girls, her girls. The smell of Gertrud’s hair. The small, plump shape of Frederica’s hand in hers. The sound of Ursula’s giggle. She’s going to die, she can’t survive this anxiety in her stomach, this grief.
Never to see them again. No, it’s impossible.
What if they’re sick? Hurt? Will Charlotte care for them properly, will she notice the little signs that a fever’s more than just a fever, a cough’s more than just a cough, a minor scrape might be turning septic? How can anyone love the girls so passionately as Elfriede loves them?
Johann. Is he never to see his sisters again?
It’s impossible.
The door opens. The officer enters, bearing some papers and an eager expression. “Here you are, Frau von Kleist. You may review these at your leisure, of course. May I bring you some refreshment?”
“Perhaps some water for my son? Lemonade, if you have it? It’s terribly hot.”
“Yes, Frau von Kleist. I’m very sorry. One moment.”
The officer disappears once more, and Elfriede bends over the papers. So great is her anxiety, she has trouble focusing on the names, on each individual entry. She reads them without reading them. Slow down, slow down. Think. The SS Statendam, ten thousand gross tonnage, departed from the Hoboken pier three days ago, bound for Rotterdam. 902 passengers, 147 in first class. Another 147 in second class, the remainder in steerage. Elfriede places her finger on the paper to mark her progress down the list of names, to make sure she doesn’t skip any lines. The paper’s shaking a little. The names are mostly Dutch, she perceives, but also German and some English. Mr. and Mrs. Josef Kuipers, 5 children, 1 infant. Mr. Andrew Harrison. Mr. Leopold Meisner. Mr. and Mrs. Willem Janssen. Mr. and Mrs. Rutger De Jong, 3 children.
The door opens. A woman enters, bearing a tray with two glasses of lemonade. Iced, even. Johann reaches greedily and remembers, at the last second, to say Danke. Elfriede’s own mouth is dry with thirst, but she can’t stop to drink.
Mr. Kaspar Ryskamp. Mrs. Thomas Beecham, 3 children.
Elfriede comes to the last of the first-class passengers. She pauses to reach for the lemonade on the small, round table between the armchairs. Already Johann’s finished his own lemonade. His small legs swing and swing.
“Just a few more minutes, darling,” she says. “We’ll find them, I promise.”
“Yes, Mama,” he replies.
Elfriede returns to the list. Now the second-class passengers. Because she didn’t really expect Charlotte to book a first-class cabin—that’s a great deal of money—unless this windfall has maybe made her reckless. But no. Charlotte’s prudent. She didn’t buy first-class tickets on the train to New York, and she’s not going to buy them now.
Mr. Jacob Mueller. Dr. and Mrs. Henrik Schoenbrun, 1 child. Miss Roelfein Vandercamp.
And of course, there’s Wilfred to consider. Beating at the back of her head, the words I will sail from New York in six days’ time, aboard RMS Cedric. Which is today. (She’s already confirmed this date at the White Star Line offices, because sometimes ships are late arriving in port, you never know for certain.) In the meantime, where does she find him? There’s no time to look, is there? She can only track down one missing piece of her heart at a time, for God’s sake.
At least she knows where to find him tomorrow, in the middle of the afternoon. At Pier 51 on the Hudson River, climbing out of a taxicab, carrying a suitcase and a second-class ticket for Liverpool, England.
Mr. and Mrs. Nicolaas Cloet. Mr. and Mrs. John Middleton, 2 children.
Mrs. Charlotte Kassmeyer, 3 children.
Elfriede sets down the lemonade and rings the bell for the officer.
“The Statendam,” she says, when he rushes through the door. “It departed on schedule?”
“Yes, Frau von Kleist. To the hour.”
“And when will it arrive in Rotterdam?”
He glances at the clock, of all things, and then at the calendar on the desk. “In eight days’ time, Frau, after a stop at Boulogne. The twenty-third of July.”
Elfriede looks back down at the paper on her lap. Reads the name again, just to be certain, and then lifts her head to find Johann staring at her.
“Is it them?” he asks softly.
“Yes, darling. They sailed for Holland three days ago.”
Johann’s jaw makes a small, desperate movement. His nose twitches. He turns away and stares out the window, and Elfriede’s heart pours right out of her body and into his. Her boy, her boy. Everyone abandons him, don’t they? Beginning with Elfriede, his own mother. He’s sucked his