathetic sweat. Then, all at once, the moment was over. We no longer fired each other but propped each other up. I removed my hand, which had become an intrusion. We smoothed our clothes, the thickness of my trousers now working in my favour, and climbed out of the boat. We walked to the rail and gazed at the sea, the prospect of a safe haven having removed the need for both floodlights and the suicide patrol. We did not speak but shared a perfect understanding. After a while – precision eludes me – she stroked my cheek and announced that she was going to bed. I offered to escort her but she urged me to stay and enjoy the stars. I then returned to my cabin where I was perturbed to find that my father was still awake. I felt shy and worried that he would see – or worse, smell – what I had been doing. Loath to risk undressing in front of him and yet refusing to retreat to the bathroom, I threw off my jacket, kicked off my shoes, and declared that I was so exhausted that I would sleep in my clothes. Far from reprimanding me, he smiled and said that I was taking him back thirty years. Then, to my surprise, he jumped out of bed, pulled the eiderdown on top of me and kissed the crown of my head.
A Sea Change Page 23