The one redeeming feature was that the cabin was spacious and the beds set against opposite walls. I was half-expecting bunks or even hammocks and made the mistake of saying so to my mother, who scoffed at my overactive imagination (which you might have thought that, as an artist, she would have admired). ‘Just remember who you are,’ she said with an assurance that she had regained far more quickly than the rest of us. It was hard to equate the woman who proclaimed that we were bona fide passengers, not beggars, with the one who had prodded me in the car to prevent my antagonising Ernst. Given her more combative mood, I wondered how she would bear to share a cabin with Aunt Annette, especially since, as an acknowledged adult, I was no longer obliged to pretend that they liked each other – at least not to myself. Even if their bathroom were as big as ours, it would be too small for all the pots and potions that Aunt Annette, in an unusually martial flourish, described as her ‘war-paint’. I imagined their drawing an imaginary line across the room, or even a real one like Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. But they went off together in apparent amity, followed by Sophie and Luise, whom I had consoled with a promise to tap messages on the dividing wall. I was left alone with Grandfather but, far from treating me to a few wise words which would sum up the entire journey, he sat on his bed in a daze. I offered to help him unpack, although my mother’s reluctance to earmark cases for shipboard use made the prospect daunting. He didn’t reply, but simply sat trembling, his eyelids aflutter, rubbing the crown of his head. My search for some way to revive him was checked by the entrance of a steward, who announced that tea would be served at four o’clock and dinner at eight. After Hamburg and the furtive eating arrangements, not to mention Berlin where the only restaurants open to us were Chinese, there could have been no clearer sign of our return to grace.
My grandfather’s lethargy unnerved me and I told myself that it would be kinder to leave him to rest while I set out to explore. With painstaking precision, I determined to work from the promenade deck down and climbed the single flight of stairs from our cabin. Heaving open the door, I was hit by a pungent blast and the squall of seagulls, which, unique for birdsong, failed to move me. With the taste of salt on my tongue, I began to feel the excitement of the adventurer rather than the misery of the exile. Turning my back on Hamburg, I mapped out the territory from the quoits rings to the swimming pool. One glimpse of its grimy emptiness, however, dashed all my hopes of practising my favourite sport. I headed back inside, only to be warned by a passing sailor that the walkway was reserved for first-class passengers. Suppressing my annoyance, I assured him that I was eligible and entered a glass-covered area which, with its air of a convalescent home, struck me as perfect for Grandfather and Aunt Annette. I tried out one of the lounging chairs and, with a newfound deference, the sailor offered to fetch me a blanket. I declined but, to put him at his ease, asked a routine question about the tourist passengers.
‘They have their own deck,’ he explained. ‘Like this, only not covered.’
‘But in storms they must get wet.’
‘Not half as wet as us.’
Sensing a slight reproach, I left him and continued my tour. I passed a cinema which was closed, although its programme promised hours of excitement. I immediately set about scheming to win round my mother, who distrusted any activity that took place in the dark. I entered the games room which, from its air of well-upholstered luxury, seemed set up for nothing more strenuous than dice. From there, I went into the smoking room, which was dark and plush with panelling as mellow as its patrons’ cigars, and the social hall, which resembled a cross between a Tiergarten tea-room and a lecture theatre. Whether from a new spirit of freedom or an innate sense of anarchy, I felt a strong urge to bang the solitary drum sitting on stage, but – Edward, please note – I suppressed it. Finally, I wandered into the first class lounge, an airy room on two floors, which, with its sweeping central staircase, black-and-white marble tiles and elegant flower-festooned balconies, put me in mind of the ballroom at home.
Delicacy deterred me from visiting the rooms reserved for tourist passengers. I decided instead to sneak a glance at the nightclub, which I knew would be out of bounds to a fifteen-year-old whatever his ticket – not for the first time I wished that my new growth of hair had been on my upper lip where it might have served some purpose. From outside the door I heard a piano, but, as soon as I ventured in, the notes coalesced into one of the Nazi songs that had been stuffed into my mouth at school. My attempt to creep away was checked by a sharp voice from the dais. ‘Young sir,’ it announced in a tone suggesting that the two words stood in contradiction, ‘a moment!’ I turned to confront the speaker: a tall man with blond hair so fine that he might have been bald, a handsome, if flushed, face, and a rumpled steward’s uniform. He slammed his beer mug carelessly on the piano. His six companions, whose unfamiliar uniforms were in similar disarray, watched while he lurched towards me as unsteadily as if we were already at sea.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Just taking my bearings. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was private.’
‘Are you spying on me?’ He thrust his face in mine, sickening me with the sourness of his breath.
‘How can I be?’ I asked, determined to stand my ground, ‘when I’ve no idea who you are.’
‘Otto Schiendick,’ he said proudly. ‘Now you have me at a disadvantage. You are …?’
‘Karl Frankel-Hirsch,’ I replied, regretting yet again the compromise of my parents’ marriage.
‘Is one name not enough for you? Must you Jews have two of everything?’ He affected the same wit as the classics master who had referred to me as hyphenated Hirsch, until the joke wore too thin for even my classmates’ amusement. I remembered my mother’s claim that we were bona fide passengers and went on to the attack.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I asked. ‘There are people who may require assistance.’
‘I am Party representative on board,’ he replied, taken in by the tone that I had shamelessly purloined from my mother. ‘I have my own work.’
‘And your friends?’ I asked, intent on pressing my advantage.
‘They are firemen.’ He gazed at them wryly.
I failed to see why the ship needed so many firemen when it was surrounded by water. Schiendick, however, declared that a boatload of Jews brought its own danger. The voyage required particular vigilance against saboteurs. ‘But never fear,’ he said in a voice as curdled as his lip was curled, ‘we’re here to protect you.’
From the sneers on the firemen’s faces, I feared that their pumps might be filled with oil. My dignified exit was halted by Schiendick’s cry of ‘Heil Hitler!’ Turning back, I saw seven arms poised like javelins in the air.
I ran up two flights on to the open deck. I started to retch but willed myself to recover for fear that a passer-by should suspect me of a prematurely weak stomach. My attention was diverted by a strong tremor in the bowels of the ship, which I soon identified as the weighing of the anchor. A glance at my watch showed that it was seven forty-five: in a quarter of an hour we would be free. I rushed to the side to take a final leave of my homeland, with the same sense of security as when I had stared at the snakes in the zoo. My elation was echoed by my fellow passengers, crowds of whom now left their cabins to line the rail. I smiled at the instinct that made them congregate in a single spot while a solitary man occupied the prow. Then I noticed the man’s shaven head and shabby clothing and realised that there was another instinct at work. Defying the general cravenness, I wandered up to stand beside him but, far from expressing gratitude, he declined to acknowledge my presence. The stench emanating from his coat made me gag; nevertheless I was determined to conquer my disgust and attempt to strike up a conversation. I introduced myself and he finally turned towards me, revealing a far younger face than I had expected, apart from the eyes, which (and I swear to you that this isn’t hindsight) betrayed a pain that predated it by hundreds of years. It was almost with relief th
at I shifted my gaze to the visible mark of suffering on his forehead. Lost for words, I thought of my mother and asked if he were travelling with his family.
‘My family are dead.’
‘All of them?’ I asked, as if such misfortune must be relieved at least by a distant cousin.
‘All of them,’ he repeated, more in irritation than in grief. To keep from dwelling on such desolation, I asked if he were travelling with friends. His scornful laugh rendered his reply obsolete. ‘I have no friends.’
‘None?’ I asked, appalled that such a fate could befall an adult.
‘I had a travelling companion for whom I made the mistake of feeling compassion.’
‘Where is he?’
‘To the best of my knowledge, in Hanover.’
‘Was he imprisoned?’
‘No, by God.’ His need to vent his anger outweighing his relish of my confusion, he told the story. ‘You know what day it is?’ he asked, by way of preamble.
‘Of course. 13th May 1939.’
‘No. What day of the week?’
‘Saturday.’
‘Right. Tali was a Hasid who refused to travel on the Sabbath. We should have arrived yesterday morning, but we were pulled off the train by the Gestapo. We were questioned – not just verbally – for the rest of the day. We begged to be set free. We showed them our tickets. But it was a quiet afternoon and they wanted their fun. When they finally spat us out – and I mean spat – it was dusk. Tali sat outside the building. I told him that God would forgive him for breaking the Sabbath. I reminded him that the Rabbis had allowed soldiers to eat pork in the trenches. I promised him that he could atone by studying Torah for the rest of his life. But he wouldn’t budge.’
‘It’s dusk now.’
‘So?’
‘He might still come.’
‘How?’ he asked with stinging scorn. ‘Do you think God will send a chariot of fire to fetch him like Elijah?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But you mustn’t assume the worst. Perhaps they’ll let him transfer his ticket to another ship.’
‘It’s not him I’m concerned about, it’s me! How could I ever have lumbered myself with such a credulous fool?’
He peered at the shore, where the gathering darkness seemed to muffle the pain of departure. Unlike the other passengers, however, his eyes were fixed not on the lights of the city but on the docks.
‘Have you been to Havana before?’ I asked, with first-class politeness.
‘Oh sure. I was there in ’22 with Leni and Fritzi. We yachted over from Miami…. What do you think?’
‘I’m just trying to be friendly. You’re worse than the firemen.’
‘What firemen?’ For the first time I had captured his interest.
‘The ones who were singing Nazi songs in the nightclub.’
‘You boy,’ he said, as if it were the greatest insult. ‘They’re Gestapo agents.’
‘But we’re leaving Germany.’
‘We’ll never leave Germany.’
‘You mean they won’t let us sail?’
‘No. There’s no need to look so worried. Now I must go back to my cabin.’
‘To bathe before dinner?’ I asked over-eagerly.
He gazed at me and burst out laughing. ‘You’ve made me laugh. Thank you.’ Then he moved away, leaving me afraid both that I had betrayed my ignorance and that I might never have a chance to speak to him again. He was so alien from the world of my childhood that I felt sure we had met for a purpose. If I were to start a new life in America, then it would have to encompass, or at the very least acknowledge, men like him.
‘I don’t know your name,’ I said. He turned back and, without speaking, pointed to the scar on his forehead. As he disappeared down the deck, I was left to reflect on the gesture. Was he telling me that a blow to the head had left him with amnesia and he no longer remembered his name? Or was it a riddle whose clue was the scar? If so, my first answer, born of my love for gangster films, was Scarface. On reflection, however, I realised that it was far simpler: not a scar but a Mark. And, with renewed faith in my powers of perception after my failure with the firemen, I turned to watch as, following a mournful blast on the whistle, the St Louis slid sedately out to sea.
The departing ship was accompanied by a flotilla of small craft that clung limpet-like to the hull. A loud cheer rang out, so harmonious that it sounded rehearsed. I felt a surge of goodwill towards my fellow passengers: I may not have known their names but I knew what was in their hearts. The years of ignominy were over. Never again would I hurry down a street on which a Jewish boy was being beaten, or hide from a crowd that was forcing an elderly rabbi to dance. No sooner had I framed my resolve, however, than it was threatened by the man heading towards me. It must be hard for you children, blessed with parents who are, if anything, over-protective, to appreciate my hatred of the father who had abandoned me. To see him stroll down the deck so casually was my worst nightmare. Stifling a shout, I darted into the shadows and, steadying myself on a lifebelt, watched him walk by, as oblivious of my presence as he had been for the past eight years. I willed myself not to panic. Logic dictated that it must be a delusion, a repeat of my error with the vagrant. Although the likeness was uncanny, a moment’s reflection on the full head of hair and boyish face was enough to reassure me, since no one – least of all someone so gnawed by conscience – was immune to the passage of time. My treacherous mind was playing tricks, teasing me with a final image of home.
My stomach rumbled in confirmation. It came as no surprise that, having eaten nothing all day, I should begin to hallucinate. Help, however, was at hand. A glance at my watch showed that I was missing dinner. I raced back to the cabin to find my grandfather, in evening clothes, balancing a tray of soup on his knees. He assured me that he felt fine but added that the effort of dressing had drained him and he was not yet ready to brave the dining room. He demanded a full report, warning me to hurry as the others had long since left. Ashamed of having neglected him, I offered to stay but, whether he detected a note of reluctance or simply relished his solitude, he refused to hear of it. So following a quick change of shirt, I made straight for the dining room, where I was met by a maître d’ so schoolmasterly that I half-expected to be banished to the corridor for the duration of the meal. With a slight bow of the head, he led me to our table. ‘This is my son, Karl,’ my mother announced to the assembled company. A swift assessment of their ages convinced me that nothing would charm them more than a display of perfect manners combined with concern for their own generation. So I apologised profusely for arriving late, explaining that I had stayed to help my grandfather. Sophie shot me an ironic smile which I affected to take at face value. I sat between her and Aunt Annette, while my mother introduced me to our fellow diners: a retired professor of linguistics and his wife from Bremen and a banker and his wife from Cologne. It turned out that Mrs Banker (I trust you’ll forgive the nursery epithet since I cannot remember her name and, in view of all that occurred on the voyage, I’m loath to bury her in a fiction) had served in the Cologne branch of the Jewish Winter Aid Fund that my mother had chaired in Berlin. But any hopes she might have entertained that this would foster a shipboard intimacy were doomed to disappointment, since Mother regarded the work, however valuable, as a distraction and her colleagues as a bore.
My reflections were interrupted by the presentation of the menu. I could not believe its scope and, as I gazed at the wealth of dishes, it struck me that the greatest of all freedoms was choice. Mine, however, was cruelly curtailed when my order of asparagus followed by rack of lamb (largely for the picnic pleasure of eating with my hands) was countermanded by my mother on the grounds that I risked being sea-sick.
‘I’ve never been sea-sick in my life.’
‘You’ve never been to sea in your life.’
‘Exactly. So how can you know?’
She heaved a sigh which, to my exasperation, suggested that she was the one who was suffering. ‘He’s at
a difficult age,’ she declared to her new allies. Over the years, I had gleaned that this was equally true of middle-aged women (although, to my mind, it involved them in nothing more arduous than restorative trips to the hairdresser and beautician) and was preparing to say as much when Aunt Annette gave me a restraining tap on the thigh. We struck a compromise whereby I would sacrifice the lamb but keep the asparagus, which I took particular pleasure in jiggling in the sauce.
Leading us out at the end of the meal, Mother pronounced it to have been an ordeal, which was unkind because I could tell that Aunt Annette had been about to say how much she enjoyed it. One point, however, on which they did agree was that, after such a gruelling day, they needed to go straight to bed. Sophie, declaring that she had found her second wind, proposed to take coffee in the lounge. I offered to accompany her.
‘You don’t drink coffee,’ my mother said.
A Sea Change Page 5
