The Perfumer

Chapter 2-2

4 September, 1939 - Atlantic Ocean

Hours after the sinking of the Newell-Grey Explorer, Danielle sat shivering on the quiet darkened deck of the British destroyer that had come to their rescue. She drew a damp woolen blanket, heavy with its animal aroma, around her shoulders, but it offered little warmth.

Danielle owed her life to the Irishwoman in the lifeboat whose strong arms had lifted her to the surface, yanking her from the brink of crossing over, of leaving her loved ones behind. I wasn’t ready to die, she thought, anxiety crawling through her skin as she recalled the surreal moments she’d experienced, the sense that she was being thrust through a passage from the life she’d known. She pursed her trembling lips and blinked back fear. Nicky needs his mother, and I will find him.

Thankfully, everyone in her lifeboat had survived, including Joshua, the little boy she’d promised to look after. When Danielle regained consciousness, she was worried about Joshua. The Irishwoman assured her that Joshua was well; the captain had personally made sure the boy was being cared for. On his request, several teachers had gathered children who’d been on lifeboats alone to comfort them, look after them, and try to reunite them with family after they disembarked. Danielle was relieved to learn that Joshua wasn’t hurt, and hoped his father had survived, too.

Danielle was unharmed, except for a few bruises and a throbbing welt on the back of her head. But other passengers weren’t as fortunate. The sight of stiff, discolored bodies adrift in the sea, the scent of death rising from the waves—these memories would plague her forever.

One thought revolved endlessly through Danielle’s mind: Where are we? She had seen neither Max nor Jon since she’d boarded the lifeboat. She could only pray they were aboard the ship that trailed them, a Norwegian vessel that had also aided in the rescue. Both ships were observing radio silence, so survivors could not be confirmed.

She drew her hands into fists and crushed Nicky’s woolen cap to her cheek, inhaling his memory. As a perfumer, Danielle knew the sense of smell was a strong memory trigger, but it was more than that, too. The olfactory sense was a key to the door of human emotions, to emotions often barred from the surface of consciousness. She drank in the unique aroma of her son, the intimate scent that any parent knows.

With another breath, the aroma of wet wool conjured the last moments she’d been with Max, the fibers of his jacket drenched with salt water. Inevitably, the vision of the U-boat appeared in her mind. Her breath quickened as anger grew within her. She recalled the horrible stories that had filtered in from Germany and realized now, with a sinking feeling, that the stories must be true.

Muted sobs reverberated in the thick fog of the salted midnight air, but Danielle remained dry-eyed, resistant now to any emotion but rage, her breath coming in short rasps.

She clasped her knees and rocked in the biting cold, trying to keep her body, and her baby, warm. It was far too soon to feel any movement, but she prayed the child was unharmed by her ordeal.

Her husband might well be among the dead, yet she dared not think of mourning. She fixed her gaze toward England.

No doubt, Nazi U-boats tracked the ships’ movements. Would they even reach England? And then what?

At least Heinrich was with Nicky and Sofia. Although in truth, she’d always been wary of Max’s cousin. Heinrich acted distant, but Max only laughed and said it was his Prussian background. Yet she sensed he viewed her as an interloper.

Danielle turned to concentrate on the blackened form of the Norwegian vessel. As she did, she imagined that she could feel the presence of Max and Jon. They must be there. Finally, exhaustion set in and she drifted into a troubled slumber.

When Danielle woke, the English shore was in full view. Where am I? What’s happening, where’s Max? Then the memory of the night before rushed through her mind, and she stumbled to her feet.

She drew herself farther into her soggy blanket and crinkled her nose against the sour smell of damp wool. The air held an ominous chill, and the charcoal sky reflected the somber mood of the morning.

The stout, red-haired Irishwoman from the lifeboat stood near her at the rail, worry lines on her face. “Morning, dearie,” the woman said. She pointed ahead at the docks. “We’re pulling into Southampton. How’re you doing?”

“I’ve been better, but glad to be alive. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me,” Danielle said. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve drowned.”

“Don’t mention it, dearie, but sure’n you should learn to swim.” The woman patted her on the back.

From the deck of the British destroyer that had rescued them, the two women watched as the Norwegian ship docked. Then the destroyer maneuvered into port.

Solemn passengers lined the rail of each vessel. Danielle strained to see Max or Jon. She peered out over the throng of people who’d gathered to greet the ships, heard them call out names in hope. Then the heavens burst with a crack of thunder and far below, clusters of umbrellas unfurled against the sudden rain.

The Irishwoman left her, marching ahead to look for her family. Danielle shuffled off the ship with the ragged mass of survivors, following the queue into a large, rectangular brick building. Once in the processing area, she continued to search the crowd for Max and Jon. But all she found were dry blankets and bland soup, and volunteers who could do little more than offer condolences.

“Refugees,” she heard them called. Her face burned with renewed anger. That’s what we are now. Barefoot and clutching her purse, Danielle gave a volunteer her information. With her heart in her throat, she asked about Max.

The woman consulted a list, frowned, and then excused herself.

Danielle licked her raw lips, tasting salt water. The smell of perspiration and dampness infiltrated her nose. Not far away, she noticed a trim man with a press credential tucked into his hatband.

“How many people were aboard?” he asked an official. He sounded American.

“Twelve hundred ninety-four,” came the reply.

“Survivors?”

Danielle strained to hear.

“At last count, nine hundred seventy-six.”

Her head throbbed as she calculated. More than three hundred dead.

The reporter scribbled in his notebook. “And what can you tell me about the SS. Athenia?”

The official shook his head. “She was bound for Montreal but suffered a U-boat attack north of Ireland. More than a hundred civilians and crew died.”

No, not another ship. Danielle’s head swam. So this is war.