On a Cold Dark Sea(55)
If the dead did send their blessings, they came in chilly waves that made Anna shudder. She leaned into Josef, and his arm reached out, around her shoulders. Anna thought of her father, a man who never spoke of love but showed it in a hundred silent ways. She could not expect romantic speeches from a man like Josef, but he would be a good husband. Reliable and kind.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Josef said, his voice nearly a whisper in the dark. “Mrs. Josef Andersson won’t go around town in a charity coat, and a man’s one at that.”
Anna glanced down at the hem grazing her ankles, the rolled-up sleeves. Protectively, she pulled it tighter around her body.
“It’s good quality wool,” Anna said. “I can restyle it to suit me.”
“That’s my girl,” Josef said, and patted her on the cheek. Not a kiss, but the next best thing, and enough to nudge Anna into a slow, shy smile. “Resourceful and frugal. I knew we’d make a good match.”
Anna saw then how it would be: she and Josef hitched together like oxen, working side by side. A marriage built on shared labor and the satisfaction of a job well done. Until the donation from the Immigrant Aid Society, Anna had never had new clothes of her own; she had always worn her sisters’ castoffs. Now, she would have a hand-me-down husband. Perhaps that was the best she could hope for.
Anna was nineteen when she married Josef in the Lake Crossing Lutheran Church six months later. She suffered none of the stereotypical mishaps of a young bride; there were no burnt breakfasts or shrunken socks to serve as holiday-dinner fodder in years to come. From the very beginning, she was a diligent housekeeper and cook, and Josef said his shirts had never been so well ironed. They were, as Josef had said, a good match, each politely considerate, each helping the other without needing to be asked. They ended most evenings yawning in the bed Tomas and Agneta had given them as a wedding present. Josef would kiss Anna on the forehead and say good night; Anna would curl up, her knees to her chest, to give Josef the space he needed to stretch out. On Sunday evenings, Josef would shift closer and wrap his arms around her waist; Anna would place her hands around his back and squeeze. Their marital relations proceeded with a solemnity appropriate to the Lord’s day, and Anna submitted to her wifely duty with neither dread nor anticipation. A woman wasn’t meant to enjoy it, she thought, but she always smiled when Josef had satisfied himself, the same way she smiled at the barn cat when he caught a mouse: Good job. Well done.
When the weather made its definitive shift into winter, Anna pulled out the black coat from her storage trunk. She decided where to cut and where to sew new seams and marked the measurements with pins. Then she began ripping out the lining, only to discover its secret. Behind the thick tailor’s label—“Haviland & Sons”—she found three banknotes, each for ten British pounds. There were two more folded lengthwise into the collar. Anna had no idea how much fifty pounds might be in dollars, but the bills were smooth and crisp, fresh from a bank. Anna thought with a pang of the English woman, Charlotte. The coat must have belonged to her husband or father, a man who was most likely dead. Had Charlotte known about the money? She couldn’t have, if she had given the coat so freely to Anna.
Anna allowed herself a few minutes to admire the money, shuffling it back and forth in her hands. Then she gathered it into a neat pile and hid it in the top drawer of her dresser, beneath her undergarments, while she worked out what to do next.
Anna fully intended to return the money to Charlotte. The problem was that she didn’t even know Charlotte’s last name, let alone where she lived. The problem nagged at Anna for the rest of the day, but she said nothing when Josef came in to wash up nor when they sat down to supper. She told herself that it wasn’t worth worrying him with the problem until she’d decided on a solution. The shameful truth was that even then, Anna was wondering if there was a way she might keep it.
She didn’t give in to temptation right away. The next time she was in Saint Paul, she paid a visit to Mrs. Norling and asked if she still had the newspapers from the days after the Titanic sank. Mrs. Norling did indeed; she had put them in a box of collectibles that she was convinced would be quite valuable one day.
Even with Anna’s limited English, it was upsetting to see page after page devoted to the sinking. She understood only a few of the words: “lost” and “saved” and “tragedy.” Eventually, she found a list of survivors, arranged by class. Anna wasn’t used to analyzing the subtle differences in status that showed themselves in hats and shoes, but she knew Charlotte had been too well dressed for third class. Anna saw no one named Charlotte in first or second class. Then she realized only unmarried ladies were listed with their given names. If Charlotte was married, she’d be listed under her husband’s name. And Anna had no idea what that might be.
Goaded by frustration, Anna scanned every page, her eyes running through line after line of stories. There were names everywhere; it seemed everyone who’d gotten off the ship had given a reporter their tale of woe. Anna couldn’t imagine telling a stranger what had happened—it had been difficult enough telling Josef. But others had reveled in the attention. Charlotte, however, did not appear to be among them.
Anna closed the last of the papers, her eyes itchy and her shoulders sore. She realized to her dismay that she’d spent an hour on this fruitless search, reliving a night she’d vowed to put behind her. And she still wasn’t any closer to finding Charlotte.