The Other Half of Life Read online

  For Cam and Luke

  Chapter One

  At 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.

  Thomas walked to the porthole. He tried the handle but it was locked tight. Thomas figured this low on the ship, he'd better get accustomed to the stale air.

  Herr Kleist turned to Thomas, his face solemn again. He wagged his finger at him. “You will not be putting me in danger with your sharp tongue. Do you know what I've lived through? Have you had to scrub the streets with a toothbrush?”

  Thomas thought about telling Herr Kleist what he had lived through. Something, in his opinion, much worse than scrubbing streets.

  “I've gotten you aboard,” Herr Kleist added. “Now you're on your own.”

  Thomas thought of his mother—how Herr Kleist had promised her he'd watch out for him. But promises meant nothing these days. Thomas didn't answer. He walked away. Alone was just fine with him.

  Chapter Two

  The first thing Thomas wanted to see was the upper deck. It took him a while to find his way through the ship's maze of rooms, passages, and stairwells. He walked by the gymnasium, the nursery, the beauty salon, and the shipboard store. It was like a regular town, only on the water. He peered in the windows of the store at the arrangements of postcards, cigars, toys, and clothing. A woman was touching the fabric of a dress and Thomas heard her ask the clerk, “Where is this wool from? It seems heavy for worsted wool.” She soon introduced herself to the clerk, her chin held high: “My name is Blanka Rosen. I used to have the premier design shop in all of Prague.” Thomas shook his head and kept walking. All of them used to be something else. All of them used to have more than they had now—a home, a family, a profession, a life. But none of it mattered anymore, and Thomas didn't see why people insisted on clinging to the past. Memories of what used to be only brought more pain.

  Thomas had just set foot on the deck when a man in uniform stepped in front of him.

  “Erste Klasse?”

  “Macht es einen Unterschied?” Thomas asked.

  The man stood at least a foot over Thomas. He had a big head too, with what Thomas noticed were strangely small ears, as if they had been forgotten at birth and carelessly put on later. He wore a different uniform than the steward who had shown them to the cabin. His uniform was the green jacket, green trousers, and black boots of a Nazi officer. Thomas wondered if he was an officer of the ship or of the Nazi Party.

  “The upper deck is only for first-class passengers.”

  Thomas felt the sting of insult just the same way he had when he had been turned away at school for being a Jew. On that day he had arrived at school to find a gathering of his fellow classmates, all Jewish, outside the door.

  “We're not allowed in school anymore,” one of them informed him. “No Jews. They said go home.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Thomas had said. The others had lingered, as if hoping to find out it was all a mistake. Burying his hurt inside of himself, Thomas had been the first to turn and leave.

  It didn't matter that the first-class passengers who were allowed on the upper deck were also Jewish—it nevertheless made him flush with anger. He still hated any rules that separated people into categories.

  “Kurt, he can come in.”

  The man who had spoken was the same young steward who had shown Thomas and Herr Kleist to the cabin.

  “But, Manfred, he's tourist-class,” Kurt said.

  “Captain's orders. Living quarters and dining rooms are to stay separate, but otherwise everyone is free to come and go as they like.”

  Kurt's lips curled. “I guess they are all Jews.”

  Thomas took a step forward. “So I can go?”

  “Of course,” Manfred said, showing the way with an outstretched hand.

  Thomas did a lap of the deck. He had imagined it would be mostly open space, but it was surprisingly cluttered with deck chairs, lifeboats, ventilation shafts, pipes, and crates of equipment. Thomas heard music coming from the other side of the ship. He turned a corner to see a full band playing. He shook his head—the band made it seem like a joyous departure when in truth they were all escaping by the skin of their teeth. Thomas went to the railing, which was chest-high. He looked down at crew members on the quayside taking care of last-minute details of baggage and supplies. There seemed to be quite a lot being loaded aboard, but Thomas couldn't understand why. Jews were allowed to take very few possessions out of the country. When his neighbors had left a year earlier, the German travel agency had helped them put their furniture and china into storage with the assurance it would all be sent along later. The neighbors had since written to Thomas's mother to say none of it had ever arrived.

  Passengers trickled onto the deck until no room was left along the railing. The crew below uncoiled the hawsers, thick as Thomas's waist, from the bollards. The ship began to move as tugboats pulled it into the harbor. The band stopped and everyone waited in expectant silence. The ship's engine coughed up diesel fumes, and Thomas breathed through his mouth to avoid the smell.

  Next to Thomas a woman turned her face into her husband's chest and wept. “It's not home anymore,” her husband tried to reassure her. “There's nothing to miss.”

  Other people clapped and cheered. One couple danced. Thomas felt the urge to yell out to his mother, even though she was likely long gone. In his mind he saw the apartment: the leather furniture, the spot by the window where the sun streamed through in the afternoon and where he liked to sit and read. He closed his eyes and felt the ship moving. He wanted to go back—he wanted to jump overboard and swim ashore. He put his hand in his pocket to find the pawn. Feeling its edges calmed him.

  Around him people made comments in voices loud enough to be heard by many:

  “We're safe.”

  “The
y're rid of us.”

  “Not all of us.”

  A man with a woolen scarf wrapped dramatically around his neck pronounced, “Let us plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident: may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will—it's only action that can make a man.”

  Thomas recognized the quotation from Faust. His parents had an extensive collection of Goethe's works, and Thomas had read the books even when he didn't have to for school. He especially liked Goethe's dramas, because each time he read a play he understood it in a different way. There were so many layers to the language, plot, and characters. Just as with chess, there was always something new to discover that hadn't been there the time before.

  The ship lurched out of the harbor, picking up speed. The diesel smell faded, but the vibration of the engine grew so that Thomas could feel it under his feet through the wooden deck. The wind picked up, blowing women's skirts and men's hats. Thomas stared at the water below him and the land, which still seemed very close.

  Then, in what seemed like only an instant, the shoreline was gone and black water surrounded them. Thomas felt a wave of claustrophobia and steadied himself on the railing. Once it passed, he turned from the railing and noticed two girls in frilly white dresses. Their parents stood nearby; the father was the man in the scarf who had quoted from Faust. The mother wore a showy party dress unlike any Thomas had ever seen his own mother wear. It made Thomas sad to see the parents standing close together, the girls giggling. They were all together. They were happy. Thomas looked back to sea. It had only been a matter of minutes and yet now Germany was gone. The apartment was gone. His mother was gone. How had they gotten so far away so fast?

  The steward Thomas now knew as Manfred walked by, and the elder of the girls stopped him. “Excuse me, could you tell us where the pool is?”

  Thomas studied Manfred more closely. He could only be a few years older than Thomas himself: eighteen, nineteen at most. The one fault Thomas could find in his looks was a protruding Adam's apple. He also noticed that his hands seemed to tremble ever so slightly.