The Price of Freedom

You think, “Survivor,” and you think: bravery. Grit. Resilience. Tenacity. Determination. You think of all those people in water so cold it stopped their hearts, the ones who clung to driftwood and life jackets, the precious few hauled from the jaws of death into lifeboats.

Maybe you imagine their eyes, haunted by the specter of the unthinkable, the unsinkable. The brave ship that went down, and the dreams of an era with it.

You don’t think of me, except to remember that it was, “Women and children first!”

That noble call. That gentleman’s order.

And well, I was barely a woman - short and flat, in bare feet and a dressing gown; they practically threw me into the boat as it began to lower over the side.

I didn’t say a word.

We were among the first to reach the Carpathia, hauled aboard for blankets and coffee and sympathy and grief. Someone asked me how old I was, and I don’t know why I said sixteen, shaving four years off my age, but they wrote it down.

Someone else asked my name, and I gave them, “Nellie.” The ship’s doctor looked me over, and I told him, “Molly.” I was bundled about by the ship’s staff and settled with a family who promised to take responsibility for me until we reached New York. I told them I was called Cora.

They were earnest and kind; that much, I remember. I shared a bunk with their little girl, maybe six years old, and she snored like an engine but huddled against me so endearingly that I woke with my arm wrapped around her belly each morning. I didn’t say much, but ate with them - the second class offerings on the Carpathia weren’t far off from the Titanic’s steerage, and I ate my beef and bread without tasting them.

Once they spotted land, I knew I didn’t have long to get my story straight. I knew he’d be waiting for me when we docked. Any hopes I’d had of evading him by arriving on another ship, any hope that he’d assume I was among the drowned faded as we grew closer. He wouldn’t trust the rosters, absent my name. He’d want to see for himself. He’d want to make sure I was truly gone before writing off the loss.

Some girls love their fathers.

Others know that we’re but working meat in their eyes, another set of hands and maybe a head for figures if you’re lucky. My mother said he’d been ill, but honesty filled her eyes and told me what we both knew: what he hadn’t spent on that ticket, his investment, had gone straight to the bottle.

I’d be there to bring in more than I ate, and he’d be sure I did, by belt or by hunger.

And to make sure I arrived, he booked me passage on the unsinkable ship.

As long as I could forget where I was going, I enjoyed myself; I’d never been in a rowboat, let alone a steamer, and despite my fears of seasickness, I took to the ocean air like a fish to water. I especially admired the grace of the crew, who were more accommodating and polite than I’d ever experienced. I even fantasized about stealing a maid’s uniform and disguising myself among the thrall of them.

But I’ve never been all that brave or plucky. I’m proof that survival is as much an accident as fate. If there were a god, surely He’d have seen what was waiting for me in New York and let me sink with the rest of them.

For all my fears, though, I didn’t see him when we docked; instead, a crush of reporters and photographers bellowed and barked as we edged ourselves down the gangway. They scribbled frantically, begging our names as we passed. I gave all three: Nellie. Molly. Cora. Age seventeen. Age twenty-one. Age nineteen. I hid my face from their flashbulbs.

The price of freedom, of course, is familiarity.

I couldn’t let my mother know what had happened to me, for fear the news would reach my father. The requests for interviews disappeared after some time; a local church took me in as an orphan (Nellie, age fourteen) and eventually helped me find a position as a maid in a wealthier family.

On the anniversaries of the incident, I talk to reporters under strict agreements of anonymity. I am probably every unnamed passenger you’ve ever read quoted in a story about the great Titanic. While I never allow a name or my true age to slip through, I keep hoping my mother will recognize me. One year, I mentioned a green dress for which she’d stitched an embroidered collar. Another, I gave myself my younger sister’s love for church bells.

They’re small and petty details, and hardly worth hoping about, but I do it anyway: sending these tiny messages in bottles, wondering if they’ll ever land on a familiar shore.