I watched the other women slowly, kindly, distract Mama with requests and chores, pulling her upright with appeals for an extra pair of hands to brush the mould off the biscuits, to advise on the best way to cool a child’s heat rash, to suggest an appropriate blessing for commemorative embroidery. ‘Best to brush downwind. Don’t scratch at it – a damp cloth will soothe. “God’s Grace to your green wedding; Go joyfully towards the silver one!”’ She ate more. She snickered at Eleonore Volkmann’s wry observation that the doctor was playing ‘die beleidigte Leberwurst’ – ‘the insulted sausage’ – and she struck up a curious friendship with the young woman who now nursed Hermine. Her name was Augusta and she had been born in Klemzig only a few years before I came into the world. Her husband, a man called Karl, ten years older, had suffered rather badly throughout the journey from scurvy and had lost a lot of weight, and, to Magdalena’s disapproval, I saw Mama bring Anna Maria to his berth to treat his bleeding gums. Hermine found a playmate in their chubby son, Wilhelm, both babies sitting on the floor mouthing things they found discarded under the bunks.
Papa approved of Mama’s new friendship. I guessed that he felt relieved his wife had resumed something of her old self. He was now free to resume his duties as elder and representative. I watched a keener edge of religious fervour emerge in my father as he took his place as leader of the people. He gave himself further to God and summoned Him into every decision, from how best to divide bacon to whether to complain to the captain about the water barrels, which were now only good for tea and coffee. It was difficult for people to argue with him when every choice was staked to gospel, and so passengers complied and the small fires of argument between decks were largely extinguished. It helped that Papa put himself last in many ways; he did not eat the bigger portion, and he offered his hands to the dirtiest work. If he had held the esteem of his countrymen in Kay, on the ship my father was respected to the point of veneration. He reminded everyone that the journey would end in such freedom and prosperity as they have never known before, and I sensed a growing excitement spread throughout the congregation with each new day.
It was painful to see my parents mourning me, but it was harder still to see them begin to accommodate that grief and find a place for it within their lives. Their faith assured them that I was in a place of peace, and their certainty of this made my death even more catastrophic to myself. Regret and anger sometimes wormed through me so relentlessly that when Mama and Papa spoke of inanities – the vile rations of salt herring, the sunburn of Gottfried Volkmann – I wanted to rip the boards from the floor. Some days I crawled into any free berth, covered my face and let time make a puddle of me. How much I had taken for granted! I had been so stupid to assume I had years ahead of me, even after seeing Gottlob’s own life pinched out. My parents’ belief that my death was the will of God broke my heart.
Thea spent most of her time sitting on her berth, ignoring the other girls as they sewed – determinedly, endlessly – for their dowry boxes, flipping through her father’s Bible without seeming to read a word. I watched Anna Maria labour in the kitchens, cursing the clay mortar that had begun to break up around the copper pans, trying to conjure something that might tempt her daughter’s appetite. Barley with beef. Rice cooked with sugar. Thea raked her spoon through the food and absently licked it clean, but inevitably her meals were left to grow cold.
Mutter Scheck had less patience for Thea’s listlessness. She encouraged her to rise from bed and take exercise about the bow, and when she refused, Mutter Scheck seemed at a loss as to what to do next. She was not used to disobedience. One day she flung a shawl on Thea’s bed and stood next to it, hands on hips. ‘Gott l?sst uns wohl sinken, aber nicht ertrinken. God lets us sink, but not drown. Still, I’m sure He’d appreciate it if you made an effort to swim.’
Thea looked up at her, face expressionless. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’ve heard a whale was seen from deck this morning. You should go. Some fresh air will do you good.’
‘I’m quite tired.’
‘It need not be long,’ Mutter said. She grabbed Henriette by the shoulder as she passed by. ‘You too. Go on. Take Thea upstairs and have a little sightsee.’
Henriette showed her the bedsheet she carried. ‘I’ve nearly finished this.’
‘Take it up with you.’
Henriette hesitated, looking askance at Thea.
‘Really, Mutter Scheck, I would rather stay here,’ Thea said.
‘No. You’re as sallow as anything. Go on. You too, Henriette.’ Mutter Scheck picked up the shawl and wrapped it around Thea’s shoulders.
I followed Thea and Henriette up the hatchway, blood swelling again in memory of the whale’s song that had kept me company in my last moment. I wanted to see the whale. I wanted to sing with it, and for Thea to hear my voice echo its siren song.
The day was grey-mouthed, wide with high cloud. Thea and Henriette stood about in the chill wind for a few minutes, looking out to sea, before a sailor, guessing at what they were after, told them the whale had not been sighted for several hours.
‘Should we go back down?’ Henriette asked Thea. ‘It’s cold.’
Thea turned to the ocean. It was dark and choppy, the surface crowded with gulls that swooped and alighted between the waves. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘What was that? Noisy things, aren’t they?’ Henriette murmured. She glanced at the embroidery in her hand. ‘I might just sit and do a little more,’ she said, settling herself against a barrel out of the wind. ‘The light is better. Oh, you can see all my mistakes.’