Chapter 1

June 15^th, 1904

The East River

New York City

It was on June 15^th, 1904, a warm and sunny summer’s day, as the clock in City Hall struck nine, that the <= i>General Slocum cast off from her pier in lower Manhattan, with the blowing of a horn.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I remember the busy decks, packed = cheek to jowl with women and children, the odd man, as we strained against the ra= il to get a better look, dressed in our Sunday best. Nearly all of Kleindeutchland was there; at least that’s how it seemed to me. Tomorrow, they’ll call it th= e Lower East Side.&n= bsp; At this time it was Little Germany.= We were off to Locust Grove, Long Island Sound, on an outing for St. Mark’s Lutheran Church. There would be games and swimming = and food; lots and lots of food. = And boys. Sunday School was final= ly over. And ten feet distant, t= rapped in the crowd like a flea between hairs, stood Dustin, the most beautiful bo= y in the world. My name is Mallory= Meer. I’d turned fifteen the week before, and in an hour – thanks to the only boy I’ve ever loved – I would be dead.

I revolve around the white memorial in Middle Village, Queens, among the insubstantial figures = who continue, unresolved, like Tantalus, to grasp at something slightly out of reach. They are the unidentif= ied remembered – the unknown, unforgotten victims of the General Slocum. Over 1,300 started that fateful jo= urney on that balmy summer’s day. Less than three hundred survived.&n= bsp; I see the spirits coalesce around the monument like fog. I know their longing and their pain. I’m one of them.<= o:p>

The steamship chugged up the East River, skirti= ng the busy streets and thoroughfares, the piers and docks of New York City. I remember we could actually feel = the vessel tilt beneath our feet as we moved collectively from port to starboard for a look across the river. = There was a great shout as the ship’s horn faded and a band began to play – romantic German love s= ongs that made my mother slide back into memory as she stared across the starboa= rd beam, between the glistening waves, mesmerized by the river.

She was dressed in a charcoal-colored cotton sk= irt, ankle length, with an off-white blouse and wide-brimmed hat, made of straw, with hand-sewn flowers budding from the narrow red and yellow band. Her cheeks were crimson from the pressing crowd, the unusually warm weather, the startling humidity. Her blue eyes seemed to bounce abo= ut her sockets as she took in first, this couple nervously; that man; a woman with= a great green blouse; and then, something unknown and indiscernible at her feet. In her right arm, she clutched my baby sister, Nixie. At two, Nixie still wore a cotton bonnet that covered most of her face, includ= ing her moody brown eyes and golden traces, each hair thin as a spider’s thread. She was dressed in the snow-white silk and lace of the family Christening gown. Passed down by Großvater Liebowitz, each of us had been forced to wear it, one by one, in turn, at e= very grave occasion, as long as it still fit.

My younger brother Helmuth fidgeted nearby. He wore his summer Sunday shorts a= nd a cinder-black wool jacket, an off-white cotton shirt – grown more ivory-colored since the spring – and a gray cap with a brim.

My sister, the shy but beautiful Louisa, only o= ne year and a half more junior than myself, still wore her confirmation dress. She shrank against the= mob, fixed to my mother’s shadow.

And I … I wore my brand-new sea blue skirt, my sister’s lavend= er silk blouse, and my most colorful Easter bonnet. It was the outfit my mother’s friends had tsk tsked at only the week before, noisy as storks. My skirt was so full-bodied that I appeared to carry a train behind me, reminiscent of another age. My stockings were dark and thick.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> My shoes were corded with so many Lutheran bindings that only the hundred-handed Briareus could have readily untied them. And it wasn̵= 7;t my sister’s lavender silk blouse. Buttoned tightly at the neck and wrist, the smooth material revealed= no wayward patch of skin. No. It was the way I looked within it = that concerned them: the curve of = my budding bust line underneath the soft material, so barely formed; more of a promise than a prioof of femininity.

I knew Dustin was coming. I can say it now, and it appeases,= soothes the salt that lingers still within my joints and ligaments. We had planned it earlier that week. And he had never seen m= e in that blouse and fulsome sea blue skirt.&nb= sp; Such were my thoughts then, the largest of my concerns, as we steamed north through butterscotch sunlight.

The further we sailed, the less crowded the deck. There were three decks = in all – the Hurricane, the Promenade and Main – open to passengers and the summer elements. At first, nearly everyone had trie= d to climb the staircase to the topmost Hurricane – the deck on which we stood. All hungered for that = grand view of Manhattan<= /st1:City> . . . and the breeze. But now= that the General Slocum was finally underway, they had begun to disappear below, fanning out in all directions. The band struck up another song. I whispered to = my mother that I was feeling feint. “Some water,” I muttered vaguely, moving off.=

She nodded, tugging at Helmuth. “Please don’t be long,” she said in Germa= n with a note of desperation in her voice. Louisa slipped beside her. She touched my mother gently on the upper arm, confirming her presen= ce.

I moved off toward the funnels and the pilothou= se, making my way first down one staircase, then the next, aware the whole time= of his presence in my wake, the way he glided down the steps, the movement of = his muscles in his clothes on that hot summer day. By the time I had reached the Main= deck, and ducked into another stairwell, Dustin was right behind me.

Time does not matter after death. It seems like all this happened on= ly yesterday, and to me, trapped in this atemporal space, it did. I remember turning at the stairwel= l that led down to the Lamp Room. I = could see Manhattan gliding by, over the brightly painted lifeboats – they looked brand n= ew – beyond the bulwark and the rail.&n= bsp; I descended into darkness, waiting for him, for his promise and my w= ish to be fulfilled.

Dustin towered over me, though he was but sixteen. He took his cap off = with a sweep of his right hand. He s= miled almost apologetically, and leaned down through the shadows, and as I felt h= is lips brush up against mine, everything stopped: the steamship; the waters of the r= iver; the blood inside my veins and arteries.&nb= sp; I could hear his heart pound next to me. I could feel his lips press down, = so soft – smooth as the throat notch of a cat – and everything beg= an again, recharged. I smelled h= is breath as he pulled back. My = foot had turned. My heel had risen slightly outward. I felt a sh= arp stab in my stomach, as if I’d swallowed a stone. This is what it’s like, I thought. My first real kiss w= as less and so much more than anything I’d ever imagined.

That’s when Bingham Goldstein first appeared, outside the Lamp Room, flanked by two friends. I pushed Dustin away as they drew near. They could see us clutc= hing in the shadows. Bingham’s = face grew dark. He stopped and sta= red, as if to be quite certain. He= wore a smooth black bowler, pulled down in front, tilted sharply to one side. It seemed to cast an impossibly lo= ng shadow for such a small hat. = His lips retreated from his teeth. His gums were glimmering. “= This is a juicy pie,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Mallory Meer and Dustin Bauer. Caught in a kiss.” Then his face gr= ew grim.

“That’s Brauer,” Dustin said.=

Bingham turned towards his two friends – = fat Abelard Warner and skinny Karl Lehman – and laughed. Brauer means brewer in German; Bauer means peasant. It was Bingham’s little insi= de joke. He’d been telling= it for years. He reached into his hand-stitched, dark brown suit and took out his cigarettes. “Had I known what kind of gi= rl you are,” he said, looking pointedly at me, “I would have made an effort.”

“Be careful, = Goldstein,” Dustin said.

“You tried hard enough . . . hard enough = for me to say no,” I tossed back at him.&nb= sp; Dustin was standing up for me, for me! And against Bingham! Dustin’s father, Arvin, work= ed for Bingham’s father – the venerable Otto Goldstein, who owned the Golden Rose, the finest beer garden in Kleindeutchland.

Bingham lit his cigarette. The match glowed briefly and was gone. “Tainted meat now,” he said. Then he = turned and added, “We should leave them to their lovemaking. Kleindeutchland needs new workers, as my father always says. But be warned, Mallory: we’re on a St. Mark’s outing. And this one, if he hasn’t t= old you, is a Jew.”

Dustin moved forward, muttering an oath, his ha= nds balled up into fists, but I caught him by the jacket. It was difficult to hold him back.= The old and frayed material began = to tear. He was so strong that I almost couldn’t hold him. Bingham and his two friends – like mismatched bookends – scurried down the hall, and, after a moment, Dustin relaxed. He settled his back against me, an= d as he turned, to my surprise, I could see his eyes were watering. I didn’t know what to say. The moment of that kiss had passed= . It was behind me now, another monu= ment along the path. And my mother= would be worried about me. I patted Dustin awkwardly on the shoulder and hurried out the door.

Dustin stood there for a moment longer without moving, tucked in the shadows, following me with his eyes. When I was no longer visible, he p= ulled out his tobacco pouch and carefully rolled a cigarette. He cocked it in a corner of his mouth. He struck a match. For a moment, in the halo of the l= ight, his features were illuminated. The delicate eyebrows; those of a scholar, as I’d described them to my sister, two months earlier. T= he Gypsy-black eyes. The strong nose and full mouth wit= h the slightly feminine red lips. A= nd then that jaw, where I imagined – later – he stored up all his anger and his pride. So firm = and confrontational. So ultimately decisive. A tear appeared on Dustin’s cheek, the match fell from his hand, and he was gone.

It was a while before we saw the smoke. We were sailing past Ward’s = Island, beyond Hell’s Gate, when it began to billow from a forward hold. But it was only later that I witne= ssed how it happened. By then, I w= as already dead. And under water= . And, for the most part, upside down. But I could still see w= here the hull appeared most blackened by the now extinguished flames. Through the waving arms and legs, = like giant sea anemones, bloated, albino-skinned or black as tar, shiny and nake= d . . . although, if you looked carefully, you could still see tiny hairs on the dead skin, rippling like rabbit fur in a breeze. Through the open mouths, the incin= erated arms and legs, I saw precisely how that careless spark first set ablaze that single box of straw. It was a= light in seconds. No, it wasn’= ;t the ship’s stove cooking chowder, as many speculated at the inquest. The flames, fueled by the air blow= n down the stairwells, began to stretch and spread around the storage space. The Lamp Room, as the crew referre= d to it, ballooned with fire. The = door began to bow. Wood squealed a= s water steamed. Smoke puffed and whi= nnied through the crack between the doorjamb and the door, slithering topside thr= ough the stairwells, gasping for air.

A pair of seamen in the galley smelled the smoke before they saw it. They look= ed at one another and started down the hallway at a run. Without even thinking – and = devoid of training, as it turned out – they opened the door to the Lamp Room. This was exactly what t= he fire craved. Nursed by a fresh inhale of oxygen, the fire scrambled up the stairs. The crewmen tried to put it out. They flailed at the flames with th= eir clothes, but it was useless. = The open passage of the stairwell served as a chimney. The fire shot across the Main deck, paused for a moment, and then ran along the bulkheads to the ceiling. Passengers burned. They bolted in all directions, screaming, tearing at their clothes, some leaping overboard. Others tugged at lifeboats. But the Slocum was travelin= g too fast to lower them; not safely, anyway.&nb= sp; And besides, they were lashed to the deck, pinned down with metal clips. They wouldn’t bu= dge.

Ten minutes passed before the crew dared tell t= he Captain. He was in his fo’c’s’le, enjoying a cold glass of pale ale, compliments= of the Golden Rose. It took him another three minutes = to make it to the pilothouse. Th= en, instead of steaming shoreward – to Manhattan, Queens, to Ward’s or Randall’s Island – he headed north. T= he shoreline was busy with oil tanks, he affirmed later at the inquest, to everyone’s astonishment. I feared a secondary blaze. A secondary blaze! We steamed northward, toward North Brother Island, funneling the wind down the stairwells, fueling the flames. The fire spread first to the Prome= nade, and then to the Hurricane deck. Those trapped above the Main deck could no longer descend to the lifeboats. The stairwells were littered with bodies, choked with fire and smoke. Passengers streamed toward the ste= rn, snatching life vests from the ceiling as they moved. But the shoulder straps were mostly rotten. As mothers fought over them, like rabid dogs, the life vests crumbled in their hands. Some lashed them to their ch= ildren anyway, and tossed them overboard with anxious prayers. Others cowered as the flames drew near. Negro deckhands turned = on gray fire hoses but they burst like over-stuffed sausages. The crowd yanked them from their hands. Nothing worked. Anyway, it was too late.

Those who had not been burned alive, or overcom= e by smoke, had leapt across the rails already, into the choppy waters of the river. Most simply could not = swim, and drowned after only a few seconds. A precious few grabbed floating debris – one boy a wooden hobby horse – and tried to stay afloat until the gathering fleet of vessels= in our wake could pick them up.

I remember standing on the Hurricane deck, engu= lfed now in bright orange flames. I remember feeling the heat lick at my skin.= I could not find my mother, or my sisters, or my brother. I saw a woman watch her daughter b= urst into a fire fountain. She wept. We all wept, but our te= ars evaporated on our cheeks. The= river called me, although I could not swim. I’d never learned. It seemed, well, pointless at the time. I could hear the screams of children blistering. I could smell the stench of burning flesh. I saw a boy climb up o= nto the after rail, his golden hair on fire.&n= bsp; But he did not leap into the waves.= He simply stood there, like a torch. Then he tipped over, broke in half= . I saw women not much older than my= self burn, blacken and crumble, their babies pressed against their chests. I felt the hands of someone pull m= e from behind. It was Dustin. He was alive! I could see him now, despite the s= moke and flames. He was wrestling = with a life vest. But it was just too late. Too late, in fact, for = nearly all of us. The burning decks = gave way, collapsed, and those who remained aboard cascaded down into the openin= g, through the flooring to the very bottom of the ship, the bilge, an inferno = of wood, and rope, and oily rags and canvas, and cords of human flesh. Dustin tumbled off the deck. He was gone, sucked down into the darkness by the frothing waves, only to reappear quite suddenly, scooped up= by the steamship’s massive paddlewheel, swung round and dropped onto a nearby tug boat. Like provide= nce divine. I was already in the water. I felt the surface ten= sion slip across my face as though it were an undergarment, dressing me for death. My skirt began to suck= me down. The water was my outer skin. I could feel it crushin= g me as the ship slipped underneath the waves.&= nbsp; I was trapped. I could= not move. Dustin was gone. I was alone, save for the other fi= gures waving in the currents, grist for the running tide. I let the water in, then. Into my mouth and nose. Into my lungs. I let it take me, like a lover, li= ke Dustin wanted to, and should have done.&nb= sp; Before. I let the rive= r fill me up.

The steamship bumped, and spun about, and slowly drifted from North Brother to Hunt’s Point. She groaned and slithered with the current, plowing the sea floor with her keel. Time stopped again. I saw the tiny hairs on distant ar= ms go stiff. Some were still claspi= ng babies. Bubbles refused to ri= se. Corpses stopped bobbing on the surface. I saw the flames grow still. And then I felt myself= begin to tear, out of my very skin, like a butterfly, abandoning my cocoon self, = this mortal coil. I felt myself as= cend, to fly, to burst across the river to the marble monument in Queens. To my vigil.

All this comes to me, and I remember, like the = pattering of raindrops on a window, yet another afternoon – three weeks earlier= , it must have been – when Louisa and I had gone to Coney Island. We had wandered through the Hall of Mirrors, seen all the countless versions of ourselves, the possible conclusions.

I do not understand it all. Not yet, at least. I know I have to do something, but what? I have no idea. I can’t just stay here, in <= st1:PlaceName w:st=3D"on">Middle Village, Queens, trapped between this world and t= he next. Nor can I move on to the great beyond until my friends and family have mourned me, until some justic= e to the guilty has been meted out. It seems that only then will I let go. After the trial and punishment.&nbs= p; Only then will a single lifeline settle within time, like the gradua= lly declining hum of a violin string, plucked once, and then released.

Can anybody hear me? Is anybody there?