Out of the corner of her grey, hooded eye, Johanna first saw the shadow, then the looming ice mountain that stood at least a hundred feet high, perhaps even higher; the sight took her very breath away, and she could hear the fury of whispers among the passengers as they, too, wondered – with a fear and morbid curiosity Johanna desperately wished she didn’t share – if this was the very iceberg that, according to the news reports filtering around the Bremem, had sank the Titanic. Many were stating that the papers had started referring to the ship as “unsinkable”, much to Johanna’s distaste. Johanna could scarcely remember the Titanic making front-page headlines until after it had fallen. Now, however, every paper and person were discussing the fallibility of the supposedly unsinkable, when she could not recall any person or writing making a claim before the ocean liner’s tragic demise.
While passenger liners did crash and sink if they were sufficiently damaged enough – Johanna recalled jigsaw pieces of Oceana’s tragic collision – it was rare that there was any loss of life. The only reason Johanna could remember the Oceana disaster was because she struck a German steel barque, and the only passengers that had died had been killed when the lifeboat shattered in the ocean because the crew hadn’t assembled it correctly. The few passengers that had survived the initial impact had quickly drowned.
Johanna’s steel grey eyes focused on the iceberg shimmering in the afternoon sunlight, reflecting light in every direction as if she were some enchanted fairy castle, similar in style to Schloss Neuschwanstein. The berg they were passing looked identical to a palace fashioned of the most enticing diamonds, and while the sight of it chilled her, it also filled her with awe.
It wasn’t until one woman screamed, and she heard a man shout, “Jemend holt einen Artz!” (“Someone fetch a doctor!”) and another, more formal, shout, “Hol den Kapitän!” (“Fetch the Captain!”), was Johanna able to tear her eyes away from the ice castle that glistened before her, that was now passing the Bremem’s port side, to the ghastly terrors the ice field had been concealing.
Like many of the passengers and crew, who were now all clamouring against the ship’s railing for prime viewing positions on the Boat Deck, Johanna let out a gasp of horror at what lay before her.
Revulsion at the sight before her; yet amazement that such a wreckage site should exist. If Johanna had not seen the wreckage with her own grey eyes, she would not have believed any of the stories, no matter who told them.
There was wreckage spreading the Atlantic ocean for at least a hundred miles in each direction; broken chairs bobbed lifelessly; floating wicker and deck chairs, in almost perfect condition, held the bodies of some of the ocean’s victims; doors that had been purposely torn from their hinges floated purposelessly; large, indiscernible, but nonetheless grandiose, paintings moved with the Labrador Current – perhaps, Johanna wondered, had been taken and thrown so the passengers could cling in desperate hope to them, the way so many had adhered to the chairs? – bobbed in the ocean’s swell, partially disturbed by the Bremem’s presence.
And then there were the bodies.
The frozen mass of bodies – they looked to be resting, from a distance, but every second the Bremem drew closer to the debris, their features could be more easily made out as they bobbed eerily in the icy water, frozen and bleached porcelain white from the sun, most of them huddled together in wretched clusters, as if they’d hoped salvation could be granted simply by clinging to the person nearest to them.
The largest cluster of people clung to the grand staircase – Johanna recognised it from the pictures that had become a staple across every newspaper since the accident; it was unmistakable and she had never before seen anything comparable – it bobbed gently, a circular arch in the water, with one man frozen in place, his body showing that his last moments were that of prayer. The faces of its victims were a mixture of people who looked to be sleeping, icicles freezing their eyes shut; some had a combination of terror and pain permanently etched onto their faces, a snapshot of the reality of the horrors the passengers on board the Titanic had faced.
As if fate – and G-d – could be mocked by man.
Johanna grasped Vasily’s hand tightly, holding him for both comfort and desperate support; the sight had left her nauseous, lightheaded, disorientated.
Vasily stood tall, his posture unbearably and painfully erect, a grim expression daunting his ashen face. Tears stung his blue eyes – when they were young, Vasily’s blue eyes were capable of brightening any room with their incessant twinkle; but they had long since lost their lustre since the death of their eldest son, Nikolai, who had served bravely in the war – and Johanna found her eyes were drawn to his gaze, her eyes moving grudgingly to what had caught her husband’s attention.
Johanna immediately saw what had caught Vasily’s gaze; there was a young woman – a woman far more youthful than Johanna’s forty and a half years – was bobbing up and down in the ocean, her eyes frozen closed, and her babe – who couldn’t be more than a few months old – was clutched tightly to her breast.
The image, already seared into Johanna’s mind, made her want to scream at the Captain to halt – the babe, surely, warranted that – but she knew her hysteria was futile.
Like the mother, the babe had long since passed, its tiny body frozen like a porcelain doll one of her own daughters might play with.
The swell of the ocean – growing, as if angry at the Bremem’s presence, disturbing the victims that the sea had clearly felt fit to claim – rocked the bodies gently back and forth, as if they were actors in a tragic Shakespearean production, being directed by the Labrador current, who was unwilling to relinquish its prey.
As the shipped passed the mass of bodies, all of whom were in various states of dress from formal to barely anything at all, though all donning the unmissable white cork lifejacket – of which there were indisputably hundreds, if not more, victims floating on the surface, which was far more than either Johanna or Vasily had expected – Johanna caught sight of a something that both chilled her to the bone and sickened her.
A middle-aged woman, who looked peaceful in the water, had her arms tightly gripped around a large dog’s body – Johanna wasn’t a fan of dogs, and could not identify the breed, though it was a long-haired animal – though, unlike the dog’s master, the dog was twisted, its body contorted with unimaginable terror and agony, its corpse forever distorted by the icy Atlantic oceans.
Johanna could not bear the sight of the dog, whose twisted final moments showed the pain it – and everyone else – must have experienced in their final moments. The passengers, unlike the dog, – except for those that were visibly cut and bruised, a few battered and broken (most certainly from debris flung around the Titanic during its final moments) – looked peaceful, as if they’d taken a slumber, and were waiting for someone to pick them up. Even the way they were positioned was eerie, as if they almost standing to attention, acknowledging the steamer’s presence.
There were hundreds of victims; her eyes darted across the ocean as her mind tried to accept what she was seeing: An elderly couple clung together, their arms frozen in place as they had comforted each other in their last moments; a small boy, who could scarcely be older than two, drifting in the ocean alone as if he’d been abandoned; a young woman, who was likely the age of her son before his untimely death, wearing an ivory nightdress with a lace bow, whose fingers desperately clutched at a floating dining chair, her dark, frozen hair resting against the plum red cushion; a young man who had secured his body to a door frame with rope, hoping the door would save him from the icy clutches of death; and the men.
There were hundreds, if not thousands, of men nodding gently in the water; there were more bodies than wreckage.
Young men, like her son had been, who were seventeen; men who were likely new husbands, in their early twenties; older men, who had lived a lifetime with their loved ones; the sea was littered with them all.
Johanna had heard the orders of women and childr
en first, and she had been aware of the sacrifice so many men had selflessly made. She had listened to the tales of the disproportionate survival rate – women and children were predominately the survivors, and they were mostly first-and-second-class passengers; those in steerage barely had a chance. Some had even said the doors remained locked, preventing the steerage passengers from reaching the Boat Deck; however, Johanna wasn’t sure she believed it. Many of the crew, and a portion of steerage, had survived the disaster. If the gates were locked, would that not have been possible?
And she had heard the rumours, worst of them all: That many lifeboats, some not even half-full, had watched and listened to the screams that surrounded them. When dawn had broken, the orange-pink and blue sky reflecting down upon them, had the survivors, waiting for their salvation, realised how many they had left behind? When had they realised that they had left their husbands and sons to an agonising death?
Would not the screams of those who died haunt their slumber forever as they realised how many had died? Johanna could not believe she could endure anything worse. If the Bremem were to meet the same fate as the Titanic, she was by and sure she would stay with him if men were not allowed to escape. Johanna could not imagine her life without Vasily, and did not care to.
“Vasily, please,” beseeched Johanna, her German accent a thick contrast to her husband’s Russian one. “I cannot bear it, knowing what those passengers must have suffered. In these men, I see our beloved Nicholai. I imagine him in the icy fields, fighting to protect Mother Russia. Vasily, I cannot bear to be haunted by his face, to be reminded of the suffering he must have endured. I need to retire.”
Vasily, who appeared reluctant to tear his gaze from the massacre that lay before them, turned to his wife, before kissing her softly on the forehead, taking her gloved hand in his bare one. Johanna couldn’t help but wonder if his hands were frozen solid; hers were, even through the thick, grey woollen gloves.
Johanna, who had married Vasily Petrov, who had once been a wealthy Russian Jew before his country had expelled him, had become a German refugee, before resurrecting his life as a baker in Berlin, where Johanna had met him one afternoon as she had stopped for some warm, freshly made bread. She had immediately been attracted to Vasily’s quirky sense of humour; he’d instantly made her laugh, and his startling blue eyes had quickly caught her heart. Their love affair had transpired even against her family’s wishes, who were furious that their eldest child would marry a Russian refugee. He was no longer wealthy, they had argued, and thus could not provide for her. He had not even been able to resume his career as an architect.
However, Vasily had quickly proven her parents’ fears to be unfounded shortly after they had emigrated to America; he’d developed a character as a reputable architect and engineer, with many businesses requiring builders and were willing to overlook Vasily’s religious beliefs in favour for his exemplary skills. He had even worked on the end stages of the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, meeting with Emily Warren Roebling after her husband was struck with caisson disease, before founding his own company, Petrov and Co. He had soon earnt his large, growing family – Johanna had born Vasily seven children, of which five had so far survived through infancy and war – a steady, vast income, that provided them with luxuries others couldn’t imagine, including the first-class tickets Vasily had purchased for the journey to Germany. While they had been holidaying in Berlin, Vasily had organised with their butler to have electricity points installed; by the time they returned to their New York brick stone, they would likely have a house that would no longer function solely on gas.
“Of course, Meine Liebe,” he whispered, his voice soft and sweet, his accent twinged from living several decades in the Americas. Johanna sometimes believed she loved Vasily more now, almost two decades later, than when she had first married him. After they had lost Nicholai, the pair had grown stronger, leaning on each other for comfort. Nicholai’s death had led to their daughter’s birth, as their passion had consumed their grief. Three months after their eldest son’s passing, Johanna had fallen pregnant with their now nine-month-old daughter, Alma.
Ninja was their eldest, and she long married and had born her own children. Ninja’s husband was one of Vasily’s employees, meaning that Johanna was able to see her daughter and grandchildren regularly. Nicholai had been next; he had been killed in the Russo-Japanese War, fighting gallantly for Russia, though they were never informed of how. While it seemed less-than-important than knowing her son had died, it also bothered Johanna because she couldn’t help but hold out hope that, even years later, her son was alive. Ernst had married a young American Jewish girl; it had caused contention between Vasily and Ernst, who was ashamed of his Russian-German heritage; he wanted to be an American, through-and-through. Johanna was surprised he had not yet forsaken Judaism and married a proper Christian girl. Johanna had had a third boy, Alexi, who had not survived infancy; but then had come Mikhail, who was also following in his father’s footsteps. Johanna’s sixth child was a beautiful little girl named Evelina, and by Evelina’s birth, Johanna doubted she could fall pregnant again.
That was, of course, until Nickolai’s death and her body ached for her husband endlessly, frantic for him to make her feel anything. It had worked; she had felt loved, and even more so after Alma’s premature birth. It wasn’t that Alma replaced Nicholai; it was that Alma was a gift from G-d, a message that He was telling her that he heard her despair.
Vasily, unwillingly tore his eyes away from the wreckage that would unquestionably be on everyone’s lips as they sat in the dining room that evening, turned to his wife and squeezed her arm. “Let’s go below. There is no place for us here.”
Chapter Eight
Wednesday, 10th April, 1912
Hazel
Hazel occupied herself, unpacking one of her Lady’s many trunks; this one was filled to the brim with many of Lady Eleonora’s favoured dresses, many of which had been custom-made for the Earl and Countess’ journey to America. Hazel carefully segregated her Lady’s clothing into the wardrobe room in different sections for ease of changing throughout the voyage – Lady Eleonora’s breakfast dresses, her early morning tea dresses, her luncheon dresses, and finally, her grand evening wear, all of which had been recently acquired as the Gresham family planned to dine exclusively in the A La Carte Restaurant, located aft of the B Deck Grand Staircase. Hazel had seen plenty of the elegant, splendid photos of the First Class Dining Lounge – a lounge she would not be permitted to enter, under any circumstances, unless directly allowed by her employer – that one would pass up the grandiose decorations and exquisite foods the White Star Menu boasted to pay a premium fee to dine in The Ritz or Café nightly.
However, Hazel supposed that was the point: The Gresham family would dine in the A La Carte Restaurant every night, or the Café Parisien, merely because they could.
Hazel meticulously arranged three outfits for Lady Eleonora, in preparation for her Lady’s request once she opted to redress for luncheon. As Hazel had been in the Countess’ service for nearing twenty years, she had become accustomed to her Lady’s preferences and desires, and commonly selected attractive alternatives without needing any input. In all certainty, it was likely Hazel knew her Lady’s wants, needs and desires better than her Lady knew her own.
However, that was the way it ought to be between a Lady and her Lady’s Maid, thought Hazel.
Unlike the family Hazel had devoted her life to serving, she was unaccustomed to being in the presence of such exquisite surroundings. While the Gresham Estate was more than just a grand manor, where a single first-edition, leather-bound novel was worth more pounds than Hazel could ever presume to make in a lifetime – let alone the artwork and effigies that the family had collected throughout the centuries, from all across the world, that came from fancy places Hazel wouldn’t have known existed if it weren’t for her Lady’s talk of them. The truth was, unless Hazel was directly serving or dressing her Ladyship, she was fr
equently restricted to the Servant’s Quarters of Gresham Manor, where she completed the substantial sum of her assignments. Hazel shared a room with another, slightly younger, maid, Mary Davies, and worked in the common servants’ hall alongside the other maids, also destined for a life of servitude, as it was the life they were born into. While most of the lodgings and food the estate provided were more than Hazel would likely have if she were to leave service and marry, the tight staircase she was required to climb several times daily left something to be desired; it was uncomfortable, with the stairs lumpy and uneven, and it was difficult for even the most petite maids to pass each other by without dangling perilously on each step’s edge.
In preparation for the luncheon, Hazel carefully selected and laid out three garments: a fine, albeit formal, grey-blue dress that featured long, loose, silk sleeves, and drooped down in a V-neck shape with accenting beads and pearls; a pale blue, looser-fitting silk dress with a slimming waist belt; and, Hazel was sure, the dress her Ladyship would pick: A beautiful white silk tea dress with pink and blue floral embroidery across the scooping neck of the dress.
The dress, which had been custom designed for Lady Eleonora during last year’s spring by the Countess of Rothes, was one of her Ladyship’s favourite dresses, and one of the few she had re-worn over time. The ivory tea dress effortlessly blended elegance in a slightly relaxed form, whilst maintaining her Lady’s regal composure.
The white silk tea-dress was similar in design to the baby blue one that Hazel had placed to the side. It had long, transparent sleeves, with the V-neck hanging loose over the square chemise beneath the flawlessly designed dress, which was carefully decorated with pink cornelias and baby blue forget-me-nots, with mini green leaves adorned as part of the intricate design.
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