The office is hot and smells of stale cigars. It’s midsummer in New York, a particular urban kind of heat, dirty and immovable, the atmosphere possibly fixed in place by all those vertical walls, and the perspiration crawls down Elfriede’s spine. Johann swings his legs. Elfriede aches when she sees his face, so young and so anxious, framed by wet blond curls. He should be out playing with his sisters. He should be doing battle with the Atlantic surf, not stuck in a stuffy steamship office in New York City, dressed in his jacket and short pants. Elfriede’s removed her gloves because of the heat, and her fingernails dig into her palms. Her jaw hurts with the force of her teeth grinding against each other, a reflex she can’t seem to conquer. Her girls, her girls. The smell of Gertrud’s hair. The small, plump shape of Frederica’s hand in hers. The sound of Ursula’s giggle. She’s going to die, she can’t survive this anxiety in her stomach, this grief.

Never to see them again. No, it’s impossible.

What if they’re sick? Hurt? Will Charlotte care for them properly, will she notice the little signs that a fever’s more than just a fever, a cough’s more than just a cough, a minor scrape might be turning septic? How can anyone love the girls so passionately as Elfriede loves them?

Johann. Is he never to see his sisters again?

It’s impossible.

The door opens. The officer enters, bearing some papers and an eager expression. “Here you are, Frau von Kleist. You may review these at your leisure, of course. May I bring you some refreshment?”

“Perhaps some water for my son? Lemonade, if you have it? It’s terribly hot.”

“Yes, Frau von Kleist. I’m very sorry. One moment.”

The officer disappears once more, and Elfriede bends over the papers. So great is her anxiety, she has trouble focusing on the names, on each individual entry. She reads them without reading them. Slow down, slow down. Think. The SS Statendam, ten thousand gross tonnage, departed from the Hoboken pier three days ago, bound for Rotterdam. 902 passengers, 147 in first class. Another 147 in second class, the remainder in steerage. Elfriede places her finger on the paper to mark her progress down the list of names, to make sure she doesn’t skip any lines. The paper’s shaking a little. The names are mostly Dutch, she perceives, but also German and some English. Mr. and Mrs. Josef Kuipers, 5 children, 1 infant. Mr. Andrew Harrison. Mr. Leopold Meisner. Mr. and Mrs. Willem Janssen. Mr. and Mrs. Rutger De Jong, 3 children.

The door opens. A woman enters, bearing a tray with two glasses of lemonade. Iced, even. Johann reaches greedily and remembers, at the last second, to say Danke. Elfriede’s own mouth is dry with thirst, but she can’t stop to drink.

Mr. Kaspar Ryskamp. Mrs. Thomas Beecham, 3 children.