A Sea Change

by Michael Arditti

  I was deeply moved, not least when he declared that his dearest wish was to resume his place as her husband and our father. ‘Luise has already made me welcome, but I’m determined to do nothing that could hurt you.’ Appalled by the perversity of a world in which a father asked his son’s permission to love his wife, I immediately gave him my assent or rather, my blessing. I braced myself for him to leap out of bed and kiss me, but a simple ‘Thank you’ closed the conversation, enabling us both to sleep.

  The next morning was four weeks to the day since we left Hamburg although, for me, it was imbued with a more personal significance. I woke early and shaved – for the sensation as much as the effect. I put on my best suit, which was greatly admired at breakfast, especially by the Banker’s wife who asked why I couldn’t look so smart every day. I was unnerved to find myself the centre of so much attention. The Professor and his wife both expressed their excitement about the ceremony, although her claim that it was the next best thing to a wedding made me wonder what she might have spotted after dark.

  At the end of the meal I returned to the cabin and a final inspection from Aunt Annette, who appeared to regard my becoming a man as a further sign of her own obsolescence. In a vain attempt to prove otherwise, I allowed her to reknot my tie and wipe a nonexistent mark off my shirt. My mother’s entrance provided a welcome diversion. She looked wonderful, with her hair freshly set in the ship’s salon, wearing a dress fit for an elegant Berlin reception and a diamond necklace that, with open defiance, she’d unstitched from the lining of her coat. I was deeply moved not just by her beauty but by the knowledge that she’d made such an effort on my account. Clutching a white cloth, she declared that it had always been my grandfather’s wish that I should inherit Uncle Karl’s prayer shawl but, since that was no longer possible (I struggled to banish an image of its being ripped apart by sharks), she had taken a plain silk shawl and painted it herself. She handed it to me tentatively, apologising for the crudity of the design and the flimsiness of the tassels, which had been all that she could manage at such short notice. I gazed at the intricately decorated border and promised that I would treasure it more dearly than if it had been embroidered in gold. She flushed and showed me how to align it so that the radiant sun sat in the centre of my back. She was afraid that the cosmic imagery might rouse suspicions that I dabbled in Kabbalah, in which case she insisted that I blame it on her. Then, at the risk of cracking the paint, she hugged me and told me how proud she was of me. I felt a fraud and asked if she were proud of me simply because I was her son. ‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I love you because you’re my son. I’m proud of you because you’re intelligent, sensitive, honourable and brave. Oh yes, and extremely good-looking.’ Her compliments threatened to draw as many blushes to my cheeks as mine had to hers. ‘I’m proud of you because, in the most inauspicious circumstances, you’ve grown into an admirable young man.’ I found it hard to credit what I was hearing and, above all, whom I was hearing it from. I told her to stop or she would make my eyes so red that I would be unable to read my portion. ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘If my memory’s correct, the service will be quite long enough for you to recover.’

  We walked into the social hall, which was crammed. I felt humbled even though I realised that the majority of people had come for their own sake rather than for mine. I was led to a place of honour beside my father, savouring the surprised and, in some cases, critical glances that greeted my shawl – glances that, only a few weeks before, would have made me cringe. My mother and Aunt Annette took their seats in the front row of the women’s section, which the Professor’s wife had officiously reserved. For once I was grateful that Johanna was not in my direct line of vision since, even sitting at the side, her presence was a distraction. I had little chance, however, to concentrate on the service. While the Rabbi chanted psalms in unison – though rarely in harmony – with the congregation, men with whom I hadn’t exchanged a word during the entire voyage came up and shook my hand. Joel, stopping to chat, joked that it must be shadenfreude, like a henpecked husband congratulating a bridegroom. I replied that, on the contrary, they were acknowledging the faith that had sustained us from the Exile down to the present day. Chastened, he resumed his place.

  The Rabbi announced a period of silent prayer, during which my thoughts were more than usually clamorous. Scanning the hall under the guise of gazing heavenwards, I saw no trace of the passenger who, by his own account, had been present before both the Torah was written and the covenant between God and Abraham sealed. In relief, I turned back to the Rabbi, watching while he removed the scroll from the ark, in reality a battered suitcase, and carried it around the congregation. As I kissed it, I felt that I was doing reverence less to the words – Sendel’s comments the previous night having convinced me that even in the Torah they were not the whole story – than to the Rabbi’s own faith in transporting it halfway across the world.

  The Rabbi then announced the readings. A young man, with a face as round as a figure in Luise’s drawings, chanted all seven, each of which was preceded and followed by a blessing from a different member of the congregation; the last of whom was my father, in a voice both confident and clear. As soon as he sat down, I moved to the table. I suffered no nerves until a flurry of ‘good luck’s reminded me how much I needed. Staring into the hall, I was amazed to see the Captain and Purser standing at the back, which put me under even more pressure to distinguish myself and justify their defiance of the race laws. I gave the initial blessing and was starting to relax when Sophie crept in with Luise. A surge of annoyance at their late arrival turned to gratitude that Sophie had timed it so as not to tax Luise’s limited concentration. Her throaty chuckle galvanised me and I chanted the Maftir without a single mishap. The Professor then elevated the scroll and the Banker dressed it, leaving me free to embark on the Haftorah, in which I paid for my over-confidence by stumbling over Rahab the harlot. I was briefly nonplussed by Luise’s cry of ‘She singing!’ and the ensuing titter, but I swiftly regained my composure. Even the female pronoun, which had so horrified me when she used it in front of my school friends, had lost its sting now that I had been officially proclaimed a man.

  After a warm – indeed, clammy – blessing from the Rabbi, who laid his hands on my head, I returned to my seat and a congratulatory hug from my father. My own concerns were soon subsumed in prayers for the ship’s passengers and crew, along with Jews throughout the world and all people of good faith who were working to find us a safe haven. Looking round, I discovered that both Sophie and Luise and the man most occupied in securing that safe haven had slipped out. At the end of the prayers, the Rabbi took the scroll on a further tour of the hall before replacing it in the makeshift ark. He then preached a sermon in which, to my acute embarrassment, I found myself serving as both a beacon of hope and a symbol of persecution. Showing greater sensitivity to his surroundings than to our plight, he trusted that I would ‘sail through life, with a firm hand on the wheel, charting a steady course in turbulent waters’, before concluding with the claim that, just as God parted the Red Sea for Moses, so he would deliver us from the hands of our enemies and into the Promised Land.

  At the end of the service, the Rabbi invited the congregation on behalf of my parents to the first-class lounge for the kiddush, where I was amazed to see at least a hundred bottles of wine laid out, along with countless plates of biscuits and cakes. Given her lack of shipboard marks, I was at a loss as to how my mother had paid for it and, for a thrilling moment, wondered if it had been ordered by the Captain. My mother explained, however, that she had sold my grandfather’s watch and cigarette case to the Doctor, dismissing my objections by insisting that parties were more precious than things. The Rabbi called me to his side and asked me first to bless the wine and then to make a speech which, having fidgeted through my performances at various family celebrations, you children can vouch is a task that I rarely shirk. Sixty years ago, however, I was more bashful. I longed for a less toxic v
ersion of my father’s Dutch courage. Then, as I surveyed the room, I experienced one of those rare moments when my words bypassed my brain and its amendments to come straight from the heart. I paid tribute to my family: to Aunt Annette and Sophie, my adopted grandmother and sister, who had indulged and scolded me as befitted their respective roles; to Luise, my real-life sister, who had taught me the power of unconditional love; to my grandfather, who would always remain my model of achievement; to my mother, who had shown me that being true to myself was the only way to be true to other people; to my father, who had shown me both the courage and humility required to become a man. My sentiments were greeted with loud applause, which delighted Luise who, in Aunt Annette’s benign custody (Sophie having cried off the party), had built a tower of cakes, which she rapidly proceeded to demolish. I had others still to thank, however, including the Rabbi, my friends among both the passengers and crew and, indeed, the whole community. My gratitude grew so extensive that it was in danger of being devalued. So I narrowed my focus to one special friend, who had brought me so much happiness that I could wish that the voyage would continue not just for a month but for a hundred years. I sensed that I was losing my audience who, in view of the occasion, could no longer ascribe my remarks to boyish exuberance. So I added quickly that I would, of course, be far happier to continue our relationship on land.

  My determination not to name and embarrass Johanna was thwarted by Joel’s elaborate pantomime. I was struggling to think of a diversion when the Rabbi proposed a toast or, rather, several: to me; to my parents; to the Captain; to everyone on the ship. The atmosphere grew cloying and I longed to escape but, first, I had to unwrap a small pile of gifts. Far from lamenting the largesse, much of it no doubt courtesy of Frankel, that would have been heaped on me had the ceremony taken place in Berlin, I was deeply touched that virtual strangers should part with their precious possessions – a wallet, an edition of Lessing, a tiepin, a scarf – not from any sense of obligation but from a desire to mark the day. The Professor gave me a copy of his ‘definitive study’ of the Brothers Grimm, which he had intended for a colleague in Cuba. His wife pointed to the dedication praising her own ‘forbearance and support’ to show that it was from both of them. The Banker gave me a box of cigars, which he had bought from a hawker in Havana. His wife added that, if I should smoke one on board, I must be sure to save her the butt ‘to use on my teeth’. Christina gave me a box of chocolates, apologising that all the hard centres had been eaten, whereupon the Chemist, stifling his pique at the recycling of his present, gave me a lavish bottle of eau-de-cologne. Joel gave me a Swiss army knife with a blade for every occasion, adding imprudently, but at least in a whisper, that it would come in useful were I to take part in another attack. Viktor gave me a well-thumbed copy of Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons. Aunt Annette was the only member of my family to give me anything tangible: a framed photograph of my grandfather greeting the Kaiser ‘as a sign of how things were and how they will be again.’ After exhausting my expressions of gratitude, I finally secured a moment alone with Johanna, who judged that the focus of attention had shifted sufficiently to allow her to approach. She apologised for her mother’s second-hand present, saying that she hoped that I liked soft centres.

  ‘I like anything soft,’ I replied shamelessly.

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said, with a blush, adding that, since the ship’s shop had been closed and in any case she had no money, she hadn’t bought me a present. Although I dismissed it as unimportant, I felt hurt that she hadn’t applied the same inventiveness as she had to the greetings card and the fancy dress. She proposed, however, to make me a pledge to be redeemed later that night. And as she breathed it in my ear, I was certain it would prove to the best present that I had ever had.

  She was as good as her word. While I spent the rest of the day surrounded by well-wishers, whose congratulations would, I suspected, have been rather less cordial had they known the real reason for my grin, Johanna was busy making plans. First, she persuaded the Purser to lend us a room – and no ordinary room but the state room reserved for Hapag directors. Next, she convinced her mother that, to relieve Sophie, whose grief was as affecting to Christina as our romance was to the Purser, she had offered to look after Luise. I envied her confidence as I hesitantly told my father that I intended to sleep under the stars with Viktor and Joel. Nevertheless, he raised none of the expected objections, neither citing shipboard regulations nor urging me to wear a coat. Indeed, he seemed so keen on the idea that I wondered whether he had been as disturbed by my snoring as I had by his. His one proviso was that I be certain not to change my mind (‘even if it pours’), since he was such a heavy sleeper that, should I return to the cabin, he would be deaf to my knocks. I assured him of my resolve, after which he went off to meet my mother, leaving me to run a bath so hot that I leapt straight in and out, masking any lingering impurities in a cloud of cologne.

  I met Johanna by the swimming pool as arranged, and we made our way to the state room which, in its overstuffed extravagance, gave the lie to my grandfather’s belief that the public areas of an enterprise should be the most opulent. Suddenly shy of each other, we played for time by admiring the decor. While I praised the two French landscapes and the cabinet of Dresden china, my eye was drawn to the bed, with the sheets already turned back. Johanna was particularly taken with a mirrored wardrobe that was large enough to hide in, as I proved when she finally went into the bathroom to change. I had pictured her returning in a silk nightdress like Zarah Leander but, instead, she was wearing flannel pyjamas. My excuse to my father having precluded my bringing nightclothes, I had no escape from undressing in front of her. I kicked off my shoes far too fast and made up for it by the slowness with which I unbuttoned my shirt. By the time I shrugged it off, I was sweating so profusely that I yearned for more cologne. I forced myself to think of cold things (Eskimos, penguins, nuns) as I stood in nothing but my underpants, which I was as reluctant to remove as I had been in the school changing room, although my fear now was of revealing my excitement rather than my race.

  Alert to my discomfort, she slipped into bed and patted the pillow invitingly. I accepted at once, only to wince at the fierce freshness of the sheets. Far from the anticipated kiss, we each stuck to our own side as discreetly as if we were waiting for room service. With only our fingertips touching, we might as well have been sitting in the lounge. I wondered why we were doing our best to avoid what we most longed for and compounded the problem by offering her a glass of water. ‘I don’t want one,’ she replied miserably. Then, as though struck by the same impulse, we rolled into the middle of the mattress and fell into an embrace. While it eased the tension, it felt far less innocent now that it was a mere preliminary rather than an end in itself. I was desperate not to rush anything, but my desire was pressing me on – and, to my embarrassment, pressing on her. I tentatively undid her jacket and slid first my hands and then my lips over her breasts. I was glad that they were so unmaternal: firm yet yielding, with rose-red nipples which were barely larger than mine but so much more enticing. Either in response to my tongue on her nipples or the arousal in my pants, she broke off to hand me a packet of sheaths, another gift from the Purser, whom I felt sure I would never be able to face again. Turning away, I peeled off my pants and tried to put one on. The process was complex and clinical and had such a dampening effect that, when I finally succeeded, I was afraid that the sheath would be obsolete. A single touch from her, however, revived me. Looking down at the rubber, so much coarser than my own skin, I felt clumsy and constrained, as though I were walking in flippers. She had no such qualms, stripping off her pyjama bottoms and eagerly guiding me inside her. I strove to be gentle yet, despite my best endeavours, she started to scream; but, when she checked my move to withdraw, I realised that these were helter-skelter screams (‘No, no, no … yes!’). Her pleasure was tempered with pain, as mine was with responsibility, but for both of us it was paramount. I felt at once in control and out of it, invi
ncible and helpless, as if I were being swept along by a cheering crowd. When I could no longer restrain the desire flooding out of me, the sensation was altogether different from when I had released myself into a void, since I knew that I was also releasing her. What’s more, my climax no longer signalled the end of ecstasy, let alone the onset of guilt. I remained one with her, so full of passion that we continued to make love through the night. We didn’t sleep, but nor were we fully awake: it was as if we had entered a new state of being where such sharp distinctions failed to apply.

  We were, however, conscious of the dawn and the need to slip away before the decks began to fill. The Purser had promised Johanna that he would attend to the room but, even so, I was eager to leave no more trace of our activities than if we had been sharing a midnight feast. As we tidied the sheets, I was appalled by the sight of bloodstains and presumed that Johanna had suffered a nosebleed. She kissed me and said that I knew nothing; which was all to the good because, had I known what she went on to explain, I would never have made love to her at all. Feeling slightly unnerved in spite of her assurances, I returned to my cabin in time to see my mother creeping out, wearing the same dress as the night before. I ducked into a neighbouring doorway, but my reflexes had worked faster than my brain, since my first thought was that she had gone there to discuss some crisis and my second that it involved me, after either Joel or Viktor had blown my cover. It was not until I walked back down the corridor that it struck me that my parents must also have been making love. Far from horrifying me as I might have expected, the realisation filled me with hope, as though the new possibilities that we were all encountering were bound to extend to the wider ship. Nevertheless, my exhilaration did not preclude my teasing my father when I entered to find him awake at such an unusually early hour.