The Ocean Liner

SS Manhattan

Thomas König had fought his way back to the cabin and had found Stravinsky sitting on his bunk in a clouded state, staring at his unlaced shoes. As he’d done on the very first morning, he now knelt at the composer’s feet and fastened the laces tightly.

‘What is happening, Thomas?’ Stravinsky dully asked the top of Thomas’s head.

‘They say it’s a German submarine. It’s going to torpedo us.’

‘But this is an American vessel.’

Thomas grimaced. ‘That will make little difference to them.’ He spoke from hard experience of Nazi measures. ‘They already see America as an enemy.’ Having laced Stravinsky’s shoes, he helped the older man to stand, and tried to fit the life jacket over his head.

Stravinsky pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that thing.’

‘You have to wear it,’ Thomas said briskly. ‘It will keep you afloat if you end up in the water.’

‘I don’t care to remain afloat,’ Stravinsky said petulantly. ‘I prefer to go down with the ship.’

‘We have to get to our lifeboat quickly. There isn’t any time.’

‘Let someone else have my place on the lifeboat. I’m staying here.’

Thomas stared at him for a moment. ‘Don’t be a stupid old fool.’

Had it been shouted as an insult, it might have angered Stravinsky, and determined him to remain in his cabin; but the matter-of-fact way it was spoken was somehow calming. Silently, he allowed the boy to pull the bulky yellow thing over his head and tie the straps in a secure knot.

Thomas took Stravinsky’s hand. ‘Hold tight. We have to hurry.’

He pulled Stravinsky out of the cabin and along the passageway. Almost all the passengers were on the open decks or in the boats now. Stravinsky was tired, and the ascent from the ship’s underworld was steep. His feet occasionally stumbled on the metal stairs. But the boy pulled him upright each time, and at last they reached the top deck.

The scene was to Stravinsky’s eyes like the Last Judgment. He stared, open-mouthed. Two thousand passengers had come up from below. In the harsh deck lights, the life preservers they wore gleamed like folded golden wings about to open and take flight. The figures had already all but filled the boats, and yet hundreds more queued at each one. Overhead, the sky arched pitch black.

Thomas did not allow him to pause. He dragged Stravinsky towards the senior steward, Mr Nightingale, who was directing passengers to their boat stations with a list in his hands.

‘It’s Monsieur Stravinsky,’ Thomas shouted. ‘He’s in boat twelve, but there are too many passengers trying to get on.’

‘We can’t leave Monsieur Stravinsky behind,’ Mr Nightingale said cheerfully. ‘The ballet-lovers of the world would be very annoyed with us.’

Deftly, he got the milling queue of passengers to make way, and ushered Stravinsky on to the lifeboat.