Chapter 8 - The Other Worlds Inside Titanic
Luxury was easy to describe.
Poverty was harder.
The problem was that writers often treated poor people as scenery.
I did not want to do that.
With permission arranged through the purser’s office, Samuel accompanied me during a limited visit through several Second and Third Class passenger spaces.
The difference began almost immediately.
First Class had room to waste.
Third Class did not.
The corridors were simpler.
The furniture plainer.
Cabins smaller.
Decoration became practical rather than impressive.
Yet I was surprised by how clean everything looked.
Families had proper tables for meals.
There were enclosed cabins rather than the enormous open dormitories I had expected from older emigrant ships.
Common spaces were crowded but lively.
I heard music before we reached one of them.
A man played a fiddle.
Children danced.
People clapped.
Samuel looked at me.
“You were expecting misery?”
“I don’t know what I was expecting.”
“That’s why you look before you write.”
I liked Samuel more every day.
We passed the Third Class dining saloon while tables were being prepared.
The room lacked the elaborate service upstairs, but it was bright and orderly.
Bread was being carried in.
The smell of stew drifted from farther away.
A boy chased another around a bench until their mother stopped both with a single sentence delivered in a language I did not recognize.
Then I saw a red-haired cloth doll.
Eva.
She saw me almost at the same moment.
“Mr. Ethan!”
Apparently I had become Mr. Ethan.
Anna was seated nearby mending the cuff of a coat.
She looked surprised to see me.
“You are lost?”
“Frequently. But not today.”
Eva held Rosie up.
“She survived.”
“I told you she would.”
One button eye had been repaired with darker thread.
Anna offered me a seat.
I explained the article.
She seemed uncertain at first.
Then we talked.
Her husband had died three years earlier.
Her brother had found factory work in Pennsylvania and sent money for their passage.
“What will you do in America?” I asked.
“Work.”
“At what?”
“Whatever they let me.”
She said it without self-pity.
Eva climbed beside her.
“I’m going to school.”
Anna smiled.
“Yes.”
“And I’m going to have a yellow bedroom.”
“That has not yet been promised.”
Eva looked at me.
“It will be yellow.”
“I believe you.”
Nearby, three young men were discussing jobs in New York.
A Swedish family shared fruit.
An elderly couple sat quietly holding hands.
The room contained accents from half of Europe.
I suddenly understood something.
First Class talked about where they had been.
Third Class talked about where they were going.
That was not universally true, of course.
Nothing involving human beings ever is.
But the difference was strong enough for me to notice.
When we left, Eva ran after me.
“Mr. Ethan.”
She pressed something into my hand.
A peppermint.
“For later.”
I looked at it.
“This is a serious gift.”
“I have four.”
“Then I accept.”
I put it carefully in my pocket.
Back upstairs, the carpet became thicker.
The walls became more decorative.
The air seemed quieter.
I felt uncomfortable.
Not guilty exactly.
My ticket had been paid for honestly.
The people upstairs were not villains because they could afford better cabins.
Yet Titanic made social differences physical.
A staircase could separate lives.
A door could mark an entire class.
A corridor could lead to marble and polished oak in one direction and narrow bunks in another.
And still the same engines carried everyone.
That evening I saw Eleanor in the lounge.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Did you finally look beyond the expensive rooms?”
I sat across from her.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I took out the peppermint Eva had given me.
Eleanor looked at it.
“A bribe?”
“Payment for journalistic services.”
I told her about Anna.
About Eva.
About the people planning new lives.
When I finished, Eleanor said nothing for a moment.
Then she looked around the lounge.
“Remember them when you write.”
“I will.”
She smiled.
“Then perhaps your article will be worth reading.”
I placed the peppermint back in my pocket.
May you like
I would keep it there for the rest of the voyage.
Long after everything else was lost, I would still remember the shape of that small piece of candy against my fingers.
