Nor did their progress through the town go unremarked. Shopkeepers emerged from little corner shops to lavish charm upon them, along with unbeatable offers of woollens, tweeds, whiskies and original, guaranteed authentic souvenirs from the Titanic. Their dollars were readily exchanged for these good things. The only disagreeable incident arose when an American couple with a little boy in tow accosted them, demanding not very politely that they intercede with the hard-hearted Commodore Randall to allow them a passage home.
Escaping from this importunate family, they made their way back down to the docks, there to admire the painted fishing boats in the harbour, and the elaborate wrought-iron bandstand in the Boggy Road. A local hostelry, advertising a pie and Guinness lunch for five shillings, caught their attention, and they went in, with appetites sharpened by their shore excursion.
Back on the Manhattan, Commodore Randall was not having such a relaxing morning. Far from pacifying the large group of Americans hoping for a passage home, the vice-consul had returned with a vociferous delegation of some twenty men and women, determined to do battle with the skipper. The group was too large to entertain on the bridge, so they adjourned to the First Class smoking room.
‘We’re not taking no for an answer, sir.’ The spokesman of the group was a loud, fat man named Reverend Ezekiel Perkins, the spiritual director of something called The Nordic Tabernacle, who had been leading a party to Rome to confront the Antichrist in the Vatican, when war had broken out. Randall took an immediate dislike to the man, but heard him out. ‘We have heard that this ship is carrying many hundreds of aliens. Non-Americans, sir, not to put too fine a point on it. Our question to you is, why are we to be excluded from travelling on a United States ship, when foreign nationals are welcomed aboard?’
‘The answer is simply that they have tickets, and you don’t.’ At the back of the group he saw Dr Meese, and thought he knew who had given the delegation their information, and encouraged this mission.
The Reverend Perkins’ face darkened. ‘We have tried in vain to buy tickets, sir. We have queued with our dollars in our hands at the ticket office here in Cobh, and have been told that we cannot get places on the Manhattan for love nor money.’
‘We’re already well over capacity.’
‘We are Americans. We are Christians, sir. We demand to be treated as such.’
‘As I told Mr Patterson here, I’m able to take a hundred extra passengers—’
Far from pleasing the deputation, this caused an uproar which prevented the Commodore from finishing.
‘A hundred places are of no use to us,’ the Reverend Perkins said stridently, his voice rising with practised ease over the others. ‘There are over six hundred of us! How do you suggest we choose who should leave and who should remain?’
‘As I said to Mr Patterson, women and children should have priority—’
‘That is inhuman, sir. Are you proposing to tear Christian American families apart in this time of crisis?’
‘I have offered you a solution, and you must take it, or wait for the next United States vessel to call in at Cobh.’
‘And when will that be?’ a woman called.
‘Within the week, assuredly.’
‘If anyone is to wait in Cobh, it should be the foreigners you have on board,’ Perkins declared. There was noisy agreement from the others. ‘You should put them off the ship immediately, and give their places to us. Let the aliens wait for the next ship – if it comes.’
‘I have never done such a thing in all my career,’ Randall said shortly. ‘And I don’t intend to start now.’
‘They do not have the rights of American citizens, sir. Their welfare should not come before ours.’
‘Don’t browbeat me, Mr Perkins,’ the Commodore growled. ‘I have room for a hundred, and no more. And I will be sailing tomorrow, so make up your minds quickly.’ He rose from his chair, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket, on which were the unbroken gold bars of his rank. ‘I bid you good day.’
The Manhattan’s post office had taken delivery of a mailbag from the postmaster in Cobh. The letters, from all over Europe, were distributed to the passengers by the bellboy. There was one for Rachel Morgenstern, a pale mauve oblong covered in stamps and stickers. It had been forwarded from Le Havre to Southampton, and from there to Ireland.
‘It’s from Dorothea,’ Rachel said. She tore it open swiftly, and the colour drained from her face as she read.
‘What does she say?’ Masha asked anxiously.
‘She was arrested by the Gestapo.’
Masha’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
‘She was caught when they raided a club we used to go to. It was a harmless place, just somewhere we could meet without being pestered by Romeos.’ Rachel’s voice was dead. ‘She was interrogated for three days. They released her when her health broke down, but she’s still under suspicion, and waiting to hear what they will do next.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Rachel read on. ‘She’s been sacked from the academy. She has no money. She doesn’t know how she will survive. She can’t pay the rent. Rationing is in force now, there’s little food in the shops, and the winter is coming.’
‘What will she do?’
‘The only relations she has are her sister’s family in the country, but they haven’t spoken to her for years because of what she is.’ Rachel lowered the letter, her face bleak. ‘She says she will get married.’
‘Married! To whom?’
‘Heinrich Vogelfänger. He’s a professor at the academy. He’s pursued her for years, but of course she was never interested.’ Rachel folded the letter mechanically. ‘The Gestapo have told her that if she marries and becomes pregnant within a year, they will leave her alone. Otherwise she will be sent to the women’s concentration camp in Ravensbrück.’
Masha laid her hand timidly on her cousin’s arm. ‘Darling, I’m so sorry,’ she repeated helplessly.
‘What choice does she have? It’s what women like us have done for centuries,’ Rachel replied, her expression hard. ‘And the Fatherland needs children. The authorities prefer to save a healthy Aryan woman for reproduction. A few blonde children, and she will be spared. Else she is of no use to the state.’
Masha tried to comfort Rachel, but Rachel shook her off. Her face remained stony, as though the letter and its contents had meant little to her. ‘A lot happens in three months,’ was the only further comment she would make.
Later in the day, however, Masha found her crying bitterly in their cabin. The young Hungarian woman with whom they were sharing was attempting futilely to console her, talking loudly in her own language. Masha shooed her out and gathered Rachel in her arms.
‘Don’t cry, don’t cry my darling,’ she whispered.
‘I will never see her again.’ Rachel wept like a woman who wept seldom, saving up her grief until it broke all walls. Her severe façade was gone, her prettiness, such as it had been, destroyed. Her tears poured out unchecked. ‘Up to now I had some hope. But it’s all gone, Masha. All gone.’