Navratil's Boys

For the fourth night in a row, Michel Navratil lay awake on the top berth in his second-class cabin. He was attempting to fall asleep, and the roar of engines served only to stir up the consternation in his mind like some warm sea. He shuffled his body to the side of the wooden railing and yanked the velvety blue blanket under his chin and then over either side of his face, around his fashionable handlebar mustache in a futile attempt to muffle the endless noise.

Navratil's mind could not make sense of the deep suffering he had experienced in the last few months. He could not reconcile its meaning, and because of this he considered the meaning of his own life. It seemingly had no purpose, for all he had accomplished over his nearly four-decade lifespan had been ripped out from underneath him in a manner of four months. Marcelle’s dramatic exit from their marriage was the first crack, and quickly after his life soon broke into pieces. He could not find the strength or the will to pick them up, let alone put them back together again.

Rather suddenly, he directed his attention then the loaded revolver stowed inside his jacket, which was carefully laid across the upholstered chair a few hours before. He imagined himself climbing down the ladder and pressing the cold butt of the gun against his temple. He would carefully put his index finger on the trigger, then slowly pull and his pain would be over. Forever.

The thought gave him both chills and confidence simultaneously as adrenaline shot through his veins. He sat up in bed then, feeling energized. He glanced at his pocket watch; it was eleven thirty-eight at night. He had been lying still for a half an hour and could do so no longer. He swung his leg over the rail. As quietly as was possible, he stepped down toward the cool checkered linoleum floor. The distraught passenger on the luxury liner required no light, he knew exactly where his gun was. With one swift dig into his jacket, he found his revolver and slowly wrapped his shaking fingers around it. It was heavier than he remembered.

CRASH! Navratil was startled by a grinding sound and looked up toward the wall from whence it came. The crash roused him to his senses but did not cause any fear. He figured the noise was caused by several galley pans had been knocked to the ground by some late-night sous' chef. Or perhaps even some drunk fool had fallen off his bunk.

The source of the crash was of little importance to the shaky man, yet at that moment in time it was the most important clattering noise of his life. Navratil snapped out of his daydream and remembered his two sons on the bottom bunk, who had been sound asleep for hours. The whole suicide plan faded quickly then. The boys were babies, only two and four years old, and would have been forever scarred by such a horrific event. He swallowed hard as a deep red flush of shame replaced despair. He had kidnapped them from Marcelle, their mother, a few days prior.

Michel Junior and Edmond lie asleep next to each other under a sea of blankets, Michel’s head bent slightly to avoid a mouthful of Edmonds blonde curls. Navratil had gently tucked them in on opposite sides of the bunk but soon after the lantern dimmed Edmond crawled over to his older brother's side of the bed. Their eyelids relaxed over their almond shaped brown eyes and their mouths hung slightly open. They breathed synchronously, their chubby cheeks rendering them cherubs. When Navratil stared at his sleeping sons, he was reminded of the two bronze angels affixed to the grand clock on the top deck of the boat. A fellow passenger, Frank, had informed him earlier that day that they represented "honor and glory." The faint-hearted father sat down on the chair and stared at his young boys. He blinked away tears and decided that the little boys were his only hope for honor and glory in this world. Content and comfortable, the boys were none the wiser to their father’s near suicide, nor their mother’s present agony and despair. She had no way of knowing her babies were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on a boat that had just scraped across its fatal iceberg.

Navratil had given false names to purchase the tickets for the unbreakable ship. He was the owner of a fledgling tailor shop, “Coudre,” in the village of Nice, France. One of his clients, Louis Hoffman, who was slightly older but also wore a distinct handlebar mustache, had left his passport in a pair of pants that he dropped off a few weeks before. He had therefore unwittingly made his tailor’s oceanic escape possible. After taking the required measurements for a duplicate pair of trousers, the tailor returned them, sans the legal documents. The next day, while Navratil labored over some stitching in the back room of his shop, he overheard Mr. Hoffman questioning an employee about its whereabouts. No one had seen it, and he left satisfied that he had at least done his due diligence with the inquiry.

A few days later was Easter weekend, and all of its sweet celebration. Marcelle was reticent to bring Michel and Edmond to the shop on Thursday afternoon, but obliged Navratil’s pleadings and did so anyways. The bells above the heavy shop door jingled once when Marcelle opened it, and again with its swift closing. The small boys were sent in alone, each with a parcel that was assumed to be clothing and perhaps a doll. Later on, when the newly single father opened Edmonds parcel, he found it to be compiled mostly of his favorite building blocks. He chuckled then, and the abruptness of the drop off did not rattle the man who had not seen his boys in weeks. He held them for most of the night and planned to escape Nice, Coudre, and Marcelle. He would take along his sons so that they would never be separated again.

The Monday after Easter, rather than returning his sons to their mother, Navratil surprised the boys with an unexpected train ride, which would be followed by a long boat ride. The morning's excitement turned to anxiety when the Navratil and his sons arrived at the ticket counter. His palms shined and his face warmed as he pulled out the bills to pay for his second-class White Star tickets.

“Bonjour, good day sir. My name is Louis Hoffman. I…I would like three tickets for the Titanic's voyage to New York."

With a huge grin, the pale-faced boy who looked no older than fourteen squinted out of the window, “You realize the ship leaves Cherbourg in just two days? You'll have to take the next train there” Michel’s grip on his father’s hand tightened, while Edmond fidgeted out of his arms. Navratil sighed and nodded, indicating that he realized all that was ahead of him. He was focused on reclaiming his family. Marcelle would not rip the entirety of his life out of his hands. Edmond began to toddle towards a carriage as the ticket teller asked for the names of his sons.

“Fred and John,” he said without hesitation or eye-contact.

The lackadaisical ticket seller recorded the false names in his book, none the wiser despite the look of apprehension so distinctly written across the man’s face. He either didn’t notice or simply believed that any man about to travel such a long distance by himself with two young boys would appear perceptibly pained.

While the train lumbered toward northern France Navratil explained to his children that they would be among the very first passengers on the RMS Titanic. Michel and Edmond smiled at him and chatted about boats while gazing out the window along the French countryside. They arrived with two hours to spare before the boat's departure from the town of Cherbourg, France.

“Papa?” Michel reached his round fingers up towards the protruding smokestacks as they boarded the Titanic. “What are those golden tunnels sticking out of the ship? They almost glow in the sunshine.” The flutter in Navratil’s chest was beginning to settle now that they were on board, and he noticed his son’s innocent face for the first time in days. His deep set and worried eyes brightened, and he knelt down to meet his son’s equally deep-set eyes.

“Why, those are the funnels that blow out the steam that will carry us to the New World, Michel!”

“Will we be new… in the new world?” The little boy’s eyes reflected the unending churning of his brain.

“In a way, yes, my little philosophe! We will have a new life in the new world. And..."Navratil stammered, not exactly sure how to explain their situation to his child, "...we will have new names too. Yours is John and your brother's is Fred." He stood up then and gazed at the ocean, and Michel simply giggled at the thought of having the name John, and then his face became shadowed.

“Will Maman join us?” It was the next obvious question, as the father should have guessed. He knew what Marcelle thought about America and remembered how she scoffed and darted her eyes away when he mentioned his dream of moving across the sea and of starting a new career. His father was a tailor, and his grandfather. Navratil was not given a choice in the matter and blamed the inevitable sinking of his business on this fact. In the new world, he could become a journalist, a whaler, a restauranteur, anyone really. His days of endlessly recording inseam measurements would be over. But Marcelle, whose life was planted along the coast of France would not hear it. She divorced Navratil, taking his children, claiming that he was unstable. And perhaps he was.

“Yes, my sweet. Your maman will be joining us, on a different boat.” Lies on top of lies began to rattle around in the Frenchman’s soul. They were beginning to consume him. He led his sons to a group of children who were rolling a ball around.

The young boys played for a while but were excited to walk on the large deck of the ship and meandered to the edge of the upper deck to peer out towards the vastness of the ocean. A lady’s black and white-ruffled umbrella rolled past in a blast of wind which pulled the children away from the ship's railing towards a group of women chatting near the center of the upper deck. Navratil joined in the chase, and eventually caught the umbrella, rendering himself a hero in the eyes of his young boys.

The innocent joys the three pioneers experienced as they settled into life on a large steamer faded into dark memories of regret in the evenings. After replacing his revolver into his jacket pocket, Navratil climbed back into bed and held his pocket watch close to his face as to read the time, though he knew it already. It read eleven-forty-two at night. Time was an unwelcome shadow that followed him everywhere. He could not escape the pressures of it, the pressures of being a husband and a father, of owning a failing business. Even after literally escaping his life along with his two children, he came to the realization that he could not escape his life.

Regrets seeped into his mind. He had blamed Marcelle for his misery with his life. For the slow and steady demise of Coudre. For being a distant and cold wife when they had both become as such since the birth of their children. For taking the children away from him. He knew he had not been a father to the boys. He left Marcelle to raise them almost single-handedly while he spent his days at his shop and his evenings at the pub plotting ways to escape his life. Now she was alone, agonizing over the whereabouts of her children. Navratil gulped, his face reddened at the thought. He decided then that he would send word immediately upon their arrival to New York that they boys were safe and with him. He would explain that he still needed time with the boys and was planning to create a new life for the family, that she could join if she wished. He knew she would not.

The boat lurched again, and the pocket watch ticked. Time. If he only had more time back in France before the blasted court order, he could have made everything right for his family. Time. Every moment, every breath, every wave, every strike of the clock was a reminder that life is short. The images of his boys sleeping peacefully below softened Navratil and he decided then to sit in his life rather than run through it. Fleeing tragedy did not eliminate it, and as he tossed in as berth as the sea tossed the ship, Navratil finally realized this.

Yet a few minutes later the sound of the engine finally ceased. Navratil sighed with relief. He would finally be able to rest, and so he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of dripping waterfalls.

***

With a jolt, the kidnapping father, still donned in his blue striped pajamas, sat straight up in bed. He was awoken by a slamming, repetitive bang on his cabin door. Still in a daze, he stepped down the ladder rather slowly. His foot splashed in an alarmingly deep puddle of frigid water, which he soon realized covered the entire floor of his cabin. Michel woke then too and began calling, “Papa? Papa?” as Navratil sloshed toward the cabin door. He fumbled to unlock it and pulled open the door as Frank stumbled into the room.

A well-dressed man in his sixties, Frank had spent most evenings under a blue cloud of cigar smoke in the segregated, men only smoke room. He was an editor for Harpers and he and writer William Stead were meeting with Heinemann Publishing to discuss an upcoming compilation of poems to be released both in London and New York. That night he donned only long johns and unbuttoned boots, and Navratil did not need the information the man was trying to give. He knew instantly that something was terribly wrong with the massive ship, and his only inquiry was concerning the time. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.

As if participating in a slow-motion film, Navratil grabbed his loafers and his jacket from the chair. He shook his young boys awake and placed their jackets around their shoulders. He hoisted Michel over his right shoulder and motioned for Frank to take Edmond. Navratil took the lead and the two men shoved their way into the crowded hallway.

Jumbles of men, women, and children shouted hysterically and moved without travelling. Teems of ant people flowed in both directions as panic ruled the small hallway that ran down the length of a hundred or so cabins No one seemed to know which direction to go, or what exactly was happening. Someone said that the ship was sinking but no one knew for sure. The crowds surrounding the elevators, which had long ceased operation, were impenetrable.

“We should split up Frank, you go down the hallway that way and see if you can find an accessible staircase. I’ll take both boys and work my way up this way,” Navratil managed to sputter over the crowds.

Time stopped then for the man who was so desperate for his children that he kidnapped them from their mother. He stood still and tall under the load of both his young sons. He knew then that their importance to him was far heavier than their physical weight. He knew that their survival was his full responsibility, and he could not ask another man for assistance during such a time. Michel the philosopher and Edmond the architect must live. The phrase reverberated in his mind and spurred him into action.

They must live.

He stormed open the door into the crowded hallway.

They must live.

He pushed through crowds of men and women, who could do nothing but shuffle aside to make way for the father who clutched his babies to his chest.

They must live.

He found the stairs at the opposite end of the elevator and climbed the six flights to the main deck. He did not look at the faces of his fellow death mates as he pushed them aside to make way for his sons. The door at the top of the stairs was open, spewing with people. The possibility of any remaining lifeboats waned with each second.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, he lowered his children to the ground so he could open the heavy metal door. The cold air took his breath away but did not dissuade him from looking around, assessing the situation. Two heedless shining red rockets boomed in the sky. The unsinkable Titanic was sinking into the icy Atlantic waters and there were no other ships within sight. Michel and Edmond were distracted by the rocket, but Navratil was laser focused on finding a lifeboat. He picked up Edmond again and bid Michel to follow. Soon, he found a crowd of people lined up near the declining edge.

“Women and children first!” Second officer Charles Lightoller shouted over screams, and relief flooded Navratil, who slowed down when he saw the crowd.

“Collapsible D” was the final lifeboat left on the dimming Titanic. There remained over a thousand people who would perish with the ship. To prevent passengers from storming the boat, a group of crew members locked arms in a circle. The group swayed left and right, shouting, “Women and children only!” or “This is the last lifeboat!” They resembled an ancient tribe performing a ritual around a fire. Michel and Edmond were only children, babies really. Navratil knew he would not be allowed on the boat with them. They would need to make the journey alone.

“Louis!” Shouted Frank, who had found his own way to the top deck but was unable to board a lifeboat. Navratil understood this and accepted his friend's help. His boys must live.

“Frank, I found a boat! Women and children only, this is the last chance for my boys.” Frank walked near and Navratil lowered both boys to the ground. Frank lifted Edmond but Navratil knelt down to look Michel in the eyes.

“My child,” he whispered to his eldest son. “When, not if, but when your mother comes for you, tell her I loved her. I still love her. Tell her I expected her to follow us, that my dream was for us to live with happiness and freedom in the New World.” He considered that Marcelle would forgive him if the boys survived, and the thought energized him further. He gathered Michel up again and followed Frank toward the port side of the boat.

The group of people gathering around the crew who was locked around the lifeboat grew exponentially. Frank was stately and confident. He pushed his way through tropes of first-, second-, and third-class passengers, though they were suddenly indistinguishable. The whole mass of them would die that day.

“I have two children! Pardon me, two boys!” Frank exclaimed as he elbowed a path through the crowd, Edmond and his father close behind. Eventually, they made their way to the circle of crew members.

Frank was about to thrust Edmond through the locked arms but Navratil grabbed his arm. He wanted to hold his sweet boys for a minute longer. Through tears, he kissed the child’s forehead and before he could object any further, Officer Lightoller grabbed Edmond from Frank, then Michel, and lowered them on to the inflated boat. The two children sat, wide-eyed, staring up at their father, wondering when he would join them.

As the lifeboat with the young boys was lowered into the sea, their father turned and wept, partly for joy and relief that they would be saved, but mostly because he knew he would never see them again. Frank patted him on the back, then began to walk away. Words were found insufficient for expressing gratitude, so Navratil simply reached out and embraced the man. The two men exchanged understanding looks, then Frank pulled away, lit a cigar and walked, almost sliding, toward the stern side of the ship.

Wiping his soaked face with the corner of his jacket, Navratil then felt for the loaded revolver tucked in his jacket pocket and considered tossing it, like a stone into the rising ocean. He decided against it, however. The instrument of death that had taunted him, following him everywhere was powerless in the last moments of Navratil’s life.

Less than half an hour after Michel and Edward escaped the Titanic, the ship plunged to the bottom of the Atlantic Along with it Navratil and a thousand other men, women, and children.

Navratil would not see his sons’ shaky, five-hour trip in the lifeboat, nor the man who fed Edmond cookies and warmed him in his coat. He would not meet the French-speaking woman who would take care of the boys in her New York apartment for weeks. He would not he witness the look on Michel’s face when he and his brother reunited with Maman, who sailed across the sea to find her sons after seeing their faces in a newspaper. He would not be privy to the forgiveness offered by Marcelle to him, her estranged, kidnapping husband. He would never know that Edmond would become an architect and Michel a professor of philosophy.

Yet as he swirled around in the frigid Atlantic, he noticed how still it was. Although he was dying, he was calm. His hope and glory remained, even if he did not. Navratil took one last look at the sky ablaze with stars. Off in the great distance, he noticed a shooting star and he claimed as his own. He then saw two twinkling stars near each other, smiling at him, bidding him farewell. How insignificant the Titanic’s rockets must have looked compared to the honor and glory of the natural sky, for it was crowned with beauty even after such tragedy.