Chapter 8

8.
“Bagatelle, Op. 126, 5, Quasi Allegretto: Beethoven”

The Conte-Bian Camano was an Italian ship with a Japanese crew, and though it embarrassed him in retrospect, Max was expecting something far different than the majestic luxury liner that awaited them in the port of Genoa. His expectations were drenched so thoroughly in the macabre, that the reality--a multi-tiered, glistening white and red giant--sent him into a fit of nervous giggles. His imaginary ship was black with barred portholes. It was crumbling in on itself, barely able to stay afloat, livestock roamed the decks and it was manned entirely by convicts from Singapore, strong men in loincloths who rubbed their skin with black oil.

He told Joshua this in an attempt to cheer him, but all he got was mumble about how the name of the ship reminded him of an opera singer he had known who was dead now. But since the young bounce back with vigorous ease, Max was able to ignore him.
He felt too much like an adventurer to let himself be affected by Maestro’s malaise, besides, the mood of his fellow refugees was light. Berlin was behind them and new horizons beaconed. This is no way implying that Max felt apathetic about the tragedy; he didn’t. It’s just that tragedy and Max were old friends and his brain had learned long ago how to compartmentalize. Every emotion, every feeling, every thought, ever occurrence, everything he had ever heard or read, had its own darkened comb within the complex hive that made up Max. It was his ability to keep track of it all that made him what he was. His ability to summon a needle from a haystack, to magically produce then suppress bits of information the way people who live in messy rooms can. Max’s mind was something of a messy room but he knew full well where everything was.

It was unseasonably warm on the dock and people went without their coats. Standing around small piles of luggage, families expressed a mood of amazed solidarity. A lot of them looked up at the boat, eyes squinted, stretching their backs or scratching their heads. No doubt they were all wondering--at least in part--how their lives managed to bring them to an Italian dock about to board a ship for China. Children, free from such burdens of thought, were brimming with excitement, pointing and tugging their parents toward the sparkling sea and the massive boat that would be their home for the next month and a half.

As they boarded the ship, it seemed everyone was in good spirits. Since the train cleared the Italian boarder and the champagne started flowing, the mood was like the first day of holiday; festive, optimistic, yet with an underlying anxious confusion due to such an abrupt break from routine. There were even streamers. A small woman in a Kimono handed them out. Max found her terribly attractive, which was odd for him, though he had to admit she reminded him of the boys who dressed a geishas in the Oper, and went back three times to flirt while Joshua slumped in a corner waiting to be led to his cabin. He intended to cover the windows and turn out the lights when he got there--cave sweet cave. He would spend the journey cold pressed in that massive floating tin can as complacent as a sardine, with no mind, no memory, and no hope.

Frau Schmetterling felt much the same way. She was the woman sitting a few meters down from Joshua in the overly elaborate velvet suit. She was not joyous. She didn’t feel as though she were going on holiday. Her face was set in an expression similar to Joshua’s. They were bookends flanking a giant lifesaver with the Conte-Bian’s name on it, stern faced and tense like sentinels as colorful streamers fell around them.
Frau Schmetterling, they would all find out later, was a wealthy and respected woman whose husband had been arrested, sent to Buchenwald and didn’t survive more than a few nights. “They sent me his ashes in a tin box and made me pay the postage,” she would say of the box that sat eternally in her lap. All the business in Berlin sent her packing. “I was waiting for a visa from America. My nephew was trying to bring me over, but after they burnt the synagogues, I said, no. The Nazi’s won’t put me in a box.”

The gangplank was pulled back around noon and the Conte let out two ground shaking honks that Max placed as perfect G notes. When they were underway, a bellman led he and Maestro to the main deck where their cabin was. Dieter had made sure that the tickets he purchased for the talented pair were first class. Since he had no control over what things would be like in China, he figured it was the least he could do and made sure they traveled in style.

Max, who had prepared himself for a floating dungeon, couldn’t believe the luxury of the cabin. It was small and very simply decorated but everything was of superior quality. The walls were paneled with glazed mahogany, the beds, attached to the cabin walls, were separated by a full-length mirror and a silk upholstered chair. They had cotton sheets and little reading lights with individual switches. The carpets were wall-to-wall, patterned with images of bamboo and Koi. They each had their own nightstand with all kinds of drawers to put things in, and the ashtray that sat along side of an embossed stationary set was glued down so it wouldn’t slide off in rough waters thereby preventing a fire--Max found this fascinating.

At the foot of the beds, were built in footlockers that doubled as seats for when you were putting on your shoes. He figured this out based on the shoehorn that lived snuggly in a little pouch beside it. The closet doors were collapsible like an accordion or a ladies fan and inside the hangers were not topped with hooks, but with rings to keep them on the rod. There were also little holders for your shoes. Max liked that everything was securable, that no matter how rough things got on the high seas--he wondered how rough they did get--that everyone of his handful of belongings would be safe and sound either on a hook, in a pouch or drawer.

The water closet was sublime. The small soaps, wrapped in paper with the name of the ship on them, and mini-coffee cups with mini-sugar cubes, and fancy hand towels, and two silk robes hanging on the hook behind the oval door that you had duck your head and step into. He was mesmerized by all the detail, how things were miniaturized and condensed so very well, like an intricate puzzle.

Of course, Max kept his excitement under control and was relieved when, after an hour of unpacking, Maestro told him to either sleep or go, that he wanted darkness and quiet. So Max left Maestro and everything they owned tucked snuggly in the cabin and went out to explore.

It was a fine day of firsts for Max. He who had never been out of Germany, never been on a boat, all of it was happening--the only problem was the ugly reasons behind it. He missed Hanna and couldn’t stop wishing she were there. Maestro needed her to live, of that he was sure. How could he ever take care of him the way she had? He lit a cigarette and gazed out on the dark winter waters of the Mediterranean. He hadn’t practiced in days. There was something so exciting about being released from routine, something grand and dangerous about the horizon before him. It was too much. His mixed emotions overwhelming him, the hive all a buzz, he took a cue from Maestro; he decided not to worry about it.

Max found the dining car to be just as pleasant as the cabin. As a first class passenger he was given all access, which put a certain bounce in his step. He nodded politely at the upper crust, stern looking men and their stern looking wives, practically imprisoned in wool and gabardine. And the daughters, long skirted, colorless, hair secured in knots at the napes of their hidden necks. He found their lustful gazes ever so charming and the distain from their parents predictable. He was always a street rat until they heard him play, then things changed.

In Berlin Maestro was approached numerous times regarding Max’s romantic availability. He would send the hopeful ladies packing with a single comment, “Max’s one true love is music.” When they were gone the two would laugh, “Don’t worry, Maxala,” Maestro would say, “wenn die Zeit kommt, werden Sie tun, was Cole Porter tat.” It’s not that he found girls repulsive in any way; it’s just that it was easier with boys, more fun and more rough, and they seldom wanted to hold hands after. He was training to become a world-class musician, he tossed his hair as he thought this, he didn’t have time for all that nonsense.

Max ordered coffee and a pastry from the pastry cart and looked through the pictures of an Italian newspaper pretending not to understand the text. When that got boring he decided to people watch some more and caught sight of Frau Schmetterling. At first he thought she was mad. This woman maybe in her sixties, was the picture of German upper class. She was so meticulously put together that she was nearly a parody of herself. Her suit was made of dark green velvet and the skirt touched the floor. It was the type of thing ladies wore to the Oper on Gala night and looked quite out of place on a refugee steamship. Her hat was perfectly placed and her hair tucked up under it. The collar was so frilly that it added an acre or two to her already sprawling bosom, and embedded deep within all the fluff was a broach of alarming decadence. Max wondered what fantastic distraction she had used to smuggle it out of Germany; it didn’t take long to figure out.

She approached the empty table beside Max’s with a queenly gait. It was obvious she was waiting for someone to offer her the chair, and being the type of young gentlemen he was, Max came to her aid.

“Thank you, young man,” She said without meeting his gaze. “All this travel, it’s exhausting, don’t you find?”

Max thought of his luxurious cabin bed verses his rickety cot at home. “Actually, I see it as a—"

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

At first he thought it was a purse or something but Frau Schmetterling seemed to be talking to the rectangular tin box she gripped in her gloved hands.

Max smiled. He thought she was joking. What a funny old bird, he thought. And he’d only just begun exploring. Maybe the ship would be ripe with eccentric human specimens. “I surround myself with crazy people,” Maestro used to say, “It makes me feel sane.”

“My husband, Leonard, thought I was speaking to him.” she said with all seriousness and sat down.

“Well very nice to meet you, Leonard, Damen…” Max kept the joke going.

“Frau Schmetterling, young man.”

“Herr and Frau Schmetterling, may I say, I am very pleased to meet you. Max Schmeid, at your service.”

Frau Schmetterling looked up at Max with contempt. Something was not funny, but he was far too dense to figure out what. Leonard sat on the table in front of her and it was only when he noticed the Star of David pressed into the tin did he realize his mistake.

“Forgive me, Frau. I didn’t realize.”

“I seems you didn’t.”

“I though you were--"

“Crazy?”

“Joking.”

“I don’t joke. This must be fun for a young person like you, a ship, an adventure, but don’t forget who you are, and what they’d do to you if they could.” She tapped the box containing Leonard, Max shuddered.

“No, Damen.”

“Go back to your table.”

And Max did. He was ashamed for allowing himself to have a good time. This was not a pleasure cruise, after all. He sipped his coffee cold and thought about Hanna. He thought about the curtains in the house being opened and wondered who had done it and why. He was lost in thought and wasn’t aware that Frau Schmetterling had left her table until he saw her exiting the dining room. He sprang up and ran after her.

“Frau Schmetterling,” Max put himself in her path. “I was rude. Let me make it up to you.”

“And just what can you offer and old woman like me?”

“Do you like music?”

“We adore music. Real music. Not the noise you children listen to today.”

“Strauss, Handel?”

“Beethoven.”

“Then I’ll come play for you.”

“And just what do you play?”

“The piano. But I don’t have one with me, so I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for the violin.”

“And you think you can impress me? I know music, young man, and I’m not too polite to tell you exactly what I think of you.”

“What would you like me to play?”

“Beethoven. I already told you that.”

“Specifically.”

“Why? Do you have a cabin full of sheet music?”

“A head full, actually.”

Frau Schmetterling was adverse to the idea of Max coming to her cabin. She felt it was improper for a man, no matter his age, to be in such close proximity to her bed and bathroom. But she was curious as to the boy’s fantastical claims, so it was decided they would meet the next afternoon in the first class lounge and he would play for her there.

Max wished it had been harder to borrow the Lion from Maestro. It was the only violin they had with them, and it just happened to be priceless. When he asked, Joshua’s reply was a flick of the wrist and a warning not to break any strings.

“If you break one, we don’t have extra,” he said, and turned back to face the mahogany wall.

In their past life, Max wasn’t even allowed to touch it, let alone, walk off with it and entertain the possibility of breaking one of its strings. It was evidence of just how much Joshua’s priorities had changed and that left a pit in Max’s belly. It was one of many reasons he opted for the company of Frau Schmetterling, no matter how much of a half-crazy old bat she was. An apprentice without a master is almost as lost as a husband without a wife, and Max needed someone to cling to.

Her little salons, as she called them, became a fixture on the Canta Camano’s cruise calendar. After Max had so thoroughly impressed her with his near perfect recollection of Beethoven’s body of work--a task that drilled him harder than Maestro had in years, penance for missing a week of practice he reasoned--it opened the door to the rest of the boat drawing out an impressive array of musical talent. Crowds of regulars would form every afternoon, and by the time they reached the Suez Canal, their little quartet, made possible by Max’s feverish, all-night transposition sessions, was pretty well rehearsed. Sure there were dampers, days when ship life trumped the progress of the Quartett des Pazifiks--the name she gave them--such as an out break of stomach flu, a problem with the water or the third class passengers rioting again, but no matter what trouble there was, it would pass after a few days and the little quartet would convene once more.

Their repertoire hardly varied away from the 16 string quartets of Beethoven focusing mainly on 1-6, Frau Schmetterling was very particular, but when it did, it was understood among the little group (Max, Dana, Georg and Fritzi) that no Russian music was to be played. It was Max’s one stipulation. If anyone challenged him he would pick up the Lion and leave.

This was how the mystery surrounding Max began in the mind of Frau Schmetterling, though it was evident to her that the others wondered, too. For one thing, why did he always take a plate of food back to his room with him after every meal? And that violin, the craftsmanship was masterful. Where did he get it? Max Schmied, was such a generic name, one could hardly know if it was Jewish or not. He certainly didn’t look Jewish. She was convinced that he was lying to her, so she gathered the troops and followed him back to his cabin one day after their afternoon salon.

Max entered the dark room, fumbling with the door handle due to the cheese plate he was attempting to balance on the side of the violin case. Once he was inside, and after counting to ten, Frau Schmetterling knocked on the door alone, the three other members of her quartet had deserted her, and demanded to be let in. It was in this way she found out about Joshua.

Frau Schmetterling stood in the doorway with her hand on the light switch. She was as frozen as a lamppost. Max had his head down tracing the pattern of one of the koi on the carpet and wondering where it would go if it suddenly burst to life, while Joshua sat in the far corner of the room, on an unmade bed. He seemed to cower, the light making him wince.

“Maestro Streng,” she nearly bowed, “Agnieszka Schmetterling. My Leonard would have loved to meet you. We were so fond of your work at the Oper, it was modern yet retained true German passion, and when you played Beethoven, it made me melt.”

Max couldn’t help smiling. She had transformed into a schoolgirl before his eyes. He let out the slightest of giggles and was immediately exiled from the room with an order so stern and swift it made Frau Schmetterling jump.

When Max was gone, Joshua straightened himself and noticed the tin box. He offered her a seat and when the bed was organized and the lighting altered he sat and talked with her.

“I saw you. On the first day. You looked familiar. I apologize for not saying, good day. I haven’t been well. I lost someone, too.”

“Your lovely wife?”

“And our unborn child.”

His statement hung in the air for a good long while. Then Frau Schmetterling let out a sigh. “Do you pray, Maestro Streng?”

“No.” He had no strength for lies. Joshua didn’t believe in God but he hated him all the same. Before Hanna and Igor had been taken from him, he was indifferent about the whole religious question. The very thought that there was a being controlling his every move was laughable. Religion was a distraction for the uncreative. Then Hanna was snatched by a demon, and since it was the first time the powers of the universe had reached out to him, he considered them to be fundamentally malevolent, the sky, the ocean, the ship all part of the same evil conglomerate.

“Will you pray with me?”

Joshua grinned at her. “Schmetterling. A butterfly. Do you flutter to God? Does he listen to you?”

“He’s all I have now. In China I’ll be alone. I won’t survive, but I carry on because that’s what he wants me to do. And when it’s over, I’ll be with Leonard again.”

“You are sure of that?”

“There is no sure. I know that. It’s all I have. We all must carry on until we’re called.” She lovingly stroked the tin box with a gloved hand. “On the deck we play Beethoven. You should join us.”

So, from then on when Madame Butterfly wanted to pray, (that was the name he gave her,) he would lower his head and listen to her whisper in Hebrew while watching the ship cut through the never-ending blackness of the ocean. He took to walking with her above deck in the icy cold moonlit night, surrounded by the infinite, and though he fought it, her voice soothed him. He didn’t understand a word of Hebrew but in a distant sort of bittersweet way, it brought him home. Because, before he became Joshua Streng, there was another life. One in which God played a supporting role. And as is the way with butterflies, she and the prayer helped to coax Joshua from his cocoon. By the time they reached the Strait of Malacca, he was ready to face the world again with Hanna close to his chest in her own small tin box.