The Sky Beneath Her(9)
Monday, April 20, 1942, 1:00 p.m.
Four days until the Oceanus is torpedoed
Port of Spain, Trinidad
The hot, humid weather in Trinidad was a stark contrast to Vienna, which had just emerged from its bitter winter. The moderate winds gave me hope that I would reach New York City and leave Vienna behind forever. But faith was dangerous. And I needed to keep my guard up and remain cautious. Though no other Austrians were likely on the ship, I could leave nothing to chance. The war had made the world a smaller place, and I didn’t dare trust luck.
The local morning papers had few updates about the war in Europe, and the little I’d found was in the Spanish papers. I’d gleaned enough to know that the United States had joined the war in mid-December, and those from the United States who’d been in Nazi-controlled Europe had now either fled or been arrested. When I’d left Austria, many Austrians were being deported, gunned down, or imprisoned. The city I’d once loved so much was gone.
In Port of Spain, the news focused on the arrival of US troops and the U-boats now hunting ships loaded with supplies bound for Europe. The Germans, once solely tethered to their ports in the Baltic Sea, now controlled France’s western Atlantic coastline, putting these underwater vessels over a thousand nautical miles closer to the US East Coast. Hundreds of ships had been sunk in the Atlantic Ocean since January.
My German was excellent and my Spanish acceptable, but my English was lacking, so I’d spent my idle hours during this long journey studying English and preparing for the day I would be safely on US soil. Normally, I didn’t speak much to anyone, but when I did, I carefully scrubbed any hints of my Austrian accent.
I’d reinvented myself several times since I left Vienna in September. In Vienna, I was the wife of an Austrian military industrialist whose career had been rising long before we’d wed three years ago. And when Germany annexed Austria, he’d gained more prominence, fame, and notoriety.
On the first leg of my journey, I was Ingrid Swenson, a woman of humble birth on her way to take a job with a family in Bucharest. By early November, I’d crossed the Mediterranean Sea into Spain and taken refuge in a small hotel room in the port town of Barcelona. I’d spent the next few months hiding, trying to forget Vienna. But there were times when I’d cried so hard, I’d made myself sick to my stomach. The tears dried, but my nausea didn’t settle. I’d sought help from a local physician, who’d declared me with child. The news wasn’t shocking, but it was deflating. The past now would follow me forever.
I remained vigilant, changing my name to Johanna Benson. I was careful to listen for anyone looking for a woman like me. I went to no restaurants or plays in Lisbon. I kept to myself until I was able to buy passage on the Star, which would take me only as far as Port of Spain. I’d been frustrated by the extra stop but had been assured that a direct crossing of the Atlantic was too dangerous. Securing passage to the United States as the newly minted Gertrude Werner had been difficult. I’d learned the Salvadoran embassy issued visas to Jews fleeing Europe, so I’d approached a sympathetic staff member. My purchased Salvadoran visa had cost me several generous bribes.
The nausea had long cleared, but my belly expanded, and the child, unmindful of the world, grew bigger, turning my slim figure pear shaped.
And now I would finish my journey to the United States before the weight of my impersonations crashed around me or the child was born.
The Oceanus had a black hull, the upper decks painted white. It had an open promenade deck for passengers, with railings, and with lifeboats mounted along the side. The large vessel had two smokestacks, and rows of portholes lined the lower deck. A chain of colorful flags stretched between the masts, fluttering in the soft breeze.
As I stepped out of the carriage, the ship loomed large as I hefted my bag and walked toward the gangplank. My wide-brimmed hat shadowed my face, already turning pink in the Caribbean sun. I gripped the leather handle of my satchel, wondering how it had become so heavy.
“May I be of assistance?”
The man’s voice was directly behind me and startlingly close. I hadn’t heard his approach. I stopped and faced a midsize man with broad shoulders, dressed in a linen suit. A fedora covered dark slicked-back hair, brown eyes, and a striking nose reminiscent of a Roman. It was difficult to judge his age, but I guessed early forties.
“Thank you,” I said carefully. “I am fine.”
He easily ate up the distance between us, moving with the posture of a confident man. “I cannot let a woman heavy with child carry her own bag.”
I stood above most women, and this stranger wasn’t much taller than me. “It’s not so heavy,” I insisted.
He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “My name is Dr. Atticus Brooks. I am a book dealer. I am from the United States. May I carry your bag?”
My true valuables and my false papers were sewn into my dress, and if he was intent on stealing a lady’s oversize dresses and a few old books, he was in luck. I held out the bag for him. “Very well. Thank you.”
He accepted it, lightening my load immediately. “And may I ask your name?”
“Gertrude Werner.” I’d practiced the name endlessly, making sure it rolled automatically off my tongue. Any hesitation would be a red flag signaling a spy or wanted refugee.
There was no flicker of recognition when he heard the name or studied my flushed face. “Do you have family in New York City?” he asked.