The Other Half of Life (3 page)

Herr Kleist grunted and rolled away from Thomas.

Thomas straightened his navy blue tie once more. His face looked too angular in the shaving mirror—all sharp lines and severe points. He smiled at himself to see if it made his face look more pleasant, but then he returned his lips to their usual flat line. Why did he care what he looked like? He didn't want to dine with the Affeldts in the first place. He couldn't bear to look at their happy, smiling faces all night long.

Thomas headed for the door. When he came upstairs to the first-class dining room, he was breathing hard from the flights of stairs and from nerves about the meal ahead. He peered into the half-full dining room, trying to steady
his breathing. The tables were set with white linen tablecloths and crystal glasses. Waiters in white coats and black ties scurried from table to table.

“I'm dining with the Affeldt family,” he told the hostess once he had summoned the courage to actually enter the room.

“Yes, the cousin,” said the woman, who was dressed in a black gown. “Right this way.”

Thomas followed her over the gleaming black-and-white checkered floor to the Affeldts' table. Except for the slight vibration underfoot that made the fresh flowers on every table tremble, Thomas would have thought he was at one of the finest restaurants in Berlin.

“Thomas, welcome,” Professor Affeldt said, standing to greet him.

Thomas thanked him for the invitation to join them and sat down in the open seat next to Priska. He remembered his posture, straightening in his chair.

“Isn't this grand?” Priska said as she surveyed the room and the well-dressed passengers. She turned to look at her mother. “Mutti, grand, isn't it?”

“Yes, grand,” Frau Affeldt said with little emotion. She had curly hair like her daughters but her complexion was pale, almost unhealthy.

The meal began with caviar and toast, crudités and olives.

“I guess they've never had a ship full of Jews before,”
Professor Affeldt said as the caviar was placed in front of him.

“We don't keep kosher,” Priska said to Thomas. “Do you?”

“No.” He glanced at the nearby tables—some people were eating the caviar, others pushed their plates away. Thomas had seen the kosher shops in Berlin, but he didn't know exactly what people who kept kosher could or couldn't eat. He had never really thought much about it, but now he was curious. Still, he didn't want to ask and risk seeming dim.

Priska passed her olives to her sister. “Marianne loves olives. Isn't that odd?”

“Vati says I have incredibly cultured taste for a ten-year-old,” Marianne said.

Priska rolled her eyes. “No, you just have a bottomless stomach.”

Thomas himself had never had olives or caviar, but his mother had taught him about both. He knew he was to eat the olives with a fork, not with his fingers, and to return the pits discreetly to his small dinner plate with his fork. He knew that even if he found the caviar delicious, he should only take a teaspoon or two at a time—that there was nothing more gauche than gorging yourself. In fact, his mother had taught him how to eat almost any food imaginable: artichokes and oysters, pistachio nuts and lobster. At the time he had thought she was crazy, but she insisted that he
be knowledgeable about the finest things in case he was ever put in a situation where ignorance would bring embarrassment. He had the feeling that she herself had grown up privileged, eating all sorts of fancy foods, but she never liked to talk about her life before she had met his father. All he knew was that she had left that life and her family behind and that her parents hadn't approved of her marrying a Jew, especially a Jew who had been married before, even if he was a widower.

Next the waiter brought salads of iceberg lettuce and cucumbers. Thomas chewed slowly and sipped his water in between bites. He noticed that Frau Affeldt had not touched any of her food.

“So tell us your story,” Professor Affeldt said.

Thomas swallowed carefully. “What story is that?”

“Where you're from. How you came to be traveling alone.”

Priska explained, “My father's a professor of German literature. Everything's a story to him.”

“
Was
a professor of German literature,” Professor Affeldt corrected. “Before I was removed from my post.”

Thomas hurried through the pertinent details: “I'm from Berlin. After
Reichskristallnacht
my father was declared an enemy of the state, and he went into hiding. Later he was discovered and sent to a
Konzentrationslager
. As for my mother, we only had enough money for one fare.” Thomas wasn't good at stories, nor did he want to share
what had happened. It seemed to him that there were two kinds of people—the kind who relived every moment of the past in painful detail, and the kind who moved on and never looked back. He wanted to be the kind who moved on. It was one of the first lessons his father had taught him about chess: If you make a poor move, don't dwell on it and let it ruin the rest of your game.

A waiter came over and removed the empty plates. “
Hat es nicht geschmeckt?
” he asked Frau Affeldt.

“I'm not very hungry,” she replied.

The waiter frowned and retreated, but he mumbled loud enough to be heard, “No taste, these Jews. Some of them won't even eat
caviar.”

The Affeldts and Thomas sat in silence. Under his fancy jacket, Thomas felt hot. Professor Affeldt sighed and raised his eyebrows as if to say there was nothing they could do but pretend they hadn't heard the man.

“Your mother had no choice but to send you alone,” he said, taking his wife's hand. Thomas could see him appreciating his own family's lot in life—how it could have been even worse. Like Thomas's family, they might have had to split up to escape.

“You must miss your parents terribly,” Frau Affeldt offered. “I'm so sorry, Thomas.”

It was the first time she had spoken more than just a few words and the first time she had really acknowledged him. He was surprised to find her voice clear and confident.

“Yes, I do.” At his words, Thomas felt a stab inside him again. He wondered when, or if, that would go away. “A professor of German literature,” Thomas said. “That explains the Goethe you quoted as we left shore.”

Professor Affeldt cocked his head at Thomas.

“
It's only action that can make a man … from Faust,”
said Thomas.

“Well done,” Professor Affeldt said.

Thomas explained, “My parents have a large collection of Goethe.”

“Vati's always quoting Goethe or Schiller or Grill-parzer,” Priska said. “And he makes us memorize it too.” She looked up at the ceiling and quoted: “
As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live
. That's from
Faust too.”

Professor Affeldt gave Priska a sidelong glance of approval and then asked Thomas, “Have you had any news of your father?”

“Last we heard he was in Dachau, but that was many months ago now.” Thomas shifted in his seat, making sure he felt his father's pawn in his pocket.

The same waiter returned and delivered the next course: chicken bouillon and egg drop soup with vegetables. He placed the delicate china bowls in front of them with quick movements, as if he didn't want to be near them at all. The only time he paused was when he served Priska. He stared at her a moment too long, looking from her face to
her chest, and then back up to her face again. She dipped her chin and averted her eyes. The waiter cleared his throat and retreated.

Thomas witnessed this brief moment and saw Priska as the waiter had seen her. It dawned on him that the waiter had stared at her because she was beautiful. Thomas had been too distracted by the ship and leaving home before, but now he saw her clearly: the smoothness of her skin, her bright eyes, the swell of her breasts under the frilly white dress.

She looked up at Thomas and their eyes met. She smiled and returned to eating her soup.

Priska ate in a polite and reserved manner, while Marianne hurried spoonfuls to her mouth. Frau Affeldt didn't lift her spoon.

Professor Affeldt wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “What was your father's profession?”

“Our family owned a printing press.”

“Was it shut down after the boycott?”

“No, my mother isn't Jewish, so she became the face of the shop, while my father and I stayed in the back room.”

“And in Cuba?” Professor Affeldt asked.

“My brother's there. He's ten years older than I am. Half brother, actually.”

Thomas wished he hadn't mentioned that Walter was not his full brother. How could there be such a thing as half of a person? People shouldn't ever be divided up in such a way.

“We're from Dresden,” Priska said. “We had a wonderful life before Herr Hitler. Our nice house, our cat, school, friends. I know there's no such thing as perfect but it was pretty close, wasn't it, Marianne?”

Marianne wiped a dribble of soup from her chin. Her bowl was empty. “I miss Alfie.”

“That's our cat,” Priska informed Thomas. “We had to leave him with a neighbor. We'll get a new cat in America. And a new house, and we'll go to school again. And we've already made new friends aboard the ship.” Priska smiled at Thomas. It made him uncomfortable and he looked away. Who was this girl to be so happy?

The waiter descended again, filling wineglasses and delivering what by Thomas's count was the fourth course. “Rack of veal with potato croquettes and aspar agus in a reduction sauce,” the waiter announced through tight lips, with another hungry glance at Priska's chest.

“I don't want a new cat. I want Alfie,” Marianne said.

“Alfie loved Marianne best. He slept in her bed at night,” Priska explained. “Did you have lots of friends in Berlin, Thomas?”

“Some,” he said, though for the most part it had always been the three of them—his mother, his father, and Thomas—a tight little cocoon, even before Hitler.

“This veal is delightful. Very tender,” Professor Affeldt said, looking at his wife. “You should try it,
mein Schatz
.”
To Thomas he explained that Frau Affeldt's stomach had been unsettled ever since they had left shore.

“That's been the hardest part for me … leaving my friends,” Priska said.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. If leaving her friends behind was the worst Priska had been through, then she didn't know real pain. Thomas opened his eyes and glanced at the people around them, commenting on the delicious food, raising a glass in a toast. He wanted to stand up and shout for it all to stop, this pretending everything was magically better, that they were safe. There was no such thing as safe.

The rack of veal was followed by baked young duck. Dessert was three courses in itself: apricot compote, maraschino ice cream with vanilla cookies, and finally a plate of Swiss and herbed cheeses. Marianne ate almost every bite of all the courses. When Thomas commented on her healthy appetite, Professor Affeldt and Priska shared a look and then laughed.

“That's our little girl,” Professor Affeldt said.

It was the best food Thomas had eaten in his whole life. As he went back to his cabin, his stomach gluttonously full, he thought of the sparse meal his mother had likely eaten for dinner that night.

Each level of the ship he descended, the engine's vibration increased. He used the W.C. down the hall and
then returned to the cabin. Oskar's and Elias's beds were empty. Herr Kleist was asleep, and he hadn't even bothered to draw the privacy curtain. Thomas climbed into his bunk and pulled the curtain around him. But privacy was not to be had. Below him Herr Kleist added to the vibrations with his snoring. At home Thomas had slept on a daybed in the sitting room of the small apartment. Often he would have to go to sleep in his parents' bed because they would be up late in the sitting room with friends, planning how to get the information they collected to other countries. His parents had been part of a resistance group for almost as long as Thomas could remember. But instead of distributing anti-Hitler leaflets or participating in acts of sabotage, they worked to convince other countries that not everyone in Germany believed in the Nazis and that many would welcome a revolution. Sometimes his parents would catch a few hours of sleep on the daybed; sometimes they didn't sleep at all. He missed his parents and the apartment where he'd lived his whole life terribly.

Thomas turned to face the wall and put the pillow over his head, but he could still hear Herr Kleist droning. After a few more moments, he decided that instead of trying to force sleep, he would venture back up to the top deck. Once outside, he stood by the railing, watching the black water rustle and churn below.

“Thomas?”

He startled, forgetting that anyone on board even knew his name, and turned to find Priska.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked. He had imagined her tucked happily into bed, her mother and father having kissed her good night.

“I came to see the moon,” she said.

Thomas looked up. It was a sharp sliver tonight, bright and gleaming. The stars were overwhelming themselves, so many of them, like minnows of the sky. Thomas had once been the very type of person who noticed the moon and stars and sunlight and flowers. But over the past year he'd stopped caring so much about the world. In fact, it felt wrong that flowers budded and the moon cycled when everything else had turned crazy around him.