The Other Half of Life (18 page)

Thomas checked the clock. They still had half an hour until two. As they waited, Priska asked, “Are you nervous for your first game?”

Thomas shook his head. Perhaps Steffi Safier would be an excellent player, but the only person he was truly nervous about facing was Manfred.

Priska checked the clock again. Still fifteen minutes to go. She rose and made sure the water glasses were filled. With seven minutes to go, there was still no one there, and Priska walked to the chessboards. “Are the pieces all set up right?”

“Yes,” he assured her.

“What if no one comes?”

“They signed up. They're coming.”

“They could change their minds.”

“Then you and I will play each other,” Thomas kidded.

“Some game that will be.”

The door swung open and in came Paul and Claudia. Priska said a little too loudly, “Welcome to the
St. Francis
Inaugural Chess Tournament!”

“How clever of you to organize this,” Claudia said.

Others soon followed, and Thomas saw Priska take a deep breath. Manfred came and stood alone at one side of the room. At five minutes after two, Priska moved into the center of the room. “Thank you all for coming to the
St. Francis
Inaugural Chess Tournament. The first games are set to begin. Good luck to all.”

Thomas took his seat across from Steffi Safier. Manfred sat next to him, playing Paul. Steffi Safier reached out to shake Thomas's hand, and they began to play. It was a straightforward and one-sided game, with Thomas defeating her promptly, in only eighteen moves. He was done so quickly that he was able to watch Manfred play Paul. Paul was a nervous player. His eyes darted around the board, and he cleared his throat repeatedly between moves. In comparison, Manfred looked even more poised and calm. Thomas soon saw that Manfred's style hadn't been an aberration. If Thomas held out any hope that Manfred's win against him had been luck, it soon disappeared. Manfred chiseled away at Paul's pawns until they were weak,
doubled, isolated, and then ultimately gone. It happened so smoothly, so subtly, that after they had finished, Paul kept staring at the board and rubbing his chin. Finally he shook Manfred's hand and turned to face Claudia.

She pecked him on the cheek. “A tough loss.”

Paul blinked. “I don't even know where I went wrong. It just fell apart.” He glanced over to where Manfred was pouring himself a glass of water. “He's very good.”

Thomas heard Jürgen murmur to Wilhelm, “He'll be the one to beat.”

Thomas was still thinking about Manfred as he sat down for his second game. His opponent was a man named Franz, who had won his last game with a brilliant knight sacrifice that had raised a small commotion among the growing number of spectators.

Franz was old enough to be Thomas's grandfather. He had deep-set eyes that made him look intelligent and serious. As they arranged the pieces, Thomas noted how Franz did everything slowly and methodically. Before the game began, he linked his hands together and cracked his knuckles, something Thomas assumed he did before every game. Thomas wondered when that little habit of Franz's had begun. Likely many years ago. Franz had probably played thousands of games and learned from every one of them. Against such an experienced opponent as Franz, Thomas knew he couldn't rely on his own endgame skills—Franz would no doubt be familiar with king and pawn endgames
from the thousands of games he'd played. Instead Thomas decided to avoid piece trades, making the game complicated and tactical. In such positions, he could rely on his quick wit and outcalculate the older Franz. With this plan in mind, Thomas opened with the risky King's Gambit, known for its highly tactical nature. As he played the Gambit, Thomas felt confident. He was playing as he imagined Lasker would—using psychology to outwit his opponent before the first move was even played. Franz shrugged as he took Thomas's pawn sacrifice, not rattled by Thomas's aggressive opening choice.

In return for his sacrificed pawn, Thomas had a strong attack, and he worked hard to coordinate his pieces on the kingside. Just as he expected, the game soon became complicated.

“Why did he do that?” Claudia asked behind Thomas.

“Shhh,” Franz said, and the crowd tittered before quieting again.

Thomas looked over at Manfred, who was playing Wilhelm. If any player would have the presence of mind to beat Manfred, Thomas believed it would be Wilhelm. But he could see from the board that Manfred was dominating the game. He forced Wilhelm's pawns onto the same-color squares, leaving him practically immobilized and without options. Manfred's space advantage grew larger and larger as Wilhelm trapped himself with his own pieces. It was as if Manfred searched out whatever small weaknesses his
opponent showed and capitalized on them. If Wilhelm had proven to be no match for Manfred, then Thomas feared no one could beat Manfred, least of all himself.

Franz cleared his throat. Thomas looked back to the board. It was his move. He rubbed his eyes, trying not to get lost in the web of variations. But he could barely keep track of it all. He would calculate a move four moves deep, only to find the variation irrelevant because of an unexpected move by Franz. Soon pieces began to trade, and Thomas's attack looked to be fading. He glanced over at Manfred again. He wasn't even playing him and Manfred was still affecting his game.

Under the table, Franz tapped his foot. Thomas stretched his neck from side to side. He looked back at the board and there it was. The best move was staring right at him. It was as if the pieces had moved since he had looked away. He played it immediately and looked up at Franz to gauge his reaction.

But Franz's face remained stoic, revealing neither pride nor disappointment as the game continued. Franz went down a bishop, but he didn't seem upset or anxious. Thomas found himself thinking ahead instead of concentrating on the board. He saw Manfred stand up and shake Wilhelm's hand. The game was already over. Manfred had won. Thomas turned back to the board. He took a deep breath but his chest was tight all of a sudden. Everything had fallen apart. Franz had forced a trade of pawns, and now, even winning by a
bishop, Thomas wouldn't be able to queen his rook's pawn. He thought hard about ways he could salvage the game, but no progress could be made. As Thomas trapped Franz's king to the eighth rank, Franz looked up at Thomas with the first hint of emotion he had shown during the game. “Stalemate,” he said with a wise smile.

“What's that?” Claudia said from behind Thomas. “Did one of them win?”

Thomas shook hands with Franz and stood up to leave, feeling unsteady on his feet. He heard someone telling Claudia that it was essentially a tie. He had not lost. Thomas knew that. But it was little consolation for a game he had thought he would win. Manfred had infiltrated his mind and made him play poorly again.

“That was a bold strategy,” Franz said to Thomas. “Starting with the King's Gambit. Impressive.”

At Franz's compliment, Thomas felt his anger fade slightly. “Thank you. You were a tough opponent.” As he spoke the words, Thomas wondered if he was being too hard on himself. Franz was clearly a very skilled player and more than four times Thomas's age. Perhaps it wasn't such a comedown to have ended in stalemate. Still, if Manfred hadn't wormed his way into Thomas's head, he was sure he would have won.

“I've played a few games in my lifetime,” Franz conceded. A smile flickered across his face. “Do you know I saw Lasker beat Tarrasch? Back in '16.”

“In Berlin? When Lasker won five straight games after a draw in the first?”

Franz nodded. “Someone has taught you your history. You would have been only a baby in '16.”

“I wasn't even born yet,” Thomas said. “But my father told me all about Lasker. He used to watch him play at the Café Kaiserhof.”

“One of the finest players.” Franz tapped the side of his head. “He could read an opponent like no one else.”

“My father encouraged me to model my game after Lasker's. He said Lasker didn't always look for the best move but for the practical move.”

“Mmm,” Franz agreed. “Just so. Maybe you'll be able to see him play someday. If we all make it to America, that is. If we get these Cubans to come through on their promises. Lasker was one of the smart ones—he got out back in '33.”

Thomas had heard his father's version of the Lasker-Tarrasch game many times, and each time it was as exciting as if he didn't already know the outcome. Now he wanted to hear Franz's. He leaned forward, forgetting all about the stalemate. “ Lasker-Tarrasch, what was it like?”

“First you must consider the circumstances. It was the middle of the World War. Tarrasch had lost one of his sons in the war, and two of his other sons had died as well. He was in an unstable frame of mind. He had the advantage for much of the last game, and it looked as if Lasker was lost. His position was inferior, and he made a blunder on move fourteen
that gave Tarrasch an overwhelming edge. Everyone watching that day thought it was all over. But Lasker wasn't the sort to give up. He knew how to play psychological chess, and he made the game complicated to rattle Tarrasch's nerves. It worked. It took him thirty moves of patient fight, but it worked. He won back the advantage and the game.”

Thomas glanced out the window. He would have liked to stay and keep talking to Franz, but he noticed the
Ortsgruppenleiter
conferring with Kurt. “Excuse me,” Thomas said to Franz. “And thank you again for the game.”

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.

A
s 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.