The Other Half of Life (6 page)

“Is there a letter for me? Bermann?”

“My brother-in-law must have written.”

Manfred read the names out loud and people hurried away, clutching letters to their chests. Some ripped the letters open on the spot and others retreated to their cabins to pore over their relatives' words in private.

“Werkmann?”

Thomas's body jolted at the sound of his name. Then he remembered there was likely to be more than one Werkmann on a ship of nine hundred. Also, he couldn't imagine who would have written to him. He didn't think his mother would have, and he wasn't expecting to hear from his brother. Manfred searched the faces of the few people left.

“Werkmann, Thomas?”

No one stepped forward and Thomas realized it was for him. For a moment he thought the letter might be from his mother after all, perhaps with news of his father. He held
out his trembling hand to Manfred. Manfred didn't release the letter and they stood there, each holding an end.

Manfred said, “Thomas Werkmann.” It seemed to Thomas that he was putting a name with Thomas's face.

Thomas hesitated, unsure why Manfred hadn't let go of the letter.

Manfred finally let go as Herr Kleist descended on him. He was breathing heavily, as if he had run from the other side of the ship. “I heard there was mail. There has to be a letter from my son.” Herr Kleist gave his name and scowled sideways at Thomas as Manfred checked his empty bag.

“Nothing, sir, I'm sorry.”

Herr Kleist straightened his cap. “
Nochmal, bitte schön
.”

Manfred offered an apologetic smile but he didn't look in the bag again.

Herr Kleist wiped at his watering eye. “Will we be receiving more mail?”

“This is it until Havana.”

Herr Kleist's shoulders sunk. For a moment, in spite of how Herr Kleist had treated him, Thomas felt sorry for him.

“Only twelve more days and we'll be there,” Manfred said.

As Herr Kleist pleaded with Manfred to check once more, Thomas drifted off to open his letter. He couldn't bear Herr Kleist's lack of dignity any longer. The envelope felt as thin as the onion skins his mother left on the chopping
board. The upright lettering on the envelope seemed strangely familiar to him, although he knew it was not his mother's. She had a more looping script. He felt both relieved and disappointed that it was not news from his mother about his father. It meant there was hope, but it also meant that they still knew nothing. He pulled out a single page. There were only a few lines of text, in the same proper lettering as on the envelope.

“Who wrote to you?”

Thomas turned to see Priska peeking over his shoulder. She always seemed to find him, always seemed to sneak up on him.

He drew the letter to his chest. “My brother from Havana.”

“What did he say that's so private?”

Thomas was near to being annoyed with her. He wanted a few moments to himself to reread the short note and savor
the fact that someone was waiting for him, that someone else in the world cared about him. But he saw Priska grinning at him, and he knew she was only teasing. He decided to play along. “He said that he's waiting for me … and our quota numbers have come up and we'll be off to America right away. He has jobs lined up there too.” Thomas found a smile creeping onto his face. He was never one to joke or dream, and he was finding it surprisingly fun.

“And a house too?” Priska asked.

“A mansion. In New York City. Right next to the Rockefellers.”

Priska laughed. He had made her laugh. But as quickly as Thomas's smile had come, it faded as he looked at the harbor. “Why haven't we left yet? The supplies are all loaded.”

“What's the hurry?” Priska leaned against the railing, as if trying to get as close as she could to the land. “It's nice to get a glimpse of the real world for a moment. Look, if you squint you can see the cars and the people all going about their day.”

Thomas thought of the captain and how he had kept checking his pocket watch. “The hurry is the other ships. If we waste time here, they'll reach Cuba before us.”

Thomas couldn't believe he had to remind her about the ships. Had she plain forgotten, or did she really not see them as a threat to their safe arrival? He didn't understand how she could just assume everything would work out.

“What did your brother really write to you?” Priska asked.

“Only that he's waiting for me and he hopes the trip goes smoothly.”

A very pregnant woman walked by, leading a toddler by the hand. The toddler was nearly dragging her doll on the floor, and her mother told her to be more careful and pick it up.

“That's Lisbeth and her daughter, Margot,” Priska informed Thomas. “She's due to have the baby any day now. Did you know that if you give birth on a ship, it's common practice to name your child after the ship? Francis is a good-enough name, but what if she were aboard the
Imperator?”

“I didn't know that,” Thomas said, shaking his head at her. She was amazing in the way she befriended people so quickly and learned all about them. He wondered if there was a single person on the ship she didn't know yet.

“How much older is your brother than you?”

“Ten years. He's twenty-five.”

“Which makes you fifteen. I'm fourteen but my birthday is in August. When's yours?”

“December.”

“When did your brother leave Germany?”

Thomas almost couldn't keep up with her. She jumped from one topic to the next. “Nineteen thirty-four.”

Her lips moved slightly as she calculated the math in her head. “When you were ten.”

Thomas nodded. “He lived near Nürnberg, so I didn't really know him.”

“Why in Nürnberg when you lived in Berlin?”

“You don't quit with the questions, do you?”

Priska grinned. “No.”

Thomas explained how his father's first wife had died and his father had moved to Berlin for business. “Walter stayed with my father's first wife's parents. Then my father met my mother and remarried, and by that time Walter was no longer a child and it didn't make sense for him to come live with us.”

“Your mother isn't Jewish, but your father is. Do you celebrate Shabbos?”

“No,” Thomas said. After a moment's hesitation he asked, “What's it like?”

“Shabbos?”

He nodded.

“It's wonderful. I look forward to it more than anything. Sometimes during the week my father misses dinner or my mother has to visit a friend, but on Shabbos they're both home and we're all together as a family. My mother lights the candles and then we bless the wine, and the challah bread is the most delicious of all.”

The lunch gong sounded and Priska laughed. “As if on cue! Come on. Have lunch with us. I think Marianne fancies you. Have you noticed how she can't stop smiling whenever you're around?”

Thomas certainly hadn't noticed. He found himself blushing and then felt silly. Marianne was ten years old— still a child, really. But he had never imagined anyone fancying him before. “All right,” he said.

Thomas took one more look at the letter before folding it and putting it in his pocket. Once it was out of sight, he realized why the handwriting seemed familiar—it was very similar to his own.

At lunch the same waiter kept looking at Priska. He refilled her water glass when it barely needed it, and Thomas was sure it was just so he could get another look at her. Halfway through the meal, Manfred stopped by their table. He stood next to Priska but he addressed Professor Affeldt. “Are you finding everything to your liking so far?”

Professor Affeldt dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Yes, thank you.”

“As the captain's steward, I was asked specifically by the captain to make sure everyone has everything they need.”

“Yes, everything has been wonderful.”

Manfred took one more look at Priska and then retreated.

When he was gone, Thomas said, “The captain really isn't a Party member? How is that possible?”

Professor Affeldt shrugged. “Even the Nazis let something slip through the cracks every once in a while. They think
Wilhelm Tell
is such a wonderful example of German
nationalism that they put it on at every chance they get. So much for the murder of the tyrant in the end—somehow they overlooked that part!”

“Do you really believe the captain is why we're being treated so well?”

“I suppose so.”

Priska smiled at Thomas. “Look who's asking all the questions now!”

Thomas continued, “I still can't understand why they would let us on this ship.”

Professor Affeldt pointed out, “They did charge us a lot of money.”

“But couldn't they have charged us as much to travel in steerage?”

“I guess we shouldn't ask too many questions, Thomas, but should be grateful for our good fortune.” Professor Affeldt added with more flare: “
The day of fortune is like a harvest day. We must be busy when the corn is ripe.”

Thomas nodded. “Torquato Tasso
.”

“You
are
well-read,” Professor Affeldt said.

Thomas smiled, reveling in the compliment. Then he saw Priska cast him a sidelong look.

“Thomas is always worrying too much,” she said, as if she had known him his whole life.

Thomas managed a smile, but he thought,
And you don't worry enough
.

T
he next day Thomas decided to see what people were doing in the smoking room. He saw two men sitting across from each other. One man's shoulders were hunched over, and he was staring intently at the table in front of him. The man sitting across from him was also strangely focused on the table, although he sat straighter in his chair.

Goose bumps rose up Thomas's back and arms. He stepped closer. Yes. There was the board, the black and white squares, the handsome pieces. Thomas's hand immediately traveled to his pocket, and he felt the edges of the pawn. His breathing quickened. The room was hazy with pipe and cigarette smoke, but Thomas knew that was not the cause of his shortness of breath. He moved close enough to see the board fully.

It looked like an odd variation of the Guico Piano.
Black considered his next move. Thomas was already analyzing an interesting move in the position. The first three moves were forced but beyond that it was murkier.

White cleared his throat.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Black, and reached for his rook.

Thomas flinched. He traded rooks. It wasn't losing but he'd missed a better move.

“There was something else I should have done there,” Black said, shaking his head at himself.

“You should have taken his bishop,” Thomas let slip.

Both men looked up, noticing Thomas for the first time.

“The boy knows chess,” White said. He nodded at his friend. “But don't give him too much help or I'll end up losing.”

“You always win,” Black said. “I don't imagine that will change just because we're not on German soil anymore.”

The men shared a laugh. They reminded Thomas of the mismatched tea set his mother owned. The man playing black was mostly bald yet had a thick beard. The man playing white was clean-shaven and had a head of thick white hair. Both looked to be well into their sixties.

Thomas looked up from the board while White figured out his next move. The Nazi officer with the cane was going by the window. Thomas still couldn't imagine why a man with a cane would be assigned to a ship. His father
used to tell him that the most important part of resistance work, as of chess, was to trust your intuition. Your intuition would tell you when to be careful. One time his father had canceled a mission at the last minute because he felt that the man who would deliver the report was not trustworthy. When his mother had asked his father why he suspected the man, he had only shaken his head and said, “I don't feel right about him.”