The Ocean Liner

by Marius Gabriel

  The men crowded around the electric heaters, but they did little to mitigate the piercing cold. Condensation glistened on the bulkheads and on the menacing hulks of the torpedoes in their tubes.

  Todt had chosen a Hitler speech to play on U-113’s gramophone. It was one they had heard many times before, and most tried to shut their ears to the ranting voice that echoed out of the speakers.

  In the officer’s mess, Rudi Hufnagel tried to analyse the Führer’s words as he stared into his coffee. They were full of sound and fury, but the more he heard them the less sense they made to him.

  He had been present at the lunch party given on the Tirpitz at the naval base in Gotenhafen when Hitler had come to inspect the new generation of U-boats, a few years earlier. As one of the most promising young officers in the Ubootwaffe at that time, he’d been given a seat diagonally opposite Hitler. He’d had an opportunity to observe the Führer at close hand. With the lock of hair plastered across his forehead and the absurd toothbrush moustache, he had seemed to Hufnagel like the new boy who arrives at school in mid-term, trying to appear manly among men, monopolising the conversation, never asking a single question, trying to show that he knew every detail about everything before he was even informed. Hufnagel had not been impressed.

  Hufnagel’s father, a veteran naval officer of the last war and a man of few words, had summed up the Nazi phenomenon contemptuously: ‘When small people get big ideas, watch out.’

  That Hitler had surrounded himself with thugs and murderers had cast a darker shadow on the years that followed. But by then it was too late for anyone to do anything. The thing was unstoppable. And Hufnagel’s own career in the U-boat service had already foundered on the rocks, lured by the Jewish siren, Masha Morgenstern.

  Le Havre

  Manhattan’s engines had started in the early hours of the morning. The vibration woke Toscanini, who had finally fallen asleep in one of the wooden loungers on the promenade deck, wrapped in his cloak. He jumped to his feet, cursing the force of destiny and tearing his hair in despair. He had been pacing ever since.

  The atmosphere of the ship had changed. The crew were bustling in every quarter, busy with preparations for casting off. The passengers were in states of varying emotions, exultation, relief or wretchedness. And down on the quayside, a large crowd had already gathered, either for the spectacle of a great ship’s departure, or to bid farewell, perhaps forever, to loved ones. Those who were about to depart crowded at the rails, leaning over perilously to shout messages to those who were remaining on shore. Their voices were inaudible above the hubbub, but perhaps the expressions on their faces and the tears on their cheeks were enough to convey their feelings.

  The beat of the engines was transmitted through the deck, up the legs and into the chest, where it rattled the heart. The two red, white and blue funnels were pouring steam into the sky. It surged up in volcanic clouds, rolling across the sky and casting diaphanous veils of shadow over the multitudes below.

  Toscanini stood grasping a stanchion, surrounded by his baggage. He’d had it brought up from the hold and placed on the deck near the gangplank. If there was no word from Carla, at the last minute, just before the ship cast off, he would have everything carried ashore. He and Carla would have to wait for the next sailing – if there was one.

  The war news was terrifying. The Germans’ superiority was becoming established without doubt. Not only were their weapons more modern and more deadly, but their tactics had evolved since the last great conflict. It was becoming clear that they had no intentions of attacking the vast concrete fortifications of the much-vaunted Maginot Line, dug deep into the French earth to resist the Hun hordes. They were simply going to circumvent it. Their mechanised armies were already streaming around it, their warplanes were thundering over it. The concept of war as armies locked in trenches was as outdated as Homer. The new war was a lightning war. It would all be over in the blink of an eye. Hitler would be in Paris in three months, in a month, in a week, tomorrow.

  The multifarious crowd below blurred in Toscanini’s vision. His head was spinning; his limbs were numb. They could no longer support him. He, who never sat down if he could help it, now sank on to his leather-bound trunk like an old man.

  Mr Nightingale had arranged the tour. He had been reluctant at first, because as he pointed out, the engineers would not welcome a visit at this busy juncture, and there would be plenty of opportunity later on during the voyage; but the dollar bills Stravinsky had slipped into his hand had eased matters considerably.

  As for Thomas König, he was trembling with excitement. It was all he could do to remember his manners, and offer to let Stravinsky go first. Gravely, Stravinsky declined the honour. They entered Manhattan’s forward engine room, the boy leading the way, the composer behind him.

  The narrow corridor opened into a space as vast as a concert hall. The orchestra that was playing in it was deafening, overwhelming. Every range was filled, from the shrill hissing of cymbals to the thunder of basses and tubas, the deep concussions of kettledrums, the blare of brass and roar of cellos, the piping of flutes and piccolos.

  They gazed up at the columns and pipes of steel that were producing this colossal symphony, the banks of glass gauges, the immense wheels which vibrated the very teeth in one’s head. Billowing steam, escaping from gleaming valves, made the air hot and damp. The painted metal surfaces dripped with it, the faces of the men shone with it as they gazed up at the hundreds of dials, writing down the readings of each.

  ‘The temperature in the furnace is currently three thousand, five hundred degrees,’ the engineer shouted, his voice barely audible over the symphony. ‘It will go even higher when we’re under way. At full power, the boilers can consume forty tons of fuel every hour, and produce a hundred and sixty thousand horsepower.’

  Stravinsky was dazed. He could hear the hoof beats of those one hundred and sixty thousand horses, pounding out a rhythm of power and purpose. He had not expected this greatness, this might. He had wanted only to arrange a distraction for the boy, who had been crying again at the prospect of leaving everything he knew behind. They followed the engineer along the walkway between the towering banks of machinery. He was shouting out figures – seven hundred of this, fifty thousand of that – but his voice was mostly drowned out in the cacophony.

  Thomas, however, was transfixed, his pale eyes shining, his mouth half-open with wonder as he worshiped in this cathedral of steel, this temple of energy. His thin hands clutched at railings, as though his knees were weak. So many glass dials, red-painted wheels, so many brass and iron and aluminium and bronze shapes that gleamed, so many thick springs that compressed and opened under pressure of unimaginable forces. He was overwhelmed. He did not need to hear the figures to understand that this was a dwelling place of gods and monsters. As they approached the turbines, he gripped Stravinsky’s hand tightly.

  ‘Saturated steam is produced in these tubes,’ the engineer bawled at them, mopping his brow with an oily rag, ‘and is then superheated in the furnace before being fed into the engines at four hundred pounds per square inch and seven hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The hot fumes from the furnace are vented through the funnels. That accounts for the smoke you can see being made.’

  ‘I feel like Jonah in the bowels of the whale,’ Stravinsky said to Thomas, but the boy either didn’t hear or didn’t understand.

  ‘The Manhattan has four propellers,’ the engineer continued. ‘The technical name is screws. They are made of manganese bronze, and each one is over thirty feet high – taller than a suburban house. The outer propellers are driven—’ He was interrupted by a subordinate who had hurried over to him with a clipboard. He fell silent, studying the figures.

  The German boy was still clutching Stravinsky’s hand. They stood staring around them, feeling the thrumming of the giant turbine in their bodies. Stravinsky was suddenly aware that all this giant energy was devoted to one end – departure. This mighty engine had been set in motion
for the single purpose of taking him – and some hundreds of other souls – from Europe to America.

  The imminence of the voyage, which had somehow not seemed real to him until this moment, struck him like a physical blow. He felt dizzy, breathless. He was leaving France, leaving behind decades of his life, huge pieces of himself. He was leaving behind Vera and the dead. He was leaving everything that was his: and going to a world which was not his.

  His mouth fell open stupidly as he grasped the immensity of it all. One life had ended. Another had yet to begin. He was as helpless as though his physical body had been caught in these giant machines, and was being flung God knew where. He felt heavy. He took off his steel-rimmed spectacles, and tremblingly put them in his breast pocket. The engine room became a blur, but he no longer wanted to see its gleaming precision, anyway. Thomas König’s hand was gripping his tightly. ‘We are two wayfarers,’ he said, turning to the boy. ‘We are about to be set adrift on the currents of the world.’

  Thomas didn’t answer. The engineer checked his watch and turned to them, fist on hip. He stared at them with undisguised resentment.

  ‘I think he wants us to leave now,’ Stravinsky said to Thomas. The boy nodded obediently. He led Stravinsky out of the thundering chamber, carefully guiding the composer’s uncertain steps.

  Standing in the shadow of the Cabin Class lifeboats, Masha and Rachel Morgenstern were receiving an unexpected visitor who had come to see them off: a distant relation, Moshe Perelman, who had once played second violin in the Berliner Philharmoniker, before he’d lost his job to a non-Jew. He was in his seventies, looking pinched in a coat that was too thin for the weather, and shoes that were down at heel. He seemed to have fallen on hard times. Neither of the girls had seen him for many years, and might not (as they later agreed) have recognised him, had they passed him on the street, though he had once been very distinguished-looking. But for his part, he seemed grateful to be received by them.

  ‘I’m hoping for a sailing in the next month or two,’ he told them, rubbing his ungloved hands together with a papery sound. ‘Only, my documents are not through yet. I have applied to America, to Great Britain and to Argentina. One waits, one waits, one waits.’

  ‘We know all about that, don’t we, Masha?’ Rachel said.

  ‘You’ll never guess who is on the boat with us, Uncle Perelman,’ Masha said, wanting to cheer the old fellow up. ‘Igor Stravinsky. And Arturo Toscanini.’

  Uncle Perelman gave a laugh that was half-embarrassed, half-deprecatory. ‘Oh, I scarcely know who such people are any longer. That is no longer my world.’

  ‘Are you not playing in an orchestra here in Paris?’ Masha asked politely.

  ‘No, no, my dear. I have not performed in many years. They took, in any case, the fiddle away from me.’

  Masha recalled that Uncle Perelman had been the owner of a valuable instrument, a Stradivarius. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, yes. It was confiscated by the Reichskulturkammer. They said it was in danger of being damaged, played by such bungling hands as mine.’ He laughed again. ‘And I am sure they were right, quite right. I left Germany soon after that and came here to Paris.’

  ‘So what do you do now?’

  ‘I have a facility for figures.’ He tittered. ‘I do a little bookkeeping. On a small scale, you understand. It’s convenient for my customers. I go to their shops after hours and’ – Uncle Perelman fluttered his fingers – ‘I make the numbers come out straight.’

  ‘How clever of you,’ Rachel said, trying to sound bright. ‘And Aunt Perelman?’

  ‘No longer with us.’ He laid a finger on his lips as both girls began to utter condolences. ‘Thank you, but please, not a word. Her suffering is over. I carry her precious memory here.’ He touched his heart.

  ‘Uncle Perelman, you look so cold. We found this scarf on the floor, being trampled on. It’s a little dirty, but it’s very good quality, and I am sure it can be cleaned.’ Rachel held out the scarf she and Masha had found lying on the deck.

  Uncle Perelman inspected it wistfully. ‘It’s certainly very beautiful. But the rightful owner—’

  ‘I am sure the rightful owner won’t want it now that it’s dirty,’ Rachel said firmly. ‘Besides, he can certainly afford to buy another one. There are very rich people on board.’

  Uncle Perelman looked as though he were going to refuse, but his bony hands acted independently of his will, taking the wool scarf eagerly, and tucking it in his threadbare coat. ‘So kind, my dears. So very kind.’ He looked around him. ‘This is certainly a beautiful ship you have got here.’

  ‘Trust me, we’re not in Cabin Class,’ Rachel said. ‘We couldn’t afford this. We just sneaked here from the cattle sheds to look smart for you.’

  ‘It was very kind of you to come and see us off,’ Masha added. ‘Please send our love to everyone at home.’

  Uncle Perelman winced. He began rubbing his papery hands together again. He seemed very uncomfortable. ‘My dears, my dears. I have been asked to come to you to pass on some news. I wish there were more time for me to prepare you for it, but your beautiful ship is about to leave.’

  ‘News?’

  ‘Bad news.’

  Masha had gone very pale. ‘From Berlin?’

  ‘It is from Berlin.’

  ‘About our relations?’

  ‘It is about your relations.’ The old man, too, had become pale. He seemed to want to lead them to guess what his news was, rather than tell them directly. Masha saw his dry lips trembling, and she burst into violent tears.

  ‘They are all dead,’ she sobbed. ‘They’ve been killed.’

  ‘No, no.’ Uncle Perelman laid his hand on her arm compassionately. ‘Not killed, not killed. Only resettled.’

  ‘Resettled?’ Rachel repeated. Unlike Masha, who was now unable to speak, and Uncle Perelman himself, who was weeping openly, she was dry-eyed. ‘How comfortable that sounds. Who has been resettled, exactly?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Our parents?’

  ‘All four of your parents.’ Uncle Perelman wiped his sunken cheeks. ‘Your uncles, aunts, your grandparents, your cousins, everyone by the name of Morgenstern. They have all gone. Strangers are already living in their apartments.’

  Masha had buried her face against Rachel’s breast, feeling as though her heart was breaking. Rachel put her arms around her cousin. ‘And where have they been resettled?’

  ‘That is not known. In the East. That was all that was said. A full report will be given by the authorities when the resettlement is complete. They were allowed to take some clothing and personal possessions.’

  ‘How kind of the authorities. And in the East, where one hears that the climate is so healthy at this time of the year. We must be grateful to them.’ Uncle Perelman was unable to reply. ‘Is there no one left, then?’

  ‘No one,’ he replied.

  ‘When did this resettlement happen?’

  ‘The day after you left Bremen.’

  ‘You hear this, Masha?’ Rachel said to her sobbing cousin. ‘We have missed a wonderful adventure by a bare twenty-four hours. What atrocious luck.’

  Uncle Perelman stared at Rachel with bleary eyes. He seemed not to know how to respond to Rachel’s ironies. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to be the one to tell you this, but there was no one else. I have been very clumsy, and I apologise.’

  ‘You were very kind, Uncle Perelman,’ Rachel said. ‘You weren’t clumsy at all. We expected this to happen. We are the lucky ones, if you can call it luck.’ Her voice broke for the first time. ‘Though what we have done to deserve—’ She could not go on.

  ‘I urge you to be strong,’ Uncle Perelman said, mopping his eyes. ‘To love God, and to remember who you are, and where you came from.’

  ‘How can we love a God,’ Masha cried out, raising her head from Rachel’s shoulder, ‘who does this to us?’

  Uncle Perelman spread his hands helplessly an
d repeated, ‘Love God and remember who you are.’

  ‘I am going back to Germany,’ Masha said.

  The Manhattan’s horn, fixed to the forward stack, issued a great blare of sound, loud enough to vibrate the decks underfoot and send the last visitors scurrying for the gangplank. It sounded to Toscanini like the opening chord of some terrible Prelude. A steward laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder.

  ‘We cast off in ten minutes, maestro.’

  He nodded. The porter he had paid to carry his luggage ashore hurried up to the conductor, pushing a trolley.

  ‘Going ashore, maestro?’

  ‘Yes,’ Toscanini said, almost inaudibly. He shuddered all over, and rose slowly to his feet. The porter began loading the trunks on to his trolley. People streamed around them, shouting, laughing and crying. Toscanini pulled his fedora firmly on to his head, and squared his shoulders.

  ‘Okay. We go.’

  They made their way on to the gangplank. It was thronged with visitors streaming off the Manhattan. The quayside was now densely packed with many thousands of people. Paper streamers and serpentines were already cascading down the side of the ship, celebratory tokens on an occasion that had little of celebration in it.

  Toscanini’s eyes were full of tears, but he kept his chin held high. He did not look back at the liner he was leaving, its giant stacks pouring smoke. What would become of them now? Would they be trapped here by Hitler’s armies, after all? Were they doomed to end their days in a concentration camp, or against the pockmarked wall of a firing squad? Would they never see their children again? There were no answers to these questions. La forza del destino. It could not be resisted. He blinked away the tears.

  At the very bottom of the ramp, he was confronted by a rotund little woman bundled into a green coat with fur trimmings at the neck and sleeves, about to get on the gangplank. Her Loden hat was decked with enamel good-luck charms: a cloverleaf, a white rabbit, an edelweiss. She frowned at Toscanini.