Chapter 20
VIVIAN JEAN
The SS Talamanca at Sea, Day Two
The day after the storm, the turmoil is far from over for Tully and me.
Our feelings are still raw and choppy, fluctuating between guilt and grief, love and loss, and the possibility of loving again.
Mr. Shakespeare said something like, “the past informs the present.” So does that mean life’s sorrows return with sharper edges and at different speeds?
Or does such repetition destroy the soul? And without a soul, how can you love?
Even if I prove Tully wrong about the note, will he let go of his guilt? Will his fear that his confrontation with his brother somehow led to the trouble in our marriage? And what about me? Is my only chance for forgiveness to be found in the roots of the silk cotton tree?
A crewman knocks on our door and announces dinner, but Tully and I are exhausted from delving too deeply into the painful parts of our lives.
I roll off my twin bed and jostle Tully’s shoulder. “Wake up. We’ve got to hurry.”
Bleary-eyed and licking the dryness from his lips, he asks, “When did we fall asleep?”
“I don’t remember, but I’m hungry. We missed dinner last night and I don’t want to miss it again.”
“Neither do I.”
We arrive in the dining room on the Saloon Deck and sit next to each other at a round table set for eight.
Tully and I are the last to join our dinner companions, three of whom are strangers.
It’s a formality of cruise ships, Katherine explained before.
The captain assigns passengers to the people they will share meals with.
Katherine is seated to my left, with Othella and Robbie beside her. To Tully’s immediate right sits a German orchestra conductor, Erich Greenberger, and his wife, Hannah. Between Robbie and the conductor’s wife is Anne Spencer, a Negro poet traveling alone.
The composition of the table surprises me.
I didn’t expect to dine with white passengers.
Noticing my confusion, Tully whispers that aboard a ship like the SS Talamanca, Commander O’Flanagan makes decisions based on his preferences.
He and his crew seem somewhat indifferent to a passenger’s skin color.
That tolerance extended to Jews, but only to a point.
“He wouldn’t sit a Jew at a table of whites, I don’t imagine,” Tully had said.
Tully blames my single-minded focus on Negro civil rights or anthropology and the study of ancient African cultures for my lack of knowledge about white people’s prejudices among themselves.
“Infighting doesn’t interest you if it doesn’t relate to the civil liberties denied the Negro by whites.
” Tully shrugs. “It’s one of your shortcomings, darling. The world is bigger than our backyard.”
He tells me this while the others discuss the storm and the stowaway who went missing at sea the night before. Then the conversation shifts to Jamaica.
“We are staying at the Constant Spring Hotel, a resort located five miles outside Kingston,” Mrs. Greenberger says. She is blond, younger than me, with soft, bland features and a whispery voice.
“I plan to alternate between playing golf and lounging by the pool,” Mr. Greenberger interjects. “I guess I’ll explore the local markets. Perhaps I’ll take a trip to the Blue Mountains.”
Mrs. Greenberger laughs. “Pipe dreams. He’ll be on the golf course the whole time.”
Their accents fascinate me. I haven’t been around people who aren’t American other than Maxi. I hope I’m not being too rude, staring down their throats when they speak.
“We’re traveling up to the Cockpit Mountains,” Tully adds. “And the Maroon village, Accompong.”
“That sounds like an intriguing trip,” says Anne Spencer.
“I hear you’ve traveled to Jamaica before, Miss Spencer,” Katherine says. “I am familiar with your articles on the subject.”
“How flattering. You are correct. I spent several weeks on the island in ’29, visiting several parishes and mostly villages rather than cities like Kingston or Montego Bay. It helped me connect more deeply to the people and the African cultures here.”
“That’s similar to the goals of my fieldwork,” Katherine says proudly. “I’m exploring the history of African dance in the Caribbean by focusing on the Maroon people in Accompong.”
“I saw you perform at the World’s Fair in Chicago,” says Anne Spencer.
“You and your company of dancers were brilliant.” She nods at the rest of us.
“I’m so sorry. We don’t mean to dominate the conversation.
” Anne Spencer turns to the Greenbergers.
“What are your plans besides golf, Mr. Greenberger?”
“Jamaica is a short getaway before the season starts,” he replies.
“Then you’ll head back to Germany?” I say casually, but the Greenbergers seem surprised by my question.
“Hannah and I left Germany some time ago,” Mr. Greenberger quickly adds. “After our vacation, we’re off to New York. I’m an assistant conductor with the Philharmonic.”
“My husband makes it seem like leaving Germany was our choice. We were exiled because we’re Jewish.”
Anne Spencer shakes her head. “With Hitler and Mussolini in power, I am truly afraid of what’s happening in the world.”
“Mussolini?” Othella speaks for the first time. I’ve noticed how reserved she and Robbie have been—maybe they have had a disagreement. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who he is.”
“A fascist ally of Hitler,” Mr. Greenberger retorts sharply.
“I’ve heard that more discriminatory laws may take effect in Germany as soon as this month,” Anne Spencer remarks.
Othella scans the table, waiting for someone else to pose the question, but her impatience grows. “What are these laws?”
“German Jews will lose their citizenship and be classified as state subjects without any rights,” Anne Spencer says soberly.
“We might never go back to Germany,” Mrs. Greenberger states, her voice wavering slightly.
“Now, don’t even say or think that, dear,” her husband says. “We’ll return one day.”
She touches a napkin to her lips. “Some of Erich’s relatives are in New York, and my husband has a fantastic opportunity with the Philharmonic. We’ll ride out the craziness for a year or two, but I feel sad that our child won’t be born at home in Berlin.”
“You’re pregnant?” I ask, ignoring the pain in my chest.
“Yes, I’m a couple of months along.” She smiles at her husband. “But I’m fine to travel—and I’m eager to return home to Germany as soon as possible. My parents and cousins live in Berlin.”
An awkward silence settles over our dinner table like a cloud. Tully breaks the silence. “Roosevelt is doing the right things for America now.”
“You’re right. Roosevelt’s New Deal is starting off strong and could make all the difference,” Anne Spencer stresses. “We might get out of this Depression sooner rather than later.”
“How does he feel about entering a world war?” asks Mr. Greenberger. “Will he ignore what’s happening in Europe? Or in Italy with Mussolini?”
“What about if the Fascists invade Ethiopia?” Anne Spencer weighs in. “It is one of the shining lights of African civilization and he’s set his sights on it.”
“We should change the subject before our meal is ruined,” Tully suggests.
The table guests nod in unison and the conversation takes a turn.
“Miss Dunham, perhaps you might consider a dance performance?” Mr. Greenberger proposes.
“I play the piano superbly, if I say so myself, and my wife is an exceptional violinist. Based on what Miss Spencer has said, we would be honored to accompany you for a recital. And I’m sure the commander would concur. ”
“If he agrees, I’d love to,” Katherine replies, mindful of the ship’s rules. “And Vivian Jean, will you join me? We can perform the duet we prepared for the World’s Fair.”
“Will you ever forgive me for missing that performance?”
Katherine scrunches her nose and smiles. “No.”
Everyone laughs, but I know Katherine has spoken from the heart. “Then maybe I should miss this one, too.”
“Touché,” Katherine replies. “Touché.”
It’s a bright, sun-filled afternoon. Katherine and I are on the Promenade Deck, lounging in steamer chairs, sipping tea, and reading Vogue magazine and the Chicago Defender. Katherine had taken a copy from a Pullman porter, and I picked up the Jamaica Gleaner from the ship’s library.
“Have you ever had to beg for food?” I ask Katherine after an hour with my nose buried in the Gleaner. “Or waited in a soup line, or had to stoke a stove?”
She closes her magazine. “Definitely not.”
“Me neither. Maxi handles everything. Cooks my meals, makes the beds, cleans the floors, does the laundry.”
Katherine’s expression sharpens. “So you and your husband live in a large house, have wealthy parents, and have never faced hunger.” Her tone is mocking.
“Don’t tease me—I’m trying to make a point.”
“What point is that?”
“These stories about Jamaica.” I wave the Gleaner at Katherine, “The economy is in ruins, and the people are struggling. A handful of wealthy business owners control the lives of most Jamaicans, who are fighting to feed their families and to survive. There’s also a hierarchy based on skin color.
” I pause to take a breath. “There is a labor union movement, but rallies are dangerous. Lives have been lost.”
Katherine squints. “You’ve described every island in the Caribbean, which, like America, is grappling with racism and the Depression. The economy didn’t just collapse in Chicago.”
“I know that.”
“Then what’s going on? You act like these hardships are a revelation.”
“It’s just that when I read these stories, I feel like I’ve spent my life in a cave called Hartfield House.”
“For the past few years, you’ve had good reason,” Katherine says, with a hint of sympathy in her gaze I don’t mind. “Your life has been turbulent to say the least and staying in your cave made sense.”
“Why would you think that?” I reply with a sad chuckle. “That’s why this expedition, this trip, is so important to me—and Tully.”
“I noticed you two during dinner last night.”
I lean forward in the steamer chair. “We weren’t fighting or anything like that.
It’s just that I sometimes wish I lived in a fantasy.
I dream of sitting on a veranda on a chilly evening with my husband, enjoying cups of hot chocolate, wrapped in a shawl.
I want him to make love to me every night and every morning.
I want to begin and end each day in each other’s arms.” I moisten my dry lips. “I want to have his baby.”
“There’s nothing medically wrong that says you can’t try again for a child, right?” Katherine swings her legs off the chair.
I shake my head. “No, there’s no physical reason.”
“Life isn’t perfect. You know that better than anyone else I know.”
“I do, but something has happened recently that could destroy any chance of Tully and me having that kind of happiness.”
“I really don’t want to know what’s going on. I told you that any issues between you and Tully can’t interfere with my expedition. But when I’m not high on my horse,” she smiles, “you can always talk to me.”
“I know, I know.”
Together, we lean back in our steamer chairs, stretch our legs, and cross our ankles. I gaze up at the crystal-blue sky and marvel at the view.
“It’s a visual masterpiece,” Katherine says, as if we share the same thoughts.
A crewman interrupts us. “Miss Durham, Mrs. Hartfield, I am delivering your telegrams.”
“Finally, word from the outside world has arrived,” Katherine says brightly.
Two telegrams are addressed to me—one from Maxi and the other from my father.
I stuff both into my handbag, unwilling to share their contents, regardless of what they say.
But I want to open Maxi’s letter in front of Tully.
We had asked her about Clifford’s note, but I wouldn’t read it without Tully present.
Katherine tears open her telegram, reads it, and looks very unhappy. “Some of my meticulously arranged plans have gone awry,” she says. “My Accompong guide has quit before the job even starts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was injured at one of those labor union demonstrations you were reading about.” Katherine sighs. “I hate to ask, but did Maxi arrange a guide for you?”
“Yes. I believe it’s one of her relatives in Accompong,” I reply. “I’ll telegram her and confirm.”
Katherine blows out a mouthful of air. “And to think I made such a big deal about you not interfering with my expedition. And now I’m interfering in yours.”
“That’s not the case at all and you know it. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“I hope your guide isn’t involved in these demonstrations,” Katherine says. “We won’t make it to Accompong without one.”
“It will all work out. You’ll see.” I swing my legs onto the deck. “I’m heading in. I promised to meet Tully for tea before dinner.”
“Okay. I’m going to take it easy for a bit longer,” Katherine claims. “And later, when you’re ready, you have to tell me what was in your telegrams. Your face was quite ashen.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Maybe I will. Or maybe I won’t.”