40

Steamship Gneisenau, Bay of Bombay, India

March 9, 1939

5:45 p.m. (Deutsches Reich Zeit)

Josef and Magda’s daily meetings continued as the Gneisenau steamed east and the days grew hotter. Connecting Josef’s need to avoid Schmidt with a necessity for the both of them to stay out of an increasingly strong sun, Magda conjured times and places where they could quietly pass the time together. Shaded by umbrellas or hanging lifeboats, they continued to watch the ocean flow by, telling each other truthful details of their lives that carefully avoided the real reasons why either of them was on that great ship.

Despite the fact they came from very different backgrounds, it was a comfortable, amusing companionship driven by Magda’s keen wit and Josef’s kind nature. He enjoyed telling her about his home village, his family, his friends, carefully reconstructing through his words and memories everything that had been stolen from him. The more he spoke, the more he understood how his had been a simple, honest life based on kindness, friendship, and trust; a way of life doomed to extinction under the Nazis.

The realization made him want even more to tell Magda everything, but Pfeiffer’s invisible dagger was still sharp. The stab of its point stopped him every time, leaving him instead to take in the beauty of the girl and the precious moments they shared.

When the ship passed through the Suez Canal and into the Red Sea, they met after dinner on the rear middle deck to look across the inky water at the faint outline of the shore, seeing little detail in the dark but feeling the warm desert wind on their faces and imagining the hidden, mysterious kingdoms it had passed over to reach them. Magda, immaculately dressed, having come from dining in the first-class hall, yet tense and exasperated by the politics and pomposity of its elaborate assigned seating that rotated the wealthiest passengers around the ship’s captain and senior officers, would visibly relax as they spoke.

Josef knew that Schmidt was requesting individual team members join him to dine at his table each evening but he was never invited. It didn’t concern him. He was happy to keep his distance from Schmidt, from the entire expedition in fact. His days now revolved entirely around the time he spent with either Magda or preparing for the mountain. He began to concoct an elegant fantasy that perhaps if he was successful in climbing it, the prestige and glory that would come after might allow him to return to her.

The day before they were due to arrive at the Port of Bombay, an orderly approached Josef with a handwritten card from Schmidt inviting him to join his table that evening. Josef was surprised at the invite but immediately hopeful that it might give additional opportunity to be with Magda. He dressed carefully in the suit that Pfeiffer had instructed him was for formal occasions with Schmidt. It was tailored to fit him perfectly and Josef felt a shiver of anticipation at the possibility that she would see him in such fine clothes. Walking to the first-class lounge to meet Schmidt for his predinner cocktail, an electricity of excitement coursed through Josef’s body.

The professor was already there, holding a martini, his little finger faintly twitching as it projected into the air. He looked Josef up and down with a mixture of amusement and surprise.

“Obersturmführer Pfeiffer certainly equipped you well for your little adventure. Let’s hope that clothes do indeed make the man,” he said with a smirk, finishing his martini in a gulp. “There is, however, one thing missing, boy.”

Schmidt produced a small enamel badge from his pocket. Without pause he pinned it onto Josef’s satin lapel, its red and white vivid against the black of the suit, its swastika surrounded by the words “National—Socialistiche—D.A.P.” there for all to see.

“Good. Now you are ready for your first dinner in first class. I know you will enjoy the company at the table, well, at least some of it.” Schmidt gave Josef a sly look before standing back and grinning to himself as he smugly surveyed the assembling dinner guests and called for a second cocktail.

The professor’s cheeks were flushed by the time he had finished a third and dinner was announced. While the diners began to file in from the bar, Schmidt leaned in close to Josef and said in a blast of alcoholic fumes that hinted at a deeper foundation than the three martinis, “Bon appetit!”

Josef didn’t reply, rendered speechless by the sight that opened up before him as they entered the dining room. Beneath elegant crystal chandeliers, the plush red carpet was studded with polished round tables, each laden with sparkling glassware, lines of silver cutlery, and floral centerpieces interspersed with gleaming silver candlesticks. With the first-class passengers, their guests, and the ship’s senior officers, more than 150 people were sitting down to dinner. Josef had never seen anything like it.

Perhaps this is how it will always be when I am the man who first climbed Mount Everest.

The ship’s purser headed Schmidt’s table. The other guests were diplomats and businessmen heading to India or further east—polished, well-dressed men with silent, cold-looking wives who stood slightly behind them as they made their introductions. The last three guests to arrive were Magda von Trier and her mother and father. Schmidt turned to look at Josef as they appeared but his eyes were so caught on Magda that he didn’t notice the almost triumphant leer on the professor’s face.

Magda smiled back when she first noticed Josef, but then, as her father was presenting her as if it was the first time they had met, her eyes dropped to linger on the party badge that Schmidt had stuck into his lapel.

Josef immediately felt any force disappear from the soft squeeze of her handshake, a look of disappointment hardening the gentle curves of her face as she quickly moved away to take her seat.

The start of the dinner was restrained and Josef felt totally excluded from the conversation. Even Magda said nothing to him.

Josef noticed that Schmidt was constantly looking at Magda and her mother. He asked himself repeatedly what the hateful man was so intent on, until, with a chill that squeezed ice water through his veins, an answer came to him in the form of another question.

Is Magda’s mother Jewish?

It had never crossed Josef’s mind but now that it did, it suddenly explained so much left unsaid about her family’s journey to India. Continuing to eat in silence, Josef’s fantastic, ridiculous fantasy of climbing Mount Everest to claim Magda collapsed inside him as if punctured by the swastika pin.

At the end of the first course, the ship’s captain got to his feet and, calling for silence by tapping the side of his glass, welcomed the assembled diners, saying that sadly for some it would be their last as the ship would be arriving the next day at the Port of Bombay.

The news was met with a round of applause. As it died, Schmidt, by now on his second glass of wine, stood up and shouted loudly to the assembled room, “Heil India! Heil Hitler!” His salute was met with a resounding repetition from most of the assembled diners and more applause. As that too subsided, Josef noticed Magda’s father whisper something under his breath to his wife. She glanced at him with a flicker of alarm, faintly shaking her head before looking back down at her food.

Their daughter had stopped eating and, putting down her cutlery, was now staring directly at the still-standing Schmidt with a look of utter loathing. Schmidt, oblivious to her gaze, was inspired by the success of his toast. Calling for another glass of wine, he sat back down and began to loudly lecture the table on how it was an honor and a privilege to be able to lead fine young Germans to the mighty Himalayas, how wise and generous was a regime that supported such a venture.

Some of the table’s guests murmured approval at what Schmidt was saying until Magda, with an obviously forced smile and knowing full well from Josef the stated objectives of the expedition, said, “Professor Schmidt, please do tell us some more about your expedition. Is it to try to climb the mountain of Nanga Parbat once again? I imagine it is about time that some more fine young Germans died for the honor and privilege of placing our beloved führer’s proud flag on the top of that dreadful mound of snow and rock.” Undisguised sarcasm oozed from her precisely chosen words. Magda’s mother visibly tensed as her daughter spoke. Her father angled his head downward before looking up at her through greying eyebrows, lips pursed as if willing her, through his stare alone, to be silent.

The question flustered Schmidt for a moment before he responded abruptly, “No, young lady, it is not! How …” He checked himself, explaining to the rest of the table in a more magnanimous tone, “Actually it is as much a scientific expedition as it is a mountaineering venture, although, that being said, we do hope to visit the summits of a number of the still-unclimbed peaks of the Kangchenjunga massif.” Looking directly at Magda and her mother, he then said, “And when we do, I can assure you all that it will be my pleasure to see that our proud swastika does indeed fly from each. Who knows, you might even be able to see them all the way from Hyderabad.”

Josef was instantly concerned that Schmidt seemed to already know the von Triers’ destination, sure it hadn’t been mentioned during the dinner. A sense of unease took him, bringing with it the thought that perhaps his invitation had been deliberate when Schmidt had seen the von Triers were going to be at his table that evening.

Magda, with a look of unconcealed scorn, spoke to Schmidt again. “Do you not think it is somewhat frivolous, Professor Schmidt, to be sending young men up dangerous mountains instead of considering what is really happening in Germany? There is daily talk of war, visible evidence of murder, persecution, theft, and yet here you are”—she glanced again at Josef—“marching up mountains, waving your little flag without a care in the world. Your hubris is larger than any of the mountains you seek to climb. In fact, I find it to be greater than Mount Everest, the highest of them all. Actually my only real surprise is that you do not have that mountain on your pathetic list of planned conquests.”

Her words dropped onto the table, where the other guests slowly digested them in an anxious silence until Schmidt stood up and leaned across the table and stabbed a finger toward Magda to reinforce every word of his angry response. “There is absolutely nothing frivolous, young lady, about demonstrating to the world the superiority of Nazi Germany and its fine Aryan youth!” Retracting his finger, eyes scanning the other guests with an imploring look for support, he said to them in a more moderated tone, “I have read that the British climber George Leigh Mallory, when asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, would only say, ‘Because it’s there.’ Well, I say to you all, we, the Third Reich, should climb mountains because we are here, and the entire world should both see it and know it!”

The ship’s purser instantly shouted, “Bravo!” and, holding aloft his glass said, “Guests, we should drink to that!” Offering up, “Because we are here!” as a toast, he took a heavy swig of wine. The other diners drank, clinking their glasses, nervously laughing to shake off the discomfort of the exchange.

Schmidt continued to speak after emptying his own wineglass. “I have not the slightest doubt that just one good German could climb Everest itself if he set his mind to it, such is the strength of the Nazi will. Do you not agree, Josef Becker?”

The question jolted Josef.

Filled with alarm at Schmidt’s angry hint about his secret project and embarrassed at being drawn into the argument, he was not sure how to reply.

Magda quickly removed the need by standing up from the table and saying, “Mr. Becker, when you step on your summits on behalf of yourself and your Nazi colleagues, I only ask that you please be mindful of those who have been walked over in order to raise your flag of shame.”

Watching her stride away from the table, Josef could say nothing in return, stunned.

Schmidt’s face swelled with a red rage. He stared at Magda’s father before blurting in a spray of spittle, “That was an outrage, von Trier, an absolute outrage. A wayward daughter is most definitely not an asset, sir, particularly given her racial heritage. I will expect a full apology, or I will demand satisfaction of you.”

Von Trier, a proud, educated man who reminded Josef of the generalmajor in Garmisch said nothing as he looked back at the blustering Schmidt. In the absence of any response, the professor repeated, “An apology or satisfaction, do you hear me, sir?”

Magda’s father’s eyes narrowed. Then for all the table’s guests to see, he traced the tip of an index finger slowly down the line of a faint yet long scar on his left cheek, all the time continuing to stare Schmidt straight in the eye.

“Professor Schmidt, it is most definitely not in your best interest to demand satisfaction of a Prussian, whoever he might have married. I was a student at Heidelberg until the eve of the Great War, in which I fought for four long years. As you can see from my face, I bear a dueling scar that proves the stupidity of my university days. What you cannot see are my other scars that prove the stupidity of war. Even if you study only what you can see, you might think again about the wisdom of speaking to me in such a manner.”

With a conciliatory smile he turned to the other guests. “I hope that you will forgive my daughter’s little outburst. She merely fears for the future, as I think we all do to some degree. She is still young, and sadly her passion sometimes gets the better of her. I will see that she supplies each of you with a written apology. In the meantime, I would suggest to the entire table that we try not to let her behavior ruin this delicious dinner.”

Schmidt puffed himself up for a further response, but the ship’s purser cut across him with a loud exclamation of, “Hear! Hear! Now then, everyone, a good dinner shouldn’t be spoiled.” The purser then made a big show of calling for more wine in an attempt to further defuse the situation, his intervention allowing the other diners to return gladly to their food with an intense concentration that permitted little eye contact or conversation. Josef could see that Magda’s mother’s hands were trembling as she ate. Her father cut into his food, staring at Schmidt as if filleting one of the professor’s fleshy cheeks with his knife. Schmidt said nothing more for the rest of the meal.