A Sea Change

by Michael Arditti

  Pausing briefly to pour the tea, she paid tribute to the kindness of our fellow passengers who had made her welcome, even when she had forgotten herself one morning and ordered ham. She declared that she had never known any Jews before. ‘Except of course for Johanna’s father’, she added in response to her daughter’s snort. ‘I truly believe,’ she said, radiant with righteous fervour, ‘that all our problems would be solved by putting a group of Germans and a group of Jews together on a ship like this. After all, Jesus called all men his brothers. That includes the Jews.’ When I pointed out that Jesus was himself a Jew, she corrected me, saying that he had been a mischling like Johanna. There had been a recent government edict that, since he was conceived by the Holy Ghost, he only had two Jewish grandparents, St Anne and St Joachim. I couldn’t work out whether she were more pleased that her daughter’s anomalous state had such an august precedent or that Jesus had been freed from taint. Finally, after helping herself to another cream cake which, she declared blithely, would prove to be her downfall, she insisted that we young people should go out on deck where we would find many more enjoyable things to do than to listen to her, a sentiment that I guiltily endorsed.

  Johanna grabbed my hand and, eschewing the expected squeeze, virtually dragged me into the open air. I found it odd, given her ill-concealed contempt for her mother, that she had wanted me to meet her at all. Had it been me, I would have gone to the utmost lengths to keep us apart. My suspicion that it might have been a ploy to show me how much she suffered were borne out when, no sooner were we standing at the rail than she asked for my impression of tea, insisting that on no account should I try to spare her feelings. Wary of the pitfalls, I remarked on her mother’s youthful looks (couched as the less contentious ‘well-preserved’) and asked her age. ‘Old enough to know better,’ she said sourly, before amending it to ‘thirty-two’. Which meant that she must have given birth at eighteen: a mere four years older than Johanna was now. I grew sharply conscious of the promise – and danger – of her body and turned to face the sea. In a bid to anchor the conversation, I observed that my mother had had me when she was thirty, adding, in case she should suppose such tardiness to be a family trait, that it was due to the War.

  ‘I won’t ever have children,’ she declared. ‘I’ll be like Marlene Dietrich with a string of lovers.’ Although I had long looked to the cinema as a guide to adult emotions, there was an expression on her face, as there had been on Marlene Dietrich’s, that frightened me. When I pointed it out, she laughed, saying that I would have to marry a quiet little mouse who wanted nothing more than to take care of me.

  ‘I shall certainly marry someone,’ I said, ignoring her tone. ‘At his B’ris, a boy is sent into the world accompanied by three wishes: “May he enter a life of Torah, a life in marriage, and a life of good deeds.” God himself commanded us to increase and multiply. That’s one of the 613 precepts of the Torah a man is bound to obey.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to lap it up just because it’s in the Bible?’ she asked. ‘You’re as bad as my mother hiding the dog’s worming pill in his meat.’ Terrified that she would walk away, I assured her that, until I did marry, I planned to be a joyboy. She looked so startled that I was forced to explain that I had read in Der Stürmer that Jews were natural joyboys. Shaking with laughter, she declared that she would never have imagined anyone could be so stupid. I was stung but, presuming that she meant my choice of reading, I let the matter drop…. I know, of course, even as I write this, that Marcus and Leila and Edward will have seen my mistake, and I expect that, by the time you read it, you too, Susan, will be laughing with them. I trust, however, that while you mock your grandfather’s naivety, you will respect his nostalgia for a more innocent age.

  A sudden cloudburst drove us indoors. Dismissing her claim that she looked ‘a fright’, I invited Johanna to the first-class lounge and, with a nod to my cinematic mentors, offered her a cocktail. She accepted on condition that I did not expect any favours in return. I feigned horror that she should consider me capable of such base calculation, while knowing full well that she had turned into Carole Lombard to match my Cary Grant. We continued the charade until the waiter blew the whistle with his assertion that we were too young to be served alcohol. His veto failed to dampen our spirits. We applauded the band, denigrated the other passengers and speculated on the dinner menu as assiduously as if our apple juice had been gin and vermouth. I was especially proud of my new-found taste for olives. My mood was shattered, however, by raised voices at the foot of the stairs, which, on investigation, I found belonged to my father and the waiter who had previously shown him the door. I sank down in my seat and fixed my glance so intently on Johanna that she asked if anything were wrong. Her question was answered by the waiter who, approaching the table, apologised for disturbing us and told me that the gentleman from yesterday had returned and was demanding to see me. He – the waiter – had thought it best to consult me before throwing him out. I thanked him and, while insisting that there was no need to call the Purser, agreed that he should send him away. He wove such an eager path through the tables that I wondered whether he found any incident, however ugly, a respite from his routine. Johanna was intrigued and, dropping her mask of languor, plied me with questions about the intruder, refusing to be fobbed off with either an equivocal smile or a proposal that I ask the band to play her favourite tune.

  The waiter returned, although not to my rescue. His report of my father’s claim to be my father made Johanna’s eyes widen, to be joined by a dropped jaw at the subsequent appearance of the man himself.

  ‘I don’t say I’m his father; I am his father,’ he declared. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Fräulein, but I have to drag Karl away. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Please go,’ I said, ‘can’t you see that I’m busy?’

  The waiter, meanwhile, had summoned assistance with the same discreet nod with which he himself had so often been called to a table. In other circumstances, I would have admired the way in which they ushered my father out as coolly as if they were helping him on with his jacket, but, for now, my sole concern was that he should not compromise me with Johanna. To my relief, he put up no struggle, which I attributed to a history of forced exits from hotels and bars. He simply shouted that he could not shout but it was essential that I join him at once in my cabin. A moment later he was gone, plunging the company into apprehension and gloom at the sight of a fellow-passenger being led away by men in uniform, even one as innocuous as a waiter’s jacket. In spite of the band’s quickened tempo, the temperature fell sharply and two couples stood up and left. Johanna looked at me with suspicion.

  ‘He said he was your father.’

  ‘Well, he’s not.’

  ‘He knew your name.’

  ‘It’s no secret. You’ll find it on your passenger list.’

  ‘He looked like you.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you at school? All Jews look the same. That’s how they can pick us out.’

  ‘Those are ugly Jews. You’re good-looking.’

  Before I had time to digest the compliment, the waiter returned and, with undisguised relish, suggested that I file an official complaint. I refused and, having sent him away, explained to Johanna that it was for a very good reason. The man had lost his mind after his son was murdered by the Gestapo. He had spotted me boarding the ship and, on the strength of a slight resemblance (I looked at her pointedly), had taken me for the boy, who he was now persuaded had not been killed but deported. His wife, to whom I was indebted for the account, had begged me to humour him for fear of driving him permanently insane. Despite grave misgivings I had agreed, even going so far as to call him Father – a neat precaution, I felt, should Johanna overhear us in future – but things had got out of hand, as he hounded my every step, humiliating me in front of family and friends…. I was unsure whether I had convinced Johanna, but I had totally convinced myself and, with a sad sigh, I concluded: ‘I suppose that’s what come
s of trying to help people. It’s hard enough having one father without having to play-act for someone else.’

  Looking back from a distance of over sixty years, I see myself and shudder; however, I’m sitting at a sturdy desk in a book-lined study, not sailing precariously on the open seas (even Marcus at his most matter-of-fact must know that I’m not just speaking literally). I compare myself to Johanna who, for all her differences with her mother, had invited me to meet her, whereas I denied my father to his face. It would be easy – and less painful – for me to erase such moments from my account, but I’m determined not to make the mistake with you that I did with Johanna and pretend to be someone I’m not. I may not always like the person that I was, but I acknowledge him. Which was one of the lessons that I learnt on the voyage.

  Whether or not she were hoping for a fresh taste of drama, Johanna agreed to meet me by the lifeboats after dinner (I made a note to avoid spicy food). I returned to the cabin ready to plunge into a purifying bath but, as I turned into the corridor, I saw the Captain standing outside our door. My first thought was that he had been looking to swap notes with a fellow ornithologist. Then a wave of nausea swept over me and I stumbled towards him as though my brain and my legs were on different decks. Twisting his cap like the wheel in his hands, he expressed sympathy for my loss and pledged that he and his officers were at our service. I thanked him, and it now felt as if the dislocation were between my brain and my voice. He walked away, leaving me wavering on the threshold. I stepped inside and immediately wondered if I had misunderstood and the Captain, having read some secret file on our family history, had been offering his condolences on my parents’ reunion, for standing in front of me was my father with my mother in his arms, while Aunt Annette sat weeping softly at the betrayal. Then, as I followed her eyes to the floor, my theory – and my world – collapsed at the sight of my grandfather laid out like a memorial brass.

  My mind went blank. Elementary patterns of cause and effect eluded me. ‘What’s happened?’ I shouted. ‘Did he fall out of bed? Lift him! We must lift him up!’

  My mother, alerted to my presence, broke away from my father and clasped me to her as though I were six. ‘Your grandfather’s dead, my dear.’

  ‘Of course I know that! I can see that! I’m not a fool! But he’s on the floor. We can’t leave him there as if he’d been shot.’

  ‘The Rabbi says it’s the custom. But look, we’ve put a pillow under his head to make sure he’ll be comfortable.’ All my confusions about body and soul were exposed by the thought of making a dead man comfortable and I burst into tears, which prompted my mother to do the same, until maternal concern overrode filial grief and she composed herself enough to address me. ‘We mustn’t be sad – at least not for him. He was ready to go.’ I looked down at the frail husk of the man I had always looked up to and felt full of despair that people were not more like trees, growing stronger with age. ‘He was a good man. He had a rich and a happy life.’ I pictured his eyes which, even when he smiled, had been flecked with sorrow and I supposed that she must have been talking of a time before I was born.

  Incongruous, inconsequential thoughts raced through my head. ‘Are you sure the carpet’s clean?’ I asked her. Then I was seized by the fear that I might trip – or even tread – on him. The next thing I knew, I was sitting dazed in a chair, my mother and Aunt Annette standing over me, the latter holding a glass of water to my lips. ‘Drink,’ she said, as if she were trying to replace the water lost in tears.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Last week he was his usual self, taking charge of all the arrangements.’

  ‘He was determined to see us safely on board,’ my mother said. ‘That done, his strength gave out.’

  ‘He died for us.’

  ‘He was seventy-six,’ Aunt Annette said, ‘you’re fifteen. His fervent wish was that you should lead an honourable life.’

  Their commonplace explanations failed to convince me. His strength should have returned as we escaped from danger. There had to be another reason and, as I looked up at my father, it became clear. ‘Did Grandfather know about him?’

  ‘What about me?’ my father asked, butting in on our private conversation.

  ‘That he was on the ship,’ I said, sticking to the third person as resolutely as Luise.

  ‘Of course,’ my mother said, ‘your grandfather bought his ticket.’

  Deprived of my pet suspect, I tried a different approach. ‘Will they perform an autopsy?’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Aunt Annette cried, shielding the body as if I were wielding a scalpel.

  ‘Your grandfather’s heart gave out,’ my mother said. ‘It had dealt with so much.’

  ‘The doctor gave him injections! How do we know what they were?’

  ‘Morphine! To ease the pain. You must give up these morbid suspicions. You make it hard for everyone. It’s time to be a man.’ I looked at my father, who had faded into the shadows, and said that I would do my best. ‘Your grandfather loved you very much, Karl. He was so proud of you.’ I conceded that that might have been true when I was twelve. ‘He died calling your name.’

  ‘Karl?’

  ‘Karl.’ For the first time I forgot my own grief and felt my mother’s that the name had not been hers. ‘I sent your father to fetch you.’

  ‘I looked all over,’ my father said, ‘but you were nowhere to be found.’

  I refused the solace of a lie that was clearly designed to compromise me in the future. ‘Perhaps he had something to say to me,’ I said. ‘Something incredibly important that’ll now be lost forever.’

  ‘He could barely speak,’ Aunt Annette said. ‘The slightest sound was an immense effort. We heard “Karl”, but it might equally well have been “Aarh!”’

  I recalled myself in the lounge sending my father away and my guilt became as caustic as the grief that turned hair white overnight. ‘I might have saved him, if only I’d got here in time.’ My mother recovered some of her customary sharpness as she told me to stop talking nonsense. Nor did she demur when Aunt Annette suggested that he might have been calling for a different Karl, having clearly decided that the cost of asserting my unique place in my grandfather’s affections was too high.

  Further breast-baring was prevented by the arrival of the Rabbi, accompanied by the Purser and a steward. Our grief entered the public domain. My father slipped away in belated acknowledgement of his intrusion. The Rabbi placed his hands on my shoulders and, fixing me with his gaze, declared, ‘Blessed be the true Judge.’ The Purser offered more muted condolences, adding that he had come at the behest of the Captain to provide any assistance that we might need. The Rabbi took him at his word, asking first for a candlestick, for which the steward was dispatched to the dining-room, and then for extra towels to cover the mirrors in the bedroom and bathroom. He responded to my look of bewilderment by explaining that it was to prevent my grandfather’s spirit being caught in the glass. The task complete, he stationed himself at my grandfather’s head and, swaying back and forth in defiance of the ship’s sideways roll, murmured incomprehensible prayers. Lowering his voice, either out of respect or embarrassment, the Purser asked about the funeral. I was appalled by his haste and insisted that we could leave such decisions until we reached Havana. He replied that there were insufficient facilities to preserve the body on board (my grandfather had been so dehumanised by the Nazis that this final instance scarcely stung me), so we had no choice but to bury him at sea. ‘Flung overboard,’ I asked, ‘like refuse?’ He assured me that he would instruct the ship’s carpenter to make a coffin, complete with brass handles and a plate. My mother thanked him, but the Rabbi broke off his mumbling to point out that, since all men were equal in God’s eyes, the plainest wood would suffice. He also vetoed the use of the ship’s orchestra, on the grounds that nothing was required but our prayers. One point on which both Rabbi and Purser were agreed was that the ceremony should take place as soon as possible: the former because it was laid down by Law; the latter in
order to limit any disquiet among the passengers. They set a time of eight o’clock the next morning, barely twelve hours away. As the Purser took his leave, I bridled at the hole-in-the-corner arrangements. My sole consolation was that, on balance, it was preferable to be eaten by fish than by worms.

  The Steward returned with the candlestick and hurried away before he could be drafted into further service. As the Rabbi lit the candle, Aunt Annette muttered ‘He was the light of our lives’ so promptly that I was unsure whether it was her personal creed or a set phrase. The Rabbi placed the candlestick by my grandfather’s head, lending it a disturbing illusion of animation. He announced that it was time to wash the body, adding that there were three members of a burial society on board, waiting in the corridor to perform the task. He asked my mother and aunt to leave but presumed on my staying. I wondered if I might be reprieved by confessing that I was not bar mitzvah, but I was reluctant to risk his scorn. On entering, the men all followed the Rabbi’s lead and blessed the true Judge. I wedged myself into a corner, praying that I would not be called upon to do anything more than bear witness: my earlier horror of seeing my grandfather’s nakedness compounded by the prospect of touching his flesh. The men shamed me by their lack of shame, paying no heed to the nappy-like stains on my grandfather’s pyjamas. They washed every part of him (including the part which I was wary of handling even on my own body), treating him as tenderly as if we were in a hospital rather than a morgue. Finally, having used a sheet as a makeshift shroud, they bowed their heads in prayer, before shaking my hand and filing out.

  The Rabbi asked me to fetch my mother and aunt from their cabin. On our return, he inquired tentatively, as though aware of my grandfather’s lack of observance, whether we had a prayer shawl to place on his shoulders. I shared his surprise when my mother, whose reverence had long been reserved for the depiction of objects rather than the objects themselves, removed a small bag from a case and piously handed it to him. Her manner was partly explained by the shawl itself, whose white silk was shot with gold to form the most exquisite pattern, but more by her revelation that it had belonged to her brother. She turned to me and said that it would have been mine had I been … but, whether out of regard for the Rabbi or an unwillingness to resurrect painful memories, she broke off. The Rabbi, for whom the beauty of the shawl was secondary, announced that, before it was placed on the corpse, one of the tassels should be removed. I baulked at the desecration, which made my own rebellion seem so much more real. Not only was I losing my grandfather but this visible connection to his past. To add to my discomfort, my mother passed the shawl to me and said that I should be the one to pull off the tassel, which, in the event, proved to be so well stitched that it had to be cut. ‘You’re the man of the family now,’ she said, triggering the thought that my grandfather’s death was itself a kind of bar mitzvah and one that I could not escape.