Out on deck, Thomas tried to walk breezily past. He heard Holz tell Kurt, “I'll be back in a few hours. Keep a watch on things for me.” Thomas glanced at the gangway and saw a launch waiting. Holz leaned close to Kurt and said something that Thomas couldn't hear.
Kurt nodded and saluted. “Heil Hitler.”
The Ortsgruppenleiter answered with his own salute and headed off to the gangway. But before he could set foot on it, Manfred was in front of him, speaking loudly. “No shore leave. For anyone. Captain's orders.”
“I'm not just anyone,” Holz said.
Manfred repeated, “No shore leave.”
“Get the captain,” the Ortsgruppenleiter ordered.
Manfred turned on his heel, and Thomas wasn't sure whether that was the end of things. He wondered where he could stand without looking as if he was waiting to find out. Someone had left a copy of the shipboard paper on a deck chair. He picked it up and pretended to peruse it. Next to an article praising the pact between Germany and Italy was a notice of a U.S. Navy ship that had sunk during a test dive, killing twenty-three sailors. The paper made the United States seem weak for bungling a practice exercise and managing to kill its own men. Moments later Manfred returned with the captain.
“Do we have a problem?” the captain asked, standing close to Holz.
“You'll have a problem if you do not allow me to go ashore.”
Thomas had abandoned the paper to watch intently. The Ortsgruppenleiter and the captain were so caught up in each other that Thomas felt certain they wouldn't notice him. There were mere inches between Holz and the captain. Though the captain was shorter, he didn't seem to be any less powerful or to feel particularly intimidated. “No shore leave for anyone until we get this situation settled. This is my ship. My rules.”
Holz smirked. “This is the Führer's ship and the Führer's rules. Something you seem quick to forget.”
The captain spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “Then you will need permission from the Führer directly.”
The Ortsgruppenleiter didn't answer. Instead he stormed off. The captain and Manfred turned back toward the bridge, conversing among themselves. Thomas strained to hear but couldn't make out what they were saying.
Priska came on deck. “There you are. What are you doing?”
“The captain won't let Holz go ashore,” Thomas said. “And Holz is desperate to go. Why would he care so much unless he's counting on selling whatever he's smuggling?”
“Vati has news …,” Priska said. “About our situation.”
Thomas knew this should matter more to him, but he was still caught up in what had just happened with the Ortsgruppenleiter.
“The Cuban government wants more money to take us. Five hundred American dollars per person.”
“That sounds like corruption,” Thomas said.
“Maybe, but it means we'll be let in.”
“Nobody on this ship has that kind of money. Most of us could barely afford what we've already paid.”
“The Joint is working on raising the money. Some businessmen and fellow Jews in America have offered to contribute.”
Thomas shook his head.
“You have to have faith, remember?” Priska said.
He smiled at her, for her, but he knew faith was something you had to feel innately—it wasn't something you could will yourself to create.
Chapter Sixteen
As Thomas walked to the social hall the next morning for the second day of the tournament, he noticed how the ship had changed. People on the deck stood in clusters at the railing, talking furtively while pressing handkerchiefs to their eyes. The cushioned deck chairs, which only days before had held sunbathers, now stood empty. The sports deck was similarly barren, the shuffleboard cues and tennis rackets abandoned in a corner. No one swam in the pool, and even the children in the nursery played quietly.
Thomas threw open the door to the social hall to find a large crowd gathered. Here the talk focused on chess: who was to play whom, who would likely win. Priska had been right—the tournament was just what they needed. Thomas too was glad to see the chessboards ready and waiting.
He played Wilhelm while next to him Manfred faced off against Franz. As they determined who would play white, Thomas vowed he would not let Manfred into his head this time. He would play his own game and leave Manfred to play his.
Wilhelm won white and he opened with the Ruy Lopez. He played each move calmly, as if he were completely sure of himself. Thomas admired his style. His father had always told him chess was a confidence game—you had to believe at all times that you could win. If you were ever unsure of yourself, it could kill you. Thomas tried to match Wilhelm's confident style, and after twenty moves their positions were fairly equal.
Thomas surveyed the board. He saw an advantage on the queenside and, pushing up a pawn, began to gain space and initiative. As he envisioned it, Wilhelm would respond with a defensive rook move to the knight file, and Thomas would be well on his way to the win. Thomas felt a strong desire to look over at Manfred and Franz's game, but he forced himself to keep his eyes on his own board.
Across from him, Wilhelm straightened his spectacles. Until then Wilhelm had remained nearly still, so even that minor movement jolted Thomas. Wilhelm calmly moved his king's pawn up two squares. Jürgen groaned from where he was watching behind Thomas.
Thomas swallowed hard. He had been certain Wilhelm would move his rook, and now the move Thomas had planned next had simply evaporated. The whole game as he had seen it developing had changed dramatically with that one move. Thomas heard his father's voice in his head: An attack on the wing is best met with a counterattack in the center. Of course. How could he have missed Wilhelm's counterattack? Now, in just one move, the pendulum had swung to Wilhelm's favor.
Thomas returned his attention to the board. He was freezing, which seemed ridiculous since the room was hot and airless. Still, he tried not to shiver. Across from him Wilhelm was maddeningly calm. Thomas told himself that the game was far from over. If he lost, this time he could not blame it on Manfred. For the next eight moves, he focused hard and regained some of his lost ground in the center. He quickly made the game complicated—he would make this hard for Wilhelm. Finally he saw his chance. He found a rook move, and as the position began to simplify again, he was pleased that he'd regained equality.
Wilhelm looked visibly upset for the first time since the game had begun. He took his spectacles off and polished them, then mumbled under his breath. The position was equal, but Wilhelm continued to play the game as if he were winning. He moved his queen deep into enemy territory, trying to intimidate Thomas.
But Thomas played on Wilhelm's frustrations, allowing Wilhelm to advance farther and farther into his territory. Wilhelm moved his queen all the way down to the end of the board, ignoring his own king's defenses.
Thomas tried not to smile as he felt the game turning back in his favor. His queenside pawns were now very strong, and he started pushing them up the board. It took only moments for Wilhelm to realize what was happening, and he quickly tried to bring back his pieces in time to stop Thomas's pawns. But it was too late. Thomas moved a pawn up to the seventh rank. Behind him Jürgen whispered, “Ja, gut.” Wilhelm countered by taking Thomas's knight, but Thomas was not troubled because he knew that the pawn would eventually turn into a queen, which was worth far more. And two moves later it did just that. He had won.
“Good game,” Wilhelm said, extending his hand. “You played smart. You're learning.”
He heard Priska call, “Thomas!” He turned to see her rushing toward him. He didn't have a moment to celebrate or even to check on Franz and Manfred, who were still playing. He thought she was there to congratulate him but instead she said, “It's your brother. He's come alongside in a boat. He's been asking for you.”
Thomas jumped up, for the moment forgetting all about his win.
“Come on,” Priska said. “I'll show you.”
Thomas hurried aft
er her, not even feeling his feet as he ran. When he reached the railing, he looked down at the water, searching the many boats bobbing alongside the St. Francis.
Walter called out, “Thomas Werkmann!”
Thomas saw him and his heart surged. He had been too young when Walter had left to really remember him; never-theless Walter looked familiar. Thomas thought maybe it was because Walter's dark, thick hair looked like his father's. His father—he would have been proud of how he'd just played. He had kept his wits about him and not once made a rash move.
“Walter!” Thomas called back so loudly that it scratched his throat.
“Thomas!”
Now Thomas understood why the people he had seen calling down to family in the boats looked as if they might jump straight over the railing. It was all he could do to keep himself on board.
“You'll be let in … have patience. We're doing everything we can,” Walter said.
Thomas nodded, feeling heat behind his eyes. Seeing Walter made it real that he had someone waiting for him. He had family. It also made him miss his father terribly. He wondered what Walter would have done if he had been the one to come upon their father being beaten in the street. But there was nothing anyone could have done, Thomas told himself, as he had many times before.
Thomas wasn't sure what more he could say to Walter. It was too far away to hold a real conversation. Still, he was content just to look at him, to know he was there. But after a while the man with the skiff exchanged a few words with Walter.
“There are many others waiting to come out,” Walter called to Thomas. “I have to go back.”
Thomas held out his hand, offering a gesture between a wave and an attempt to somehow reach his brother.
“We'll be together soon,” Walter added.
The man started the motor. Walter waved and Thomas waved back, his whole body swaying. He watched his brother disappear, and wondered if he would ever see him again.
Thomas turned from the railing to see two stewards watching him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Just a precaution,” one said.
Before Thomas could ask what they meant, they had headed off down the deck. He turned to Priska, who was still next to him.
“Your brother seems wonderful,” she said.
“Do you know what that was all about? The stewards?”
“I heard Vati say some people are threatening to jump overboard and swim to shore.”
Thomas looked back out to where Walter had just been. Swimming to shore didn't sound like such a bad idea. If it would only work. But they would no doubt be brought right back to the ship.
After lunch Professor Affeldt enlisted Thomas and Priska's help. “The Joint wants us to compile a list of relatives of passengers who live in the United States. Then they can use the list to try to persuade the United States to let us in.”
“Have they given up on Cuba?” Thomas asked. He thought of his brother waving to him. He had no family in America.
“No, this is just in case.”
Professor Affeldt handed them paper and pen. “Work together. Get names, relationship to passengers, and addresses, if possible.”
The first person Thomas and Priska saw was Frau Rosen. “Let's skip her,” Priska suggested.
“No, we have to ask everyone,” Thomas said. He took the paper and pen from her. “I'll do it.”
Priska grabbed the paper back from him. “If anyone is doing it, it's me. I'm not watching you stutter and make eyes at her.”
Thomas stopped and turned to her. “You're much more beautiful than anyone on this ship.”
Priska smiled, and together they approached Frau Rosen. Priska said in her most pleasant voice, “Excuse me, gnädige Frau.”
“What do you scoundrels want?” She glared at Thomas and he immediately looked at the deck. Then he thought Priska might assume he was looking at Frau Rosen's legs, so he turned his eyes to the harbor.
“As you may know, my father is on the passenger committee,” Priska began. “We're compiling a list of relatives of passengers who live in the United States. Would you happen to have a relative there?”
Frau Rosen straightened. “Yes, indeed, my husband.”
“Wonderful,” Priska said. “May we have his name and address?”
Frau Rosen gave them the information and Priska wrote it down.
“Are we going to make it?” Frau Rosen asked.
Thomas was taken aback, as if they could somehow know the fate of a whole ship. But by this point, everyone was looking to someone—anyone—to reassure them. “We don't really know any more than you do,” Thomas said.
Priska smiled. “God willing.”
They thanked Frau Rosen, but before they left, Priska said, “Also, I must apologize … about the soap on the door handle.”
Frau Rosen reached out and pinched Priska's waist. “Such a pretty girl. You will break many boys' hearts.” She winked at Priska. “As for the prank, I was young once too, no?”
They spoke to thirty people, a fraction of the nine hundred passengers on board. But it was a start. They slumped down on a bench for a few moments.
A launch came up alongside the ship. Thomas stood to get a closer look. “It can't be.”
“What is it?” Priska asked. She stood up too and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Holz.”
“He must have received permission from the Führer himself.”
The launch came closer and Thomas cursed under his breath. There was no doubt—it was him. The launch pulled up to the gangway. The Ortsgruppenleiter came aboard.
“He looks the happiest I've ever seen him,” Priska said.
“Because he's probably just sold everything he stole and made a fortune for the Reich. A fortune to spend on the war effort. If Hitler himself overruled the captain, then Holz has to be smuggling for the Reich.”
“He still has the cane.” She turned to Thomas.
“That's probably where the money's hidden now.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don't know yet.”
Thomas's eyes were glued to that cane. He opened and closed his fists. Somehow he would get his hands on it.
Priska checked her watch. “I should go see my father. And you need to get ready for the final game.”
Thomas mumbled, “Yes,” still preoccupied with the Ortsgruppenleiter.
“You play Manfred next. He's undefeated. He's been playing very well.”
Thomas snapped, “Whose side are you on?” But he immediately apologized. “I'm sorry. Seeing Holz—I just can't believe he got permission from Hitler.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair. It meant whatever Holz had was extremely valuable. It must have been worth hundreds of thousands of reichsmarks. All Jewish money that would go to funding the Reich and the war.
Priska said gently, “I'll be back to watch you play, after I check in with Vati.”
In the remaining hour before the game, Thomas's thoughts shifted from the Ortsgruppenleiter to playing Manfred. Since he was undefeated, Manfred was winning the tournament. Thomas, with no losses and only the one stalemate, was in close second. If he beat Manfred, he would have enough points to win the tournament. Winning the tournament didn't matter as much to Thomas as beating Manfred; it just happened that with one came the other.
Thomas imagined that Manfred would play an opening similar to the one he'd used in their first game. He remembered the advice Wilhelm had given him: respect his style but play the game as you have been schooled to play it.
The room was filled with people as Thomas sat down across from Manfred. He determined to simply play chess this time. He didn't want to look at Manfred, let alone talk to him. But there was Manfred, smiling at him. “We get to play again.”
“Yes,” Thomas replied. He tried to pretend he hadn't been waiting for this moment since the last time they had played. He tried to pretend that this didn't feel crucial to him, but the crowd wasn't helping. Behind him, people whispered an
d murmured, adding an intensity to the game before it had even begun. There was also something unsettling about knowing that every move he made would be judged by so many people. To make himself feel better, though, Thomas reminded himself that everyone wanted him to win. Everyone wanted nothing more than to see Thomas beat Manfred.
Manfred leaned back in his chair. The crowd hushed as he pushed his queen's pawn up two squares. He didn't lift the pawn, or even look at it; he stared at Thomas as he made the move. And when Thomas challenged his center, Manfred immediately played his bishop's pawn up, entering one of the most daring openings: the Queen's Gambit. Before, Manfred had neglected the center and played like Nimzowitsch, but now he challenged Thomas in one of the most popular and testing lines in chess. Thomas took a deep breath. He knew that those gathered couldn't possibly understand what was really going on between him and Manfred. They didn't know that Manfred had beaten him before while playing unconventional moves and now he was revealing that the whole time he had known the classical systems. They didn't know that he and Manfred had fought over Priska. But they did know that this was a game of passenger against crew, of Jew against Nazi.
Thomas didn't dare look at Manfred after the first moves. Instead he bit his bottom lip and managed to make the next two moves with a steady hand. It was important to show Manfred he was not afraid.
Manfred moved out his bishop and, when Thomas attacked it, retreated it as if he had played the opening for years and years. Thomas sighed. He could do nothing to surprise Manfred. Thomas reached for his queen's bishop's pawn—he always pushed a pawn here. But he stopped short. He could see Manfred frowning at him as his hand hovered over the piece.
“What's he waiting for?” Claudia whispered behind him.
“He's already stuck.” Thomas recognized Kurt's voice and looked up to see him standing behind Manfred.
Thomas brought his hand back to cup his chin and let out a sharp exhale. He tried to figure out what Manfred was thinking and how well Manfred actually knew the Queen's Gambit. Thomas could play the queen's bishop's pawn as he usually did. If it worked, the momentum would swing swiftly in his favor. But if Manfred was expecting the move, it would only bring Thomas trouble.
The Other Half of Life Page 13
