The Other Half of Life

A
t the shed in Hamburg his mother took him by both shoulders. They had traveled hours on the train from Berlin, and she would be making the return trip without him. Since arriving, they had passed an uncomfortable hour rarely talking as they waited for boarding to begin. Finally it was time. The strong sea air surrounded them, making Thomas's tweed jacket feel heavy and damp. He noticed a sheen of moisture on his mother's cheeks and forced himself to focus on her eyes. In the past year, since his father was taken away by the Nazis, Thomas had always tried to look mostly at his mother's eyes. If he concentrated on her eyes, he could ignore the gauntness of her face, how he could picture her bony skull right there beneath her skin.

“I'm not going to cry and you're not either,” she said, straightening his tie. Usually Thomas would have been annoyed at his mother's fussing, but he knew this might
be the last time they would be together, at least for a long time.

She turned away, to face the ship. It had a giant black hull with rows of portholes above it. The way it sat so high in the water was impressive. The pedal boats Thomas was familiar with from a handful of days spent at the Wannsee were so small you could trail your hand in the water without even leaning over far. But on this great ship even the first deck loomed hundreds of feet above the surface of the water. Thomas's stomach felt queasy but he tried to ignore it.

His mother kept looking at the ship, and Thomas wondered if she was thinking whether there might be a way she could steal aboard. At six hundred reichsmarks, even securing one ticket to Cuba had been a miracle. Thomas had not known his parents had that much money hidden away. His mother had told him that they had been saving it for a time just like this—a chance to get out. Perhaps they had once hoped it would be enough for all three of them to escape Germany, but with the extra fees and dues tacked on by the German travel agency and the Reich, not to mention the price of the ticket from the shipping line itself, the money had barely covered Thomas's passage.

Neither Thomas nor his mother was foolish enough to think Thomas's father would ever come home; yet leaving Germany altogether seemed like betraying him, like giving up. Which was why even if they had been able to
scrounge up enough money for two tourist fares, his mother still would not have gone.

It was also why Thomas himself didn't want to go.

“No tears,” his mother repeated.

“You think I'd cry?” Thomas said. He had been strong through everything that had happened to them; he wasn't about to cry now.

“I'm not going to wait while you board,” she continued as if she hadn't heard him. “I'm going to turn around and you're not going to look back. This is the right thing to do—the only thing to do.”

Thomas fingered the ivory pawn in his pocket. He'd taken it from his father's chess set before leaving. “This isn't what Vati would have wanted. He would have wanted me to stay—”

She cut him off. “And look out for me?”

“No, he would have wanted me to stay and fight.” He knew his mother didn't need him—
a Mischling
, half-breed. He would only be trouble to her. She was better off without him, as she was without his father. Without them she was of pure kindred blood, with the light hair and blue eyes to prove it.

His mother lowered her head. “There is no more fighting. Only surviving.”

She pulled him to her. Thomas stiffened and then softened. At fifteen he felt too old for embraces, but the pressure of her body reminded him that he had not gotten to
feel his father's arms around him a last time. He held tight, not wanting to let go. She smelled faintly of their apartment, the deep, musky scent of well-worn leather furniture. Thomas used to love how when he stood up from the sofa, his impression always remained on the seat cushion, as if the sofa were waiting for his return. Only now he would never be back.

Herr Kleist, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward. “I'll watch out for him, you needn't worry, Frau Werkmann.”

Herr Kleist was nearing seventy and one of his eyes constantly watered. He was a great-uncle of a friend of a friend. Thomas didn't have much faith in him. Also, he didn't need a guardian.

All around them, others bid tearful good-byes to family and friends. Porters in uniforms and caps scurried by with baggage. German mixed with Polish, Russian, and Yiddish.

Herr Kleist cleared his gravelly throat. “We should move on. They need to get the tourist class on before first class can board and we can set off.”

Thomas stepped away from his mother. She had said no tears but he could hear her muffling sobs in her sleeve. He inhaled the salty air as gulls screeched overhead. He looked up at the two giant funnels and the mast of the ship. A swastika flag flapped in the breeze. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Thomas shivered in his damp clothes. How
could a ship that was supposed to carry its passengers to freedom bear the Nazi flag?

Halfway up the sloping gangway, Thomas felt the intense desire to turn around, to see his mother one more time, to see whether she'd lived up to her promise of leaving after she'd failed at not crying. But he was afraid too. He didn't want to see his mother as he'd last seen his father: weakened and powerless.

A family of four walked abreast in front of them. The mother and daughter were dressed in long skirts with kerchiefs over their hair. The father and the older son wore black suits and hats. “At least we'll make it on before sunset,” the man said to his wife.

Beside Thomas, Herr Kleist slouched along, shoulders bowed, head down, as if he hadn't paid his fare and was trying to slip on unnoticed. Thomas stretched himself taller and announced his arrival with solid footsteps that rattled the slats of the gangway.

They stepped aboard the ship and a steward met them, hands outstretched to relieve Herr Kleist of his worn leather suitcase.

Herr Kleist pulled back, clutching the case to his frail body. Thomas felt sorry for him—if the steward really intended to take away his case, or do anything else to Herr Kleist for that matter, Herr Kleist would be helpless to stop him.

“It's already been searched at Customs,” Thomas blurted out to the steward. “What more do you want?” The
search had been more than thorough, with the officials emptying people's pockets to make sure they hadn't brought more than the ten reichsmarks allowed them. Some had tried to smuggle jewelry or china on board, but it had been promptly confiscated. Out of spite, Thomas had almost felt like handing over his ten reichsmarks—it was so little money it was practically worthless. All it might buy would be a single meal in Cuba.

Herr Kleist shot Thomas a look of warning, his eyes narrow. He told the steward, “By all means, search my case. It's only what's allowed—nothing more.”

“No need to look,” the steward said, smiling. “I just wanted to offer to help carry it to your cabin.”

Thomas surveyed the steward: the shiny gold buttons of his uniform, his fair skin, his light hair. He was young and handsome, with a nice smile. His good looks irked Thomas. He wished he were ugly so it would be even easier to detest him. Around his arm he wore the Nazi Party badge: a black swastika with a red circle around it. Thomas found his eyes drawn to the swastika even though just the sight of it was enough to give him chills. The Party badge confirmed what Thomas already knew—that all the people running the ship would be Nazis. Thomas had asked his mother again and again: “Why are they letting us go on a luxury liner?” It didn't make sense to him: The Nazis despised the Jews, so why let a whole ship of them travel on the same luxury liner that affluent people took on holidays?

“They want us out,” his mother had answered. “Any way they can.”

But it still didn't add up in Thomas's mind, and he planned to find out more once on board. It was like a new chess opening his father taught him—no matter how many times his father explained the moves, he couldn't fully understand until he had played it himself.

“If you show me your boarding card, I can direct you to your cabin,” the steward offered.

“We have boarding cards, if that's what you're after,” Thomas said. “We're not trying to steal aboard.”

“Boy!” Herr Kleist warned Thomas. He took out his card and held it out to the steward. “Here we are.
Alles ist in Ordnung
.” Herr Kleist looked sharply at Thomas and snapped, “Your card!”

Thomas took out his boarding pass and with it his immigration identification card issued by the Cuban government. Most of the text was in Spanish. The only words Thomas could understand were:
THOMAS WERKMANN, MS ST. FRANCIS, HAMBURG, GERMANY, MAY
13, 1939. The identification card also had a big red “J” on it that Thomas tried to overlook.

The steward glanced at their papers. “D Deck, right this way.”

As they followed the steward down to the lower level of the ship, he told them that dinner would be served at seven in the tourist-class dining room. Thomas watched Herr
Kleist straighten slightly as the steward spoke. This was not the way the Nazis spoke to Jews. They usually only ordered and insulted. Thomas couldn't understand why the steward was showing them such respect—they weren't even first-class passengers. It was one thing to let them travel on a luxury liner, but it was another thing altogether to treat them well. He could sense Herr Kleist settling into this new order of things, but Thomas could not believe the treatment would last.

The passageway to the cabins seemed like any other hallway except for the low ceiling and the handrails, which Thomas realized must be in case of stormy seas. The steward opened the cabin door and held out his hand. “Here we are.”

The cabin was plainly furnished with four wooden bunks, a washbasin, and a shaving mirror. The steward asked Herr Kleist if there was anything else he could do for him.

“No thank you,” Herr Kleist replied.

“Have a pleasant voyage,” he said.

“Did you hear that?” Herr Kleist said to Thomas as the steward left. “He wished me a pleasant voyage.” Herr Kleist moved to one of the lower bunks and fingered the sheets. “And look at these: clean and starched.” He let out a satisfied sound, as if a long journey were ending, not beginning.