The Glatstein Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page A

upon those who would cross it. Footsteps lighten, manners soften, voices lilt. Aboard ship one suffers minor hurt rather than inflict hurt on fellow passengers. Gestures become more polished, behavior more formal. One lives under the mystical spell of the sea and behaves accordingly, altogether differently than on dry land. Parental admonitions that once went in one ear and out the other suddenly make sense. Everyone circles the deck, strolling like lords. A fine, silken cord connects one man to his fellow, even his fellow female. The merest exchange of greetings—“Good morning, good year”—spans the gap. I also began to appreciate the tenderness of the terms “shipboard brother” and “shipboard sister.” Nor did this metamorphosis occasion anxiety, because it affected everyone to the same degree. Aboard ship, in contrast to their alter egos on land, strangers find themselves tossed together, and yet, wonder of wonders, God’s world with its manifold souls stays in balance even here, where we tread softly and scarcely recognize the sounds of our own voices.
    I looked for a secluded corner, away from the throng, where I could get a grip on my excitement. The red, yellow, and green flares of the launches that accompanied our ship like some exotic marine vegetation receded farther and farther away, extending our circle of solitude. We had escaped, leaving behind all sentimental reminders of relatives and attachments to terra firma. Now that the
Olympic
had pulled away from land, it formed its own little planet, with its own population, its own way of life, even its own invisible leader, the captain, whose existence you could deny without any damage to your peace of mind.
    I stood leaning against the railing of the deck and had the audacity to cite myself. Somewhere I had written that the world is divided into two camps: those with the wherewithal to travel and those condemned to staying put. This notion pleased me now that I was putting it to the test.
    Five young men were also leaning against the railing, looking back at the distant lights, the rank harbor smells still filling the air. They watched as the water thickened, turning blacker. The only sound was that of the wavelets, soft, playful plops against the ship like soap bubbles bursting. These stalwarts made up the orchestra, which had struck a minor key at our departure. “Why not a happy tune?” many of the passengers had demanded, as they waved a final exhausted farewell to relatives on shore. Parting was sorrow enough without this mournful accompaniment. Though each of the passengers had willingly embarked on this journey, the final wrench of the ship away from land seemed to rip them forcibly from their loved ones. There was no compensating pleasure as yet aboard ship, everything was still disorienting, undefined, and strange.
    “Why don’t they play a happy tune?”
    The protest was taken up like a call to revolution. The members of the little band, mother’s milk still on their lips, must have been intimidated by the passengers’ displeasure and, in their confusion, blundered into yet another dirge, which tugged at the heartstrings. The passengers had no choice but to yield to the mournful melody. When I told the musicians that I liked their little orchestra and that I particularly admired their courage in not playing something jazzy, they seemed to take heart. They had been somewhat depressed, thinking they were failures before the ship was barely out to sea.
    These eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds hailed from West Virginia University, where they played in the student orchestra. By a stroke of good fortune, the dean had recommended them for a job as shipboard musicians, a two-week engagement crossing the ocean to Europe and back, with a free stopover in Paris. Four of the boys were tall, imposing, and handsome. The fifth, short and barrel-shaped, played the violin, not the drums as one might have expected. They all looked freshly hatched, in their