The Other Half of Life

by Kim Ablon Whitney

  Frau Affeldt was lying in a deck chair, her eyes closed. Professor Affeldt sat next to her. Thomas noticed the porcelain bowl in Professor Affeldt's hands, and was grateful that it was empty.

  “Are you all right, Vati?” Priska asked.

  “She's asleep, I think, which is good,” he answered. “The doctor gave me some wheat wafers for her when she's able to get them down. He also suggested exercise. Apparently the half of the passengers who aren't up here are in the gymnasium.”

  The ship lurched. Thomas tried not to look at the water and to ignore the groans of the ship's beams. On the bridge he saw the captain. Manfred was with him and they were surveying the deck, pointing and gesturing to the sick people.

  “I'll be right back,” Thomas said. He walked over to where the captain was now descending the stairs to the deck. The captain walked steadily, as if his years on the sea had truly given him sea legs. Manfred had disappeared back inside the wheelhouse.

  A few moments later, Ortsgruppenleiter Holz came out. He was pale and staggered as he walked. Again, Thomas wondered why a landlubber like him would ever be assigned to a ship.

  “I just saw the captain's steward,” Holz barked at the captain. “He said we're switching directions?”

  The captain never took his eyes off the deck. “I can't have my passengers this sick.”

  The Ortsgruppenleiter took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over his mouth and nose. Thomas realized he himself had grown used to the stench. “It's just seasickness. They'll recover. If we change course, we'll lose time.”

  The captain stood erect; Holz was near to buckling over. “I don't want to slow down either,” the captain said, finally turning to look at him. “That's about the only thing we both agree on, but I will not risk my passengers' health either.”

  Thomas liked the way the captain referred to them as “my” passengers. It seemed fatherly, as if his job was to protect them. But Thomas also told himself that even if for some inexplicable reason the captain wanted to protect them, it didn't necessarily mean he would be able to.

  The Ortsgruppenleiter narrowed his eyes at the captain. “This will be in my report.”

  “I have no doubt it will,” the captain said.

  Holz shook his head and shuffled off. The ship pitched again and he stumbled. Thomas noted that he used his bad leg to steady himself.

  “What was that about?” Priska asked, coming up alongside Thomas.

  “We're changing course to get out of the worst of the storm.”

  “That's excellent news,” Priska said.

  “Except it means we probably won't reach Havana on schedule, which the Ortsgruppenleiter didn't like. He doesn't seem to like the captain either.”

  Even though the captain had returned to the wheel-house, Thomas was still looking at the bridge, puzzling over the interaction he'd just witnessed. Lost in the intrigue, nearly forgetting that Priska was there next to him, he continued, “I don't trust that man and I'm going to watch him. I'm going to watch everything he does from now on.”

  “I'll help,” Priska said. At her voice, Thomas turned to her. The sea spray had dampened her thick eyelashes and made her curly hair even wilder. Her cheeks were red from the wind. She added, “We'll do it together.”

  “No, this isn't some prank. This is serious.”

  “I can be serious,” Priska said. “We'll find out what he's doing … together.”

  She was so earnest Thomas could hardly say no. He told himself she was daring and fearless. She was willing to take risks. His mother had always worked in tandem with his father. They talked things through, relying on one another to see what the other might have overlooked.

  “All right,” Thomas said.

  Chapter Nine

  Thomas had only been to the pictures once in his life. And he hadn't really enjoyed it. “How could you have seen only one picture when you live in Berlin!” Priska practically shrieked.

  They were standing on deck looking out at the Azores. A halo of morning fog hung over the ship, and the mass of land was just barely visible. Even though the waters had calmed, many people were in their cabins, still recovering from the storm.

  “If I had lived in Berlin, I would have seen hundreds of pictures,” Priska rattled on. In fact, she had seen fourteen before Jews were no longer permitted in cinemas, and she recounted the title and the plot of each one to Thomas.

  “My favorite, favorite, favorite picture is Mazurka. It's about a talented opera singer who performs at the Grand Opera House in Warsaw, but she's planning to leave her opera career to marry this rather boring man and become a Hausfrau. Then Vera—that's her name—meets a famous composer, Grigorij, and he falls in love with her and tells her she'll never be happy marrying Boris—that's the dull man.” Priska talked at a rapid pace and gestured as she continued to explain the plot twists, which Thomas had increasing trouble keeping up with. “She marries Boris, they have a daughter, then he goes off to fight in the World War. She's home with the baby and terribly lonely, so she goes out for a night on the town with her friends and whom should she meet but Grigorij, who is still infatuated with her. Boris comes home wounded from the war, and Vera wants to tell him that Grigorij has been telephoning her and sending letters but nothing romantic has happened between them. Still, she can't bring herself to tell him, so instead she goes to beg Grigorij to leave her alone, once and for all. Boris sees them together and is convinced they are having a romantic affair. He divorces Vera and takes their daughter, Lisa. Vera is left to make a living singing in seedy nightclubs—a woman who once sang at the opera house! Every town she goes to, she searches for her daughter. Then one night her daughter shows up at one of the nightclubs and who is she there with?” Priska paused to raise her eyebrows. “Grigorij! Vera sees Grigorij trying to seduce Lisa, and she pulls out a gun”—here, Priska made an imaginary gun with her hands and aimed—“and bang, shoots him dead. Vera goes to prison for his murder, but it's worth it because she saved her daughter from the fate she herself knew all too well.”

  Priska closed her eyes and covered her heart with her hands. She started singing, “Ich liebe dich und du liebst mich. …”

  She had a pretty voice and delivered the lyrics, which Thomas assumed must be from the picture, in such a heartfelt manner that he couldn't help but smile. She swayed as she sang, and Thomas loved being able to watch her without feeling self-conscious. When she finished, she said, “Someday you have to see it. You'll fall in love with Pola Negri. She plays Vera. Oh, she's stunning.”

  “Pictures just seem fake to me, nothing like real life,” Thomas explained.

  “That's why I love them,” she said, shaking her head at him.

  Thomas moved the toe of his shoe back and forth along the deck, which was still damp from the early-morning swabbing and the fog. He saw Günther approaching and sighed, wishing he and Priska could have been alone together longer.

  “How's your mother?” Günther asked Priska, coming to stand between them.

  “She's much better, thank you.”

  “It was a horrible storm.”

  Priska looked out at the sea, which was perfectly flat now. Her face brightened and she pointed. “Look! Windmills! Can you see them?”

  “No ….” Günther strained to see. “Yes!”

  Thomas craned his neck but at first he couldn't make them out.

  “There,” Priska said, moving closer to show him.

  Finally he spotted them, and he felt a tiny rush of connection, more from seeing what Priska and Günther had seen than from seeing the land itself.

  “It's easy to forget there's a whole world out there,” Günther said. “Sometimes it feels like we'll always be floating on this ship.”

  “It's because it's hard to imagine what Cuba will be like,” Priska said, pushing a stray curl from her face. “We're almost halfway there, you know. Only eight more days.” She stared out at the islands and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned to Günther. “You're
going to the pictures tonight, aren't you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She gave Thomas a sidelong glance. “Thomas thinks pictures are silly. Right, Thomas?”

  “They just don't seem real.” He didn't like how suddenly it was as if Priska and Günther were best friends and he was the odd man out. He wished he had just lied and said the pictures were great.

  “Which is exactly the point,” Priska countered.

  “So you're not going?” Günther asked him.

  Thomas thought Günther sounded hopeful. He opened his mouth but Priska answered for him. “Of course he's going.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  Priska sat between Thomas and Günther. Marianne sat on the other side of Thomas. In the row behind them were Professor Affeldt and Günther's father, whose hair had grown out ragged from where it had been shaved. It stuck up oddly around his skullcap. Thomas tried to picture his own father with a shaved head, but it was hard to do. Frau Affeldt still wasn't feeling well and had skipped dinner too. When Thomas had said, “I thought she was feeling better,” Priska had rolled her eyes.

  The lights dimmed and the theater quieted. Thomas sat back in the plush velvet seat, telling himself to give the picture a chance. He could feel the energy in the air as everyone awaited the show. He hoped Priska was right and the film could be a welcome escape after all. For two hours they could forget being forced to leave their homes and the uncertain future that lay ahead for them. The projector hummed to life and the image crackled onto the screen. But instead of being transported into a faraway fantasy world, they saw Nazi soldiers on motorbikes and bicycles riding on snowy country roads. The voice-over began: “After Slovakia declared its independence, the state of Czechoslovakia was threatening to crumble. Thankfully, President Hácha put the fate of the Czech State into the hands of the Führer. Despite icy roads and massive snowstorms, the German troops and their Führer marched into Prague according to plan.”

  People around Thomas gasped. He balled up his fists tightly. The gasps turned to complaints. The grumbling grew louder.

  “This is insulting and outrageous!” Frau Rosen called out.

  She was close enough to Thomas that he heard her mutter to herself, “Threatening to crumble—the Czech State was doing no such thing. Thanks to France and Britain, he just marched in and took over. Sometime soon a country is going to have the courage to put up a fight, and then there will be war.”

  The newsreel continued. Motorcars and troops spilled into the city of Prague. Hitler waved from his motorcar and then descended to greet women who smiled and held their hands to their throats as if they couldn't breathe from the excitement of being so near to him. A band played triumphant music in the background. “Many students and organizations welcomed the Führer. Thousands thanked him for finally bringing Czechoslovakia back home into the Reich, where it belongs.”

  Oskar and Elias were sitting down the row from Thomas. They stood up and moved down the row, bumping against Thomas's knees in their haste. From the row behind, Günther's father put his hands on his son's shoulders.

  “Let's go,” he said.

  Günther stood up. “I'm sorry,” he said to Priska.

  Thomas's impulse was to leave too, not to stand for being made to watch this. He scolded himself for thinking that two hours of pleasant distraction would even be possible.

  Priska turned around to her father, her eyes wide. “Can we stay?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I want to see the picture.”

  Günther squeezed past them with a last regretful look at Priska.

  Thomas moved to the front of his seat.

  “Are you going to stay?” Priska asked him. “The newsreel will be over soon.”

  He hesitated, torn between what felt right and what he wanted to do. He wanted to stay with her. He spotted Wilhelm and his wife. They were staying, as were Paul and Claudia. Thomas sat back in his chair but he still felt uneasy.

  The picture started. It was an older film starring the great German boxing champion Max Schmeling. He played the role of Max Breuer, an electrician working backstage in a theater in Berlin. When a burly actor made advances toward a young, beautiful aspiring actress, Max came to her rescue, beating the actor up. By virtue of the fight, he was discovered for his talent as a boxer and invited to train at an elite German boxing school.

  Thomas watched as Max gave and took blows throughout the picture, but in his head Thomas kept seeing Hitler, his marching troops, and all the adoring people waving handkerchiefs and flags. The only time he could push Hitler from his mind was when he snuck glances at Priska. At the end, when Max won the final match and kissed the young actress, Priska's eyes were half-closed and her face was upturned, as if she were the one being kissed. He closed his own eyes for a moment and remembered how her body had felt against his.

  No one in the half-empty theater clapped when the picture ended, and it was silent as they filed out. People moved in front of Thomas and he lost Priska, Professor Affeldt, and Marianne in the crowd. He got stuck behind an elderly woman. He wanted to push around her but he knew it would be rude. He saw Priska again when he reached the door to the hallway, but Professor Affeldt and Marianne were gone. Instead she stood with Manfred.

  Thomas stopped short. He heard Priska say, “It wasn't my favorite picture but I did love the final match. It was so exciting. I felt like I was in the ring with Max the whole time.”

  “Have you seen Die Nacht der Entscheidung?” Manfred asked.

  “I would have loved to. I adore Pola Negri.”

  Thomas wanted to tell Manfred what an idiot he was, and how cruel too. Of course Priska would have loved to see that picture, but Jews weren't allowed in cinemas anymore. How could Priska not be offended that he had said that to her?

  “She is something special, isn't she,” Manfred agreed.

  Thomas felt sick to his stomach, more so than he had at any time during the storm. He had stayed for her when he should have left, as many others had. And now to see her chatting so easily with Manfred! Did she not have any sense about her? Thomas turned and hurried out the other exit. As he left, he told himself that he was angry because Priska didn't understand the serious nature of their situation. That she treated everything as if it were a game. But he knew it was also because she seemed to actually enjoy Manfred's attention.

  He shouldn't have gone on deck that night. But even after what she had done, he still wanted to see her. He played out in his mind what he'd say to her. Didn't you see the newsreel? he imagined himself saying. They played that to show us how things really stand. And then you talk to Manfred like he's a friend?

  It was a foggy night, and Thomas couldn't even see the water around the ship, let alone a single star in the sky. The wind was strong and he tightened his overcoat around him.

  When Priska came on deck, all his practiced words disappeared.

  “Where did you go after the picture?” she asked, coming up beside him. “I was waiting for you.”

  Either she had no idea that he had seen her with Manfred, or she didn't understand what was so wrong with talking to him in the first place.

  He said in a clipped tone, “I went out the other way, that's all.”

  “I waited for you. Vati and Marianne had gone to check on Mutti.”

  The ship's foghorn blew, and moments later another ship answered far away.

  Thomas didn't reply, and Priska said, “Did you like the picture?”

  Thomas wouldn't look directly at her as he spoke. “I found it hard to pay attention after the newsreel.”

  “It wasn't my favorite,” Priska continued. “But I did love it when Max knocked out Hawkins in the end, didn't you?”

  Thomas offered a barely perceptible shrug.

  “Is something wrong?” Priska asked.

  Thomas didn't know why he wasn't telling her how he really felt, how upset he was that he had seen her with Manfred. Except maybe it was
because that would show her that he cared for her. And perhaps deep down he wished he could be as carefree as she, as blind to everything going on around them.

  “Well, if you're not going to talk to me, I'm not going to keep standing here,” Priska snapped. “I could get in trouble with my parents if they knew I was sneaking out to meet you.”

  Her voice was as close to angry as he had ever heard it, and it sent ripples of surprise through Thomas's body. Before he could say anything else, she turned and, with a toss of her curly hair, walked away. To meet you. She had said that she snuck out to meet him.

  Thomas waited a few moments and then went after her. He was all alone on this voyage, and in the world for that matter, and Priska wanted to be his friend—perhaps even more than a friend. He would be stupid to let her go so easily.

  He was reaching for the handle to the door to the stairwell when she pushed it back open. It hit him squarely in the nose. “Ow!”

  “Shh!” She grabbed his arm, pulling him inside the passage and down the first few stairs. “Quick.”

  He followed her, putting one hand to his nose to feel for blood, but it was dry. She stopped a few steps shy of the landing. Voices echoed up the stairwell.

  “They can't just decide to make a new law now,” someone was saying.

  Thomas recognized the voice of Ortsgruppenleiter Holz: “Cuba can do whatever they want.”

  “They can just decide the landing permits are worth nothing and not let them in? Just like that? What are we supposed to do with them?”

  Holz said, “We'll drag them back if we have to.”

  Thomas thought of his own landing permit. His mother had danced him around the kitchen the day she'd secured it. It was one thing to have the money to afford your escape from Germany, and another thing to find a place to escape to. But to Thomas the permit had always seemed like just a piece of paper, and he had never put much faith in paper.

  The men's voices faded as they walked away, leaving Priska and Thomas alone on the stairs.