On a Cold Dark Sea(32)
She thought of Josef, a hazy, golden figure in an imagined America of endless pasture. He couldn’t lose his future wife and brother in one night. She would not allow him to suffer such pain. Please, she begged God. Save Sonja and Emil. I willingly trade my life for theirs.
Emil was no longer trying to swim. He glided like a leaf on the water, giving himself over to the currents, his arms floating uselessly beside him. Sonja was gone. Anna reached out and grabbed Emil’s hand. Her flesh was so chilled that his didn’t feel cold. It was solid and strong, a hand that was used to carrying others’ burdens. A hand that would never let her go.
“Come,” Anna grunted, and she kicked and kicked, her senses so dulled that she couldn’t tell if she was making any progress forward. The water swirled around her like an embrace, and an oar brushed against her shoulder. A voice called out, and firm fingers took hold of her arm.
Just like Papa, Anna thought, as Emil slipped away.
US SENATE COMMITTEE ON COMMERCE
Titanic Disaster Investigation Thursday, April 25, 1912
Testimony of Edmund Healy, Seaman Senator Perkins: What boat did you go from the ship in?
Mr. Healy: Number 21, sir.
Senator Perkins: Who was in command?
Mr. Healy: I was, sir.
Senator Perkins: How many passengers did you have on her?
Mr. Healy: Thirteen, sir.
Senator Perkins: Could the boat have taken more?
Mr. Healy: Yes, sir. A good deal more.
Senator Perkins: Why was the lifeboat not filled to full capacity?
Mr. Healy: I could not say, sir. It was the officers who decided who would board.
Senator Perkins: What orders were you given on leaving the ship?
Mr. Healy: Mr. Murdoch, the first officer, pointed to a light in the distance and said it was another ship come to our rescue. We were to unload our passengers there and come back for more. It took some time to get the boat moving properly, and when we looked for the light, it was gone.
Senator Perkins: And the Titanic?
Mr. Healy: The Titanic was also gone.
Senator Perkins: Did you hear any cries of people in the water?
Mr. Healy: Yes, sir. Awful cries.
Senator Perkins: Were you able to make any rescues?
Mr. Healy: A Swedish girl swam up to us, and we pulled her in. That was soon after the ship went down.
Senator Perkins: Could you see others in the water?
Mr. Healy: Our lamp wasn’t working properly, and it was difficult to see. I did hear voices, close by. I thought we should try to reach them, but there were objections from some of the passengers. They feared we’d be swamped if we took any more in.
Senator Perkins: Did you give the order to leave?
Mr. Healy: There were no orders given. Two men in our boat started rowing toward the other lifeboats. Only one of the lady passengers objected. The rest were anxious to go.
Senator Perkins: At that time, were you still hearing calls for help?
Mr. Healy: Yes, sir.
Senator Perkins: How long did you hear such cries?
Mr. Healy: It was quite some time.
[Witness requested a break in the proceedings to compose himself.]
Mr. Healy (cont’d): I hate to think on it, sir. It was the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard.
PART TWO: AFTER
CHARLOTTE
September 1932
“You’ll never guess who’s bought it!” Teddy Ranger called out.
Charlotte could barely hear him over the usual cacophony of the London Record’s office: the chiming telephones, the metallic clack of typewriter keys, the joking taunts of the reporters banging away at those keys. Charlotte managed to muster an expression of mild interest. If anyone really important had died, Teddy would be barking out orders rather than strolling leisurely toward her.
Teddy held up a telegram. “Charles Van Hausen. Two days ago.”
The sensation that swelled up inside Charlotte couldn’t be grief. Twenty years had passed since she’d last seen Charles Van Hausen, and even then, they were barely acquainted. Yet the news settled into her body like an onset of sudden illness, slowing her reflexes and thoughts. An image appeared, clear as a film still, of Charles in the lifeboat, clutching an oar, his face reddened with effort and cold. It shouldn’t matter to Charlotte that he was dead. But it did.
Teddy, no fool, was looking at her with the same twitchy expression he got whenever a juicy rumor solidified into fact. “Did you know him?” he asked.
“Not here,” Charlotte muttered.
Turning away, motioning for Teddy to follow, she led him to the door marked “Theodore Ranger, Editor,” nodding to his secretary as they passed. Once inside, Charlotte sat in the chair opposite Teddy’s desk and leaned back. Were anyone else in the room, she’d be perched on the edge of the seat, primly poised, but there was no need to observe the formalities when they were alone.
“You’d think this were your office, rather than mine,” Teddy chided.
“It might be, if I were a man.”
“Didn’t suffragette rants go out with hobble skirts? Or are they back in fashion?”
It felt, to Charlotte, like pulling off a pair of tight shoes. Here, in private, she needn’t address Teddy as Mr. Ranger or defer to his opinions; she was protected by their shared history. Teddy’s waistcoats had tightened in the years Charlotte had known him, just as her once-striking looks had altered with age, but they’d both reached a level of success that would have pleased their younger selves. At forty-one, Charlotte knew she was no longer beautiful, but she’d managed the next best thing. By investing in the best clothes and hairdresser she could afford, Charlotte exuded nonchalant elegance, an effect achieved only by concealing the effort behind it.