You are reading my weekly serial When the Sea Was Still.
When the Sea Was Still is a historical novel inspired by Titanic survivor Helen Ostby. While the heroine of the story, Nora Osterly, is entirely fictional, her journey draws on the incredible life of Helen Ostby. After surviving the Titanic disaster and losing her father, Helen went on to help run the family jewelry business, Ostby & Barton, which required her to face the sea again for business in Europe. Remarkably, she found herself in Germany on the eve of the First World War.
The novel starts two years after the sinking of the Titanic, when Nora Osterly is forced to cross the Atlantic again—this time aboard Titanic’s nearly identical sister ship, the Olympic. To save her father’s legacy, Nora must do the one thing she swore she never would: return to the sea that nearly killed her.
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Rumors of War
30 July 1914
Paris
By the time Nora and Astrid came down to dinner that evening, they had tried eight banks in two days. At each one they had stood in the same long line, listening to the same rumors of impending war, and received the same polite refusal when Nora asked for napoléons. Nora had promised to keep Étienne informed, yet she had still told him nothing. Rather than add to his burdens, she had hoped to have the gold coin in hand before bringing him the news. After two days of laboring in vain, that hope had faded. It was time to find another way.
Clara had just returned from another motorcar journey, this one through northern Spain. Ever on the move, she intended to spend only a couple of nights in Paris before crossing to England, where she had taken a country house for the rest of the summer. Her townhouse on the Rue de Varenne was closed up, and her servants had already gone ahead to England to prepare for her arrival. Much to Nora’s delight, her friend had taken her old rooms at the Crillon. She had invited Nora and Astrid to dinner upon her arrival with a note promising to tell them all about her recent adventures.
Nora and Astrid now stood in the hotel’s grand dining room beneath the gold glow of the crystal chandeliers. Around them, the elegant tables were dressed in their usual crisp white linen and polished silver, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening beyond the hotel walls. The maître d’hôtel greeted them by name and escorted them to the table where Clara sat waiting.
“Nora, Astrid!” Clara rose and kissed each of them on both cheeks. “I have been away three weeks, and I find I missed you more than all the cathedrals of Spain could make up for.”
Nora clasped Clara’s hands in her own. “Clara, you cannot imagine what a comfort it is to have you here.”
Clara studied Nora for a moment before they took their seats. “You, my dear, have been working too hard as usual, I suppose. You shall tell me everything, and I shall tell you rather more about the extravagances of San Sebastián than you could possibly wish to know.”
“I have always understood San Sebastián to be rather fast,” Astrid said, unfolding her napkin.
Before Astrid could continue down the moral high road, Monsieur Leblanc arrived with the menus, greeting them warmly. Over the past few weeks, he had become as familiar a part of their days at the Crillon as the meals themselves. He filled their water glasses and set a small dish of sliced lemon beside Astrid, as she preferred. He then served their favorite bread and bowed politely. The sommelier followed with the wine list. After answering Clara’s questions about the Spanish wine, he noted her selection.
“Now you must tell us about your journey,” Nora said once they were alone again. “Have you any misadventures to report this time?”
“Hardly any, to my great disappointment,” Clara said. “The motorcar behaved beautifully, and Spain in July is a delicious indulgence I would recommend to anyone willing to give up sleep for it.”
Clara had traveled with her longtime friend, William Pemberton. While recounting their journey, she spoke of the happy exhaustion of trying to keep pace with his demanding schedule, then laughed as she described a film they had watched in Bilbao called How to Visit a Town at a Gallop. William had entirely failed to see the irony and still insisted upon their prompt nine o’clock departure the next morning. Nora laughed along with Clara, and even Astrid allowed herself a smile.
After the wine was served, Clara continued with tales of long hours in the motorcar, rain-obscured mountain peaks, and the summer society of San Sebastián, where she swore the lobby of the Hotel María Cristina held more diamonds than the royal treasury. But what thrilled her the most lay in the Cantabria region, where she had seen firsthand the famous cave paintings.
“At Santillana, we tramped through grassy hay-fields to the Altamira cave!” she said. “William was in disbelief. And I can still scarcely believe it myself. We’ve really seen the big colorful beasts looking as though they are actually roaring and galloping!”
“How extraordinary,” Nora said, thinking of the morning she had spent in the Tuileries trying to capture movement in a necklace. “To think those paintings have survived for thousands of years.”
“I confess I still suspect a hoax,” Astrid said. “I cannot believe that people who had not yet thought to invent the fork could paint like that.”
“So thought the scholars,” Clara said. “But their authenticity has been established.”
For a few minutes, listening to Clara, Nora had escaped to a world of scenic coastal drives and exciting new adventures awaiting her each morning. She was almost able to forget her worries about the loan and the canceled commissions. Then Astrid brought the conversation back to reality.
“And how did you find the mood in Spain?” she asked.
Clara’s smile faded. “During our last days there, the French newspapers grew so bleak that we decided to hasten our return. Last night we stayed in Poitiers, though I hardly slept. Instead, I lay awake listening to the crowds singing the Marseillaise in the square.”
“A war song,” Astrid said. “How very disturbing.”
“It was. Surely we cannot have war, can we?” Clara asked. She looked as though she might continue but took a sip of wine instead.
“Paris no longer seems like Paris,” Nora replied. “It has the ominous feel that precedes a storm.”
Monsieur Leblanc arrived to serve the next course, and the conversation then turned to Nora. After a teasing remark from Astrid, she found herself telling Clara about her Sunday afternoon in the Luxembourg Gardens with Étienne. This prompted endless questions from Clara, who wished to know everything from what they had talked about to whether he had offered her his arm. Nora answered the first few, then became suddenly interested in the dinner before her.
When the questions finally ran out, Nora steered the topic toward the difficulty at hand. Clara was appalled to hear what Mr. Cartwright had done, then shared her own financial tribulations.
“I find I have come home to Paris a pauper,” she said. “I went to my bank this afternoon for my usual remittance and was told they were making no payments at all.”
“None at all?” Astrid asked, eyebrow raised.
“None. Half the Americans in this hotel are in the same predicament. One may be perfectly rich on paper and quite unable to pay for a cab.” Clara lifted her glass. “Fortunately, William still had some of the money he had carried for the journey and lent me enough to manage.”
“Mr. Pemberton is very generous,” Nora said.
“He is a dear,” Clara said, “though he would be horrified to hear it said aloud.”
Nora reached for her wine and found she did not want it. She had come to dinner hoping Clara might know of some bank that still kept its gold, or some old friend who would exchange a draft as a favor. Clara had always known someone. But if Clara herself was borrowing money, there was no such bank and no such friend. Nora had kept her silence for two days, hoping to bring Étienne a problem already solved. She had nothing but the truth to give him now.
31 July 1914
At two o’clock the following afternoon, Nora arrived at the Café de la Paix to meet Étienne. She had chosen her father’s favorite café as a comforting place to share the difficult news. Étienne was sitting at a table near the edge of the crowded terrace. When he saw her, he rose and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. Nora found herself wishing that custom allowed his touch to linger a little longer.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as he pulled out her chair.
“I was glad to receive your note.” His broad smile revealed his delight in seeing her, and she fervently wished she had asked him there for no other reason than the pleasure of his company.
The terrace was buzzing with chatter and the sound of rustling newspapers. Paris, it seemed, had stopped pretending, and a sort of war fever permeated the air. At the next table, Nora could hear two gentlemen discussing whether Russia had issued an order of general mobilization, their voices rising as their disagreement escalated.
Étienne ordered coffee for both of them. After the appropriate exchange of pleasantries, Nora could wait no longer to address the issue that had brought them there.
“There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “Something I should have told you sooner.”
“Of course. What is it?” he asked.
She took the notice out of her reticule and placed it before him. “This was delivered a few days ago. Mr. Cartwright has invoked a clause in the note. He will only accept payment in gold coin.”
Étienne unfolded the paper and read it, his brow furrowing.
“I had forgotten it was there,” he said. “Herr Kessler insisted on the clause when your father signed. We all regarded it as a formality. No one in Paris has demanded payment in gold in my lifetime.”
“Until this week,” Nora said.
The waiter returned with their coffee. He set the cups and saucers on the table beside an ornate sugar bowl before pouring filling their cups.
Étienne did not say anything. He only sipped his coffee. Somehow that was worse than anything he could say.
“I promised to keep you informed,” Nora said. “I am sorry. I wanted to come to you with the matter settled.”
He set down his cup. “And is it settled?”
“I have spent two days going from one bank to the next. Every one of them will honor the draft in banknotes. Not one of them will give me gold.”
“This explains what Mr. Cartwright was up to,” Étienne said, his jaw clenching.
“He wants the note to fall into default. If I cannot pay tomorrow, he keeps my mother’s ring, and he holds a claim against my father’s estate.”
“Against Osterly & Co.”
She nodded.
Étienne turned his spoon slowly in its saucer. For a while he did not speak, and Nora let him think. She had watched him work through a stubborn design the same way, refusing every easy answer until he found the one that worked.
“There may still be something we can do,” he said at last. “Saint Éloi. He is solid gold, Nora, and heavier than he appears. Henri could have him weighed this afternoon. Whatever he is worth, it would go a long way toward the note.”
Nora thought of the small gold saint on the shelf beside his window, and of Étienne’s father refusing a collector’s offer because the figure belonged to the Moreau family.
“But it has been in your family for generations. You told me your father would never part with it.”
“My father would not have stood by while a man like Cartwright took from your family what yours once gave to mine.”
The offer moved her more than she could say. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine it working. But even if there was still enough time, she couldn’t let him make such a sacrifice.
“The note is due tomorrow morning. Even if a buyer could be found by then, he would pay in banknotes like everyone else in Paris. Mr. Cartwright has not asked for gold, Étienne. He has asked for gold coin. There is none to be had, not for a draft and not for a saint.”
“Surely it couldn’t hurt to try,” he said.
“I’m afraid it is too late,” She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “But thank you. I shan’t forget that you offered.”
Just then, a newsboy came running along the boulevard with an armful of fresh papers, shouting, “L’état de guerre proclamé en Allemagne!”
Étienne rose along with half of the other café patrons.
“Go ahead,” Nora said.
He returned with a copy of the afternoon paper and laid it on the table between them. Germany had proclaimed a state of threatened war. Around them, voices in French and English and German mingled as the news spread.
Étienne sat back in his seat and drew a deep breath. After reading through the article, he pulled out a small cloth-bound book from his breast pocket. He flipped through its pages until he found the one he wanted.
“What is that?” Nora asked.
“My livret militaire. Every Frenchman who is a reservist is given one.” He turned it toward her. A printed form had been pasted inside bearing his name and regiment. “If the government orders mobilization, this tells me what I am to do.”
Nora looked at the book he held. She had not known he carried it. She wondered how long it had been in his pocket, and whether Henri carried one too.
“And what are you to do?” she asked.
“If we are to mobilize, they will put up posters announcing the first day. My livret tells me where to report and on which day.”
“And which day is yours?”
“The third.”
He closed the book and returned it to his coat. He took her hand again. “Nothing has happened yet. Let us attend to what is in front of us. We shall go to the bank as planned tomorrow morning.”
He said it with the same assurance he brought to a difficult setting, and she was grateful for his steadying presence. All week she had thought of nothing but her father’s company, measuring what she stood to lose in francs and gold coin. She hadn’t stopped to think how the war might affect Étienne.
She had come here to bring him bad news, and he had given her far worse. A debt could be renegotiated, and a company could be rebuilt. But if he was called to war, his place at the workbench they had shared at Maison Moreau would stand empty. If he did not return, nothing she could sign or pay would bring him back to it.
For the first time, she realized that she had so much more to lose than a stake in her father’s company.
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The Unassuming Little Book
When Étienne draws a small cloth-bound book from his coat at the Café de la Paix, Nora has no idea what it is. Yet on the afternoon of July 31, 1914, millions of Frenchmen carried the same book, and each one already knew that if war came, they were duty bound to defend their country.
To understand why, you have to start with conscription. Instead of relying on volunteers to serve in the military as in the U.S., most European countries required service by law. This is conscription. In 1914 France, every able young man was ordered to report to the army at the age of twenty. He then spent three years training fulltime as a soldier before returning home to his work and family. His obligation did not end there. Until his late forties, he could be ordered back into service at any time if France went to war. The army knew his name, his training, and where he lived.
Every Frenchman Is a Soldier
France invented modern conscription during the French Revolution. The Jourdan Law of 1798, making military service a legal duty for young men, opened with the declaration: “Every Frenchman is a soldier and must defend the country.” But by 1870, when war came with Prussia, France mobilized only its professional army. Fighting against a Prussian army filled with trained reserves, France suffered a bitter defeat. It did not forget the lesson.
Over the next forty years, France rebuilt its army around universal service. By 1905, every able man served two years, with no lottery, no exemptions, and no paying a substitute to go in his place. That is Étienne’s generation. In 1913, with tension rising along the German border, France raised service to three years. Under the new law, a man’s obligation lasted twenty-eight years.
The Military Booklet
Every man who completed his service received a livret militaire (military booklet in English). Inside was his fascicule de mobilisation, a printed sheet with his personal orders. It told him which day to report, counted from the first day of mobilization, and where to go. Men who would travel by train carried a pink fascicule. Men who would march carried a light green one.
France was not alone. Germany, Russia, and Austria-Hungary all ran similar systems, and a German reservist carried his own orders in a Militärpass. Britain was the great exception. Its army was made up entirely of volunteers, and it was the smallest of any major power. Britain did not introduce conscription until 1916.
Étienne’s orders had been in his pocket all summer. His day was the third.
