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“So That We Might All Live Happily Together”: Michel Navratil & ‘The Titanic Orphans’

"So That We Might All Live Happily Together": Michel Navratil & 'The Titanic Orphans'

Michel Navartil, 32, was a Slovakian tailor who had been living in Nice, France, when he married Marcelle Caretto in 1907. They had two sons, Michel Jr. and Edmond, nicknamed Lolo and Momon by their parents.

Michael Navratil, taken prior to his voyage on Titanic in 1912.

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By 1912, Michel's business was struggling, and he suspected Marcelle, 21, of cheating on him, so they separated. Even though the boys, 4 and 2 years old, were in the custody of Marcelle, she let Michel take them for the Easter break.

Thing is, Michel had no intention of returning them.

After a stopover in Monte Carlo, he brought them to England, where he bought three second-class tickets on Titanic. He registered himself as Louis M. Hoffman--the name of a friend who helped him accomplish the abduction--and registered his boys as "Louis" and "Lola". They boarded at Southampton.

Titanic departing Southampton on April 10, 1912. Courtesy of the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, UK.

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When asked, "Mr. Hoffman" told other passengers that he was a widower, and aside from a cardgame during which he let a Swiss girl babysit them, he never let them stray from his side. He wrote back to his mother in Hungary, hoping that his sister and brother-in-law would help take care of the boys if they were not permitted or able to stay in America.

Michel, Jr., had no notion of any wrogdoing on his father's part. He recalled that Titanic was

A magnificent ship! ...I remember looking down the length of the hull... My brother and I played on the forward deck and were thrilled to be there. One morning, my father, my brother, and I were eating eggs in the second-class dining room. The sea was stunning. My feeling was one of total and utter well-being.

On April 14, upon learning of the collision, a still unidentified passenger helped Michel dress the boys and bring them up on deck.

Michel, Jr., said of his father and the stranger carrying them up on deck, "When I think of it now, I am very moved. They knew they were going to die."

The only lifeboats left were the 4 collapsibles, and the only one secure and ready to go was Collapsible D, presided over by Second Officer Charles Lightoller.

Collapsible D, which contained the Navratil boys, as taken from on board Carpathia on April 15, 1912.

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Officer Lightoller was gravely serious about the "Women and Children" order. Due to the maddened crush of third-class passengers--most of them men--Lightoller had ordered a locked-arm circle around the lifeboat, so only women and children could board.

Michel passed his little sons through to be minded in the boat.

Even in his later years, Michel, Jr., recalled his father's last words to him.

"My child, when your mother comes for you, as she surely will, tell her that I loved her dearly and still do. Tell her I expected her to follow us, so that we might all live happily together in the peace and freedom of the New World."

We know a little bit about Michel's and Edmond's night in Collapsible D not from Michel's recollections, but from First-Class passenger Hugh Woolner. Hugh and another passenger had taken their chances together and jumped down into Collapsible D when they noticed room in the bow portion of the lifeboat.

Hugh testified in the American Inquiry, and he recalled how distraught young Michel was.

A sailor offered some biscuits, which I was using for feeding a small child who had waked up and was crying. It was one of those little children for whose parents everybody was looking; the larger of those two... I should think it was about 5, as nearly as I can judge... It looked like a French child; but it kept shouting for its doll, and I could not make out what it said before that. It kept saying it over and over again.

Michel Navratil, Sr., did not survive to be reunited with his sons. His body was recovered and listed as follows.

NO. 15 - MALE - ESTIMATED AGE 36 - HAIR & MOUSTACHE, BLACK
CLOTHING - Grey overcoat with green lining; brown suit.
EFFECTS - Pocket book; 1 gold watch and chain; silver sov. purse containing £6; receipt from Thos. Cook & Co. for notes exchanged; ticket; pipe in case; revolver (loaded); coins; keys, etc; bill for Charing Cross Hotel (Room 126, April 1912).
SECOND CLASS NAME - LOUIS M. HOFFMAN.

"Louis" and "Lola" were the only orphaned survivors of Titanic. And like other young children, they were hauled on board in burlap bags.

On board Carpathia, it was realized that they only spoke French. Survivor Margaret Hays was concerned that the brothers would be separated, so she offered to take them under her care in New York City. The boys spent most of their time playing with Lady, Hays' little Pomeranian, which was one of only three dogs to survive the sinking.

Michel (left) and little Edmond with his toy cat. From the George Grantham Bain Collection, courtesy of Library of Congress.

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In New York, the boys were motherless for some time. According to contemporary newspaper articles, they only answered "oui" to inquiries from Consul representatives, and as little children are prone, they were much more interested in playing with their new toy boats.

The following was reported in "No Light on the Mystery Hiding the Identity of Two Waifs of the Sea," an article published in the Evening World dated April 22, 1912.

Under the shadow of a giant azalea they sat yesterday afternoon, each with a brand-new boat in hand with which they entertained themselves while the French Consul to New York strove vainly to extract some enlightening word from the elder boy, whose age has been given as three and a half.

To every question the little curly haired chap replied with a polite and baffling "Oui" and said nothing more.

   "Do you like to play with your boat?" asked the Consul, taking the little fello [sic] on his knee.
   "Oui," came the monotonous reply.
   "What city do you come from?"
   "Oui."
   "Do you remember the big boat that brought you away from France?"
   "Oui."

Yet the children are by no means stupid. They are sweet, well-mannered, gentle little fellows, and my only hope for them is that having survived the perils of the iceberg and the open sea they may not be adopted by some American family which was born with a gold knife in its mouth.

For what it's worth, the author of this particular article also found the gifts of little toy boats a bit untoward, writing, "Probably I am the only person to whom it seemed in the least incongruous that these two babies should be playing with brand new tin boats."

Edmond (left) and Michel with their toys.

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Many photos were taken of "Louis" and "Lola" to be circulated worldwide. But in addition to their inability to speak English, the boys had been given fake names by their late father, so tracking down their mother was proving impossible.

When asked if the orphans could be traced via their father's tickets, Margaret Hays' father illustrated the fatal class divide perfectly in his response. "I have never travelled second cabin or steerage," he said, "so I don’t know anything about such matters."

Michel, Jr., recounted coming to the realization that, had they not been in Second Class, he and his brother would surely have died.

Michel (left) and Edmond. Courtesy of the National museum of the U.S. Navy.

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Meanwhile, in France, their mother Marcelle was desperately, frantically searching for her sons with no leads. She was entirely unaware that they had even left the country, let alone sailed on the Titanic.

Marcelle knew nothing of the so-called 'Titanic Orphans' until she saw their photos in a newspaper. Marcelle sailed to New York City courtesy of the White Star Line, and was reunited with her boys on May 16, 1912.

Permitted to meet them alone, she found Michel reading an alphabet book on a window seat, and Edmond on the floor, playing with puzzle pieces.

Growing wonder spread over the face of the bigger boy, while the smaller one stared in amazement at the figure in the doorway. He let out one long-drawn and lusty wail and ran blubbering into the outstretched arms of his mother. The mother was trembling with sobs and her eyes were dim with tears as she ran forward and seized both youngsters.

She reportedly was asked if she would talk to them about Titanic, and said, "I do not want them to think about that," she said. "They must only be happy from now on—only happy; no more distress."

Michel and Edmond reunited with their mother. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

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Edmond died in 1953, after having served in the French Army in WWII.

Michel, Jr., accomplished a doctorate in philosophy, and was a professor. He was one of the longest-lived survivors, and the last-living male survivor. He died in 2001, having said throughout his life that since four years old, he had "been a fare-dodger of life. A gleaner of time."

Because of the fake surname he used when boarding, Michel Navratil Sr. was interred in the Halifax cemetery that was designated for Jewish victims. The headstone has since been replaced to reflect his true identity.

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“See You Soon, Darling”: Joseph & Juliette Laroche

"See You Soon, Darling": Joseph & Juliette Laroche

Joseph Phillipe Lemercier Laroche was a gifted engineer from Cap Haiten, Haiti.

He was the only known black passenger on Titanic.

Joseph was 25 years old when he boarded Titanic in Cherbourg, France. He traveled with his two young daughters, Simone and Louise, and his wife Juliette, who was pregnant with their third child.

Joseph Laroche was born in Haiti in 1886. His mother, Euzelie, was 24 years old and a wildly successful business woman who made her substantial wages in trade. She was also a single mother.

Joseph was Euzelie's only child, and she prioritized her son's education. When she was absent and he was not in school, he attended cockfights and won handily in games of marbles with his friends. He was remembered as good-natured, but not particularly talkative.

Time wore on, and Joseph had been sent to study in France at just 15 years old with his teacher, Monsignor Kersuzan, Lord Bishop of Haiti.

And in the course of his studies in France, Joseph made a fateful connection. During an outing to the Parisian suburb of Villejuif, Joseph made friends with another young man named Maurice LeFargue. After a chat, Maurice invited Joseph back to his father's house for some food and drink.

Joseph certainly enjoyed the meal, but took even more pleasure in meeting the person who had prepared it: Maurice's sister, Juliette.

Within minutes, Joseph and Juliette were evidently besotted, and by the end of the meal, they had promised to write each other while he continued his studies a distance away. Soon enough, he was spending weekends with the LeFargues.

Joseph married Juliette on March 18, 1908, when he was 22 years old and she, 19. The ceremony was held at the local church in Villejeuf. At the reception, Joseph led his bride in a dance, and even showed his skills dancing the merengue.

Now a married man, Joseph immediately undertook an intense job hunt. His application was at last accepted by the company Nord-Sud, a company that possessed a contract for the "underground electric railway" being drawn up for Paris.

The Laroche family.

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Joseph's first daughter, Simone, was born in 1909, to her parents' joy.

Louise, the younger of their girls, was born in 1910.

Joseph sought higher paying positions to help cover incurred expenses, but despite his familial pedigree, connections, and remarkable resume, he was refused time and again because he was black.

In 1995, Joseph's daughter Louise spoke candidly about her father's experience.

In the only interview she gave in 1995, in which she briefly mentioned the subject, Louise Laroche explained that her father faced "racial prejudice" at that time. "Joseph would find small jobs, but his employers always claimed that he was young and inexperienced, so they could pay him low wages."

From "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche," by Serge Bile. © 2019.

Low on options, Joseph and Juliette decided to move for their fiscal well-being, and were set to return to Haiti in late 1912 or early 1913.

But the timeline became urgent when Juliette found herself pregnant again.

With a job as a math instructor secured for Joseph by his eminent uncle Cincinnatus LeConte, the then-President of Haiti, the LaRoches were gifted tickets on the SS France by Joseph's mother, who was ecstatic that her son and his babies were at last coming home. She had never met her daughter-in-law or her grandchildren.

Joseph and Juliette soon found out, however, that vessel France had strict on-board rules about not allowing children to dine with their parents. The Laroches found this policy unfeasible for their situation--not to mention cold and unnecessary--so they exchanged their tickets for second-class passage on Titanic.

The family would travel from Paris to the port of Cherbourg by a luxury train called the New York Express.

April 10th was a bright day in France, and little Simone Laroche was all aflutter with excitement for the travel ahead.

After breakfast that morning, it is reported that Joseph and Juliette hired two taxicabs--both Renaults AG1s--for transportation to Gare Saint-Lazare, which was less than an hour from their home. Joseph and Simone took the first cab, while Juliette and Louise followed in the second.

Simone was giddy with anticipation upon her family's arrival at the train station, and while her father paid the taxi fare, the elder Laroche daughter ran ahead. Joseph called out and scolded her in Haitian Creole, as was his custom when his children were not behaving. Though Simone did not fully understand the language, she immediately obeyed her father.

At the station, a family friend named Monsieur Renard arrived to see off the Laroches. He brought with him a gift of two balloons--one for Simone, and one for Louise. Although Louise lost hers shaking the string, Monsieur Renard gallantly purchased a replacement.

La Gare Saint-Lazare circa 1910.

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The New York Express, exclusively designated for the transport of First- and Second-Class passengers of Titanic, departed at 9:45am.

Once settled on the train, Joseph and Juliette struck up a friendship with a young couple from Canada.

Albert Mallet was an importer of cognac for a liquor firm, and he traveled to Paris often for work; he, his wife Antonine, and their toddler Andre were traveling back to Quebec after a short visit with family. Joseph and Albert chatted the whole way as their wives did the same, and their children played.

The Mallets, as it turned out, had likewise exchanged their tickets on the SS France for passage on Titanic, and for the very same reason that had compelled the Laroches: it simply was not feasible to dine without their children.

And with that, the voyage appeared to have started well. Bound for a ship on which most people would speak only English, the Laroche family had made fast friends with another French-speaking family of similar age.

Juliette wrote a letter to her papa while on board Titanic, which was postmarked from Queenstown, Ireland, on April 11th. It reflected a pleasant time, and Juliette wrote of the ongoing kindnesses of fellow passengers.

The girls ate well last evening. They slept in one stretch the whole night and were awoken by the bells announcing breakfast; those made Louise laugh.

Right now, they are walking on the covered deck with Joseph. Louise is in her small car, and Simone is pushing her. They have already made acquaintances: since Paris, we have traveled with a gentleman and lady and their little boy, who is the same age as Louise. I believe they are the only French on board. So, we sit at the same table and like this we can chat.

Simone amused me earlier; she was playing with an English girl who had lent her a doll. My Simone was having great conversation, but the little girl could not understand anything. People are very nice on board. Yesterday, they were both running after a gentleman who had given them chocolate.

From "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche," by Serge Bile. © 2019.

The couple to whom Juliette referred in her letter were, of course, the Mallets.

It is worth noting that there is little in the way discoverable first-hand accounts regarding racial treatment of the Laroche family while they were on board Titanic.

As a young interracial couple, it is assumed that they must have endured racism to an unquantified degree; their marriage, so full of devotion and strength, was neither commonplace nor socially acceptable by the standards of the era.

And yet, Joseph and Juliette paid this no mind. Their love, and their loving family, were all that mattered to them both. By all accounts, their company was warm, jovial, and accepting, and other passengers delighted in the presence of their sweet little girls.

Simone and Louise Laroche are mentioned, though not by name, in a letter written by fellow Second-Class passenger Kate Buss. "There are two of the finest little Jap[anese] baby girls, about three or four years old, who look like dolls running about."

The racism is there, even in a private letter. The Laroche daughters were not Japanese, but this was not a mistaken assumption on the account of Ms. Buss; it was a generic term of disparagement. At the time, people with not-white complexions were often called "Japanese" or "Italian".

By all accounts, Simone and Louise seemed to be having a gleeful time, but they missed their grandfather. Juliette also wrote the following to her papa.

I am going to stop [writing] because I think we will stop over soon, and I would not like to miss the mail service. Thank you, again, dear Papa, for all your kindness. Please receive the best kisses from your daughter who loves you. Little Simone and Louise send big kisses to their good grandfather. After getting dressed this morning, they wanted to see you.

From "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche," by Serge Bile. © 2019.

April 14th was a Sunday, and the Laroches attended religious services presided over by Father Thomas Byles, a fellow passenger and Roman Catholic priest.

That night, Joseph answered his cabin door to find a steward demanding the family don their life vests and get up on deck with urgency. Joseph woke his wife, and she exited the cabin with Simone in her arms.

Joseph snatched his coat, and stuffed its pockets with their money, jewelry, and paperwork. Then he swaddled tiny Louise inside it, and chased after his wife.

On deck, Joseph gripped Louise in one arm, and clung to an unnamed sailor who was holding men back from entering the lifeboat with the women and children. Joseph, who was fluent in both English and French, somehow managed to secure a spot in for his bewildered wife and their children amidst the chaos.

Some accounts claim that Juliette entered Lifeboat 14. Others believe that it was Lifeboat 8, because Juliette recalled that a countess was in the boat with them, which many suspect was Noel Leslie, the Countess of Rothes.

Juliette recounted the memory with desperate pain.

When the collision happened, there was terrible panic. People were pushing, in a hurry to get off the boat. Suddenly, I felt that they were pulling my older daughter away from me, my little Simone... I saw her thrown to a lifeboat suspended above the abyss. "My child," I yelled. "My child! It is my child that was taken away!"

But right at that instant, I felt someone grabbing me as well. A pair of hands took me, and threw me into emptiness. I found myself in the lifeboat, next to my little Simone, and up there, on the deck, in the middle of the scramble, I glimpsed my husband. Arms extended above the crowd, he was holding our younger girl, whom he was trying to protect against the push. He was struggling against the sailors, showing them the little girl and trying to make them understand that she was separated from me, her mother. At last someone grabbed our little Louise from my husband's hands, and soon she was in my arms.

Then the lifeboat was once and for all lowered onto the sea. I hardly had time to bid my husband a final farewell. I heard his voice, above the rumble, yelling: "See you soon, darling! There will be space for everyone, don't worry, in the lifeboats... Take care of our girls! See you soon!"

From "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche," by Serge Bile. © 2019.

There is no record of Joseph Laroche's last moments.

His body was never recovered.

Survivors on board the rescue ship Carpathia, courtesy of the Library of Congress.

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When the Carpathia arrived on scene, the little Laroche girls were hoisted aboard in burlap bags.

Juliette, already surmising Joseph had died, did her best to remain level for the sake of her daughters. For instance, diapers were predictably absent on Carpathia. Juliette discreetly hoarded cloth napkins by sitting on them during mealtime, in order to use them later as makeshift diapers.

The coat that had kept Louise warm--and which Joseph had been present enough to stock with the family's valuables--is reported to have been stolen on board the Carpathia.

The rescue ship Carpathia docked at Pier 54 in New York City, April 18, 1912. George Grantham Bain collection, courtesy of the Library of Congress.

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After the Carpathia docked in New York City, Juliette was transported to St. Vincent's Hospital and treated for her frostbitten feet.

Once she had recovered, Juliette and the girls returned home to France via liner on the morning of May 2, 1912.

According to "Le Matin," the local newspaper, Juliette's father, "an old man in mourning clothes," waited anxiously at the dock for the disembarkment of his bereaved daughter and grandchildren.

When they found each other, Juliette withered in her papa's arms, sobbing.

When Mrs. Laroche and her two daughters appeared on the gangway, the old man ran to them and father and daughter hugged for a long time, teary-eyed. Mrs. Laroche then recounted that at the time of the catastrophe, she and her two little girls had been forced to leave her husband behind. He'd tried to reassure her, affirming that he would be rescued just like her--only a little later. Crying, the poor woman repeated several times: "I believed him! I believed him! Otherwise, I would have never agreed to leave him!"

From "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche," by Serge Bile. © 2019.

On May 24, 1912, Juliette held a memorial service for Joseph in Villejuif. To every mourner, she distributed a card, which had Joseph's photo on it surrounded by a black band.

It read only, "Please pray for the repose of the soul of Joseph Laroche, who passed away on April 15, 1912, in the sinking of the Titanic."

Joseph would have turned 26 only two days later, on May 26.

Juliette gave birth to a boy around Christmastime, 1912; he was named after his late father.

Destitute, heartbroken, and tragically widowed with three children all under the age of 5, Juliette Laroche sued the White Star Line for damages, and was awarded 150,000 francs in 1918--approximately $250,000 today. Juliette used the funds to open a dry-cleaning business operating out of her father's house.

Joseph's mother traveled to France in 1920 to meet her grandchildren at last. Sadly, Juliette never traveled to her late husband's home in Haiti.

Juliette reportedly never spoke of Titanic with anyone except  fellow survivors Antonine Mallet and Edith Russell, the latter of whom she had met in Paris. For a number of years thereafter, Juliette received a small gift from Edith every April 15th, on the anniversary of the sinking.

Edith Russell, fellow Titanic survivor and friend to Juliette LaRoche.

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Juliette Laroche never remarried.

She died in 1980 at the age of 90.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Bile, Serge. "Black Man on the Titanic: The Story of Joseph Laroche." Mango Publishing, 2019.

https://www.wellesley.edu/news/2020/stories/node/175636

https://titanichistoricalsociety.org/miss-louise-laroche/

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“We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame”: Violinist John Law Hume

"We Thought He Would Fiddle Himself Into Fame": Violinist John Law Hume

John Law Hume, who went by "Jock," was one of Titanic's violinists, and was from Dumfries, Scotland. He'd been playing on board ships since he was only 15, and saw Titanic as an opportunity to exercise his talents for a future in concert-playing.

Jock's stepmother apparently asked him not to travel on Titanic, having had nightmares that tragedy would befall him. He ignored her, because he needed extra money; he was getting married to his sweetheart Mary Costin in just a few weeks.

Titanic's orchestra. Jock Hume is pictured in the lower left corner.

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Jock was by all accounts a merry and charming man. He was described by a former band-mate, Louis Cross, as "the life of every ship he ever played on and beloved of every one from cabin boys to captains."

He'd been a bright student with innate aptitude for the violin--a fact he was no doubt delighted by, given that his father liked to spin family mythologies about forebears being great Scottish composers and instrumentalists. Louis Cross also recalled that Jock boasted that his family had been full of "minstrels" in days long past.

He studied a great deal, although he could pick up without trouble difficult compositions that would have taken others long to learn.

© As cited in "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner. 2011.

An unnamed childhood friend described Jock as "a happy-faced lad" and spoke to the great esteem felt for him and his musical talents.

No one was a greater favourite at school... In the old days we have heard him, in the old Shakespeare Street Theatre, playing till the curtain should rise on many a mimic tragedy. We thought he would fiddle himself into fame.

© As cited in "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner. 2011.

Jock appears to have preferred moving about between tables when playing a saloon, and loved to engage with people--even having a bit of fun with uppity passengers.

For instance, according to Louis Cross, a lady was vexing Jock by being a right know-it-all. After giving Jock a very tiresome time, she requested a particularly intricate piece of classical music. Jock smiled, whispered to his band-mates and then they played--so beautifully, that the woman made the effort to thank them afterwards for accomplishing such a fabulously difficult classical number.

Except that it was actually ragtime, played super-slow.

Jock reported to Titanic with two violins in hand, as he was testing them to see which suited him best.

He was assigned to the five-man band led by Wallace Hartley, and which played during various occasions throughout the ship.

The Notoriously Unlucky Lucky Stewardess Violet Jessop wrote in her memoirs of Jock's exuberant performance on the evening of April 14, 1912. The two had known each other from their time on Titanic's elder sister, Olympic.

"On that Sunday evening, the music was at its gayest, led by young Jock the first violin... he laughingly called out to me in his rich Scotch accent, that he was about to give them a 'real tune, a Scotch tune, to finish up with.'"

From the memoirs of Stewardess Violet Jessop. © As cited in "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner. 2011.

This was characteristically Jock, as far as any testimony can support. It was well-known that he loved to imbue otherwise staid pieces with some Scottish flair, and loved to play jigs.

Accounts such as Violet's have led to some speculation that Jock, not Wallace, was Titanic's bandleader, but this is misleading. Violet's memory, as well as others, was of a quartet. It's likely, though unable to be confirmed, that Jock casually joined up with the restaurant trio during his downtime from the five-piece band led by Wallace Hartley.

After the collision with the iceberg, Violet somehow bumped into Jock as he ran up the stairs.

I ran into Jock, the bandleader and his crowd with their instruments. 'Funny, they must be going to play,' though I, and at this late hour! Jock smiled in passing, looking rather pale for him, remarking, 'Just going to give them a tune to cheer things up a bit,' and passed on.

From the memoirs of Stewardess Violet Jessop. © As cited in "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner. 2011.

Jock Hume was 21 years old when he died alongside his seven band-mates in the sinking of Titanic.

His corpse was one of only three orchestra members to be recovered by the Mackay-Bennett, on a day full of rain and fog.

Jock had had nothing personal on him, such as items bearing his initials, that would have indicated his identity. So a photo was taken of him in his coffin and was sent out to the White Star offices for identification.

Age, about 28 Hair, Light curly; clean shaven - Marks, None

CLOTHING - Light rain coat; uniform jacket with green facing and vest; purple muffler.

EFFECTS - Cigarette case; silver watch; empty purse; knife with carved pearl handle; mute; brass button with "African Royal Mail"; English lever watch.

Mere weeks after the sinking, Jock's father Andrew Hume received a bill from C.W. & F.N. Black, the Liverpool firm that employed musicians for shipwork, demanding compensation for Jock's uniform. Jock had, it turned out, had it cleaned and altered shortly before Titanic's departure.

[April 30, 1912]

Dear Sir,

We shall be obliged if you will remit to us the sum of 5s-4d, which is owing to us as per enclosed statement. We shall also be obliged if you will settle the enclosed uniform account.

Yours faithfully,

C.W. and F.N. Black

Andrew was so livid about the request that he forwarded it to the Amalgamated Musicians' Union. They published it with a single line of commentary from the editor: "Comment would be superfluous!"

But there was more outrage on Andrew Hume's horizon.

As it turned out, Jock had died never knowing that his fiancee, Mary Costin, was pregnant. Jock's family refused to accept the baby for years thereafter, even fighting Mary's claim in court during her pregnancy. They lost.

In turn, Mary, evidently wanting to make her daughter's paternity perfectly clear, named her daughter Johnann Law Hume.

Then, in 2015, Jock Hume re-entered the news when his grandson, Christopher Ward, discovered that Jock had another secret: that while in the Caribbean, young Jock had fathered a son with a Jamaican barmaid named Ethel. She had given birth in 1911.

Ward learned of it because in researching his genealogy, he was given a document that listed Mary and Ethel, across the world from one another, having both filed for compensation for their fatherless babies.

SOURCE MATERIAL

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“Nearer, My God, to Thee”: Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

"Nearer, My God, To Thee": Bandmaster Wallace Hartley

Wallace Hartley is one of Titanic's famed heroes: the bandleader who played until he was swallowed by the sea, along with his seven-man orchestra. It was and still is considered "one of the noblest in the annals of heroism at sea."

Bandmaster Wallace Hartley.

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Wallace Hartley was from Lancashire, England, and was engaged to be married to Maria Robinson when he was asked to transfer from Cunard's Mauretania to be Titanic's bandmaster for her maiden voyage.

Wallace was described by his friend, Thomas Hyde, as "a very nice lad" who was "incapable of anything mean," despite being "a bit what you might call 'roughish.'"

We also know that Wallace hated the 9-to-5 life, because he took an job as a bank clerk under pressure from his father, who didn't want him to pursue a musician's lifestyle for fear of financial insecurity. Wallace found work in a mundane office "irksome".

Wallace was an outstanding musician, though his fellow classmate didn't recall him being a prodigy when they started violin together at school around age 12. But the headmaster's son wrote in 1958 of Wallace having had notable talent from the start... and some really cool toys.

He was one of my heroes, for I knew from the talk of my elders that he was already a musician of repute, but more definitely because he possessed a bicycle.

As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

So in 1912, Wallace signed on to Titanic.

Having only just proposed Maria, rumor is that Hartley was reticent to leave his fiancee, but ultimately accepted the position because a) repairs to the Mauretania had recently left him without work for about two months and b) he could make more connections for future gigs.

Wallace wrote what was fated to be his last letter home on April 11, 1912, and sent it off to be taken ashore at Queenstown before Titanic sped for open sea.

This is a fine ship and there ought to be plenty of money around. We have a fine band and the boys seem very nice. I miss coming home very much and it would have been nice to have seen you all, if only for an hour or two, but I could not manage it. Shall probably arrive home on the Sunday morning.

All love,

Wallace

As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

A lesser-known fact is that Titanic's band was actually split into two independently functioning units: Wallace's, which played at dinners and Sunday services, and a second three-man, violin-cello-piano unit that stationed themselves in the room outside the entrance to the The Restaurant and Cafe Parisien.

It's most often reported that it was Wallace who roused his fellow musicians to go to the First Class Lounge and play after Titanic struck the iceberg, although there's speculation that he did so under the instruction of Chief Purser Hugh McElroy or even Captain Smith.

Multiple witnesses attested to them playing light, happy tunes, as well as ragtime. But at the end, Wallace tapped at his violin and began to lead the band in what would become one of the most contested piece of trivia in Titanic lore: The Last Song.

Harold Bride, the Junior Marconi Operator, really threw the wrench in this, because he testified that he heard "Autumn".

From what is known about Bride, though, he had no aptitude for music. He had also been working at the wireless all night, and may have had difficulty with his memory following his survival in the water.

However wrong he was about the song, though, his testimony is no less moving.

...I guess all the band went down. They were playing 'Autumn' then…The way the band kept playing was a noble thing. I heard it while still we were working wireless, when there was a ragtime tune for us, and the last I saw of the band, when I was floating out in the sea with my lifebelt on, it was still on deck playing 'Autumn.' How they ever did I cannot imagine.

Harold Bride's statement to the New York Times, as reported in the April 19, 1912, issue. As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

Most witnesses, however, report that the band played the hymn "Nearer, My God, to Thee".

This makes sense. It was the official hymn played graveside for every member of the Musicians Union.

It was also one of Wallace's favorites--he even introduced it to his congregation as a musician back home. Moreover, a band-mate of Wallace's from Mauretania reported to the Daily Sketch that years before, he asked Wallace how he would conduct himself if he were on the deck of a sinking ship. Wallace told him that he'd get his orchestra together and play either "O God, Our Help In Ages Past" or "Nearer, My God, to Thee."

The eight men of the Titanic orchestra played for over an hour, some wearing lifebelts. Eyewitness reports attest to the water climbing from their ankles to their knees.

Still, they played on.

As things became more grave, Wallace reassembled the orchestra on the boat deck, near the entrance to the Grand Staircase. Only minutes before the ship split, at around 2:10 a.m., the entire band was washed away.

Wallace Hartley was 33 years old.

His body was recovered by the crew of the Mackay-Bennett, and was list as follows.

No. 224 - MALE - ESTIMATED AGE, 25 - HAIR, BROWN

"CLOTHING - Uniform (green facing); brown overcoat; black boots; green socks.

EFFECTS - Gold fountain pen, "W.H.H."; diamond solitaire ring; silver cigarette case; letters; silver match box, marked "W.H.H., from Collingson's staff. Leeds"; telegram to Hotley, Bandmaster "Titanic"; nickel watch; gold chain; gold cigar holder; stud; scissors; 16s; 16 cents; coins.

BANDMASTER WALLACE H. HOTLEY

Wallace's body was returned to his hometown in May 1912, and his funeral was held in the same church where he had once been a choirboy.

Wallace's eulogy was delivered by Thomas Worthington, a preacher who was a family friend of the Hartleys.

The unexpected happened; the unthinkable occurred. The ship that everyone thought could not sink is now two miles at the bottom of the Atlantic.

But our friend kept his word. The inevitable command to get the boats ready in the middle of that dark but clear Sunday night, with the subsequent order "Women and children first" found those hands, now stiff in death, gliding along the strings of that beloved violin and guiding the companion stick, producing the tune that at once became articulate and interpreted the desires of many hearts as they were lifted to heaven.. This was done until the waves claimed both him and his violin.

As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

The final hymn, of course, was "Nearer, My God, To Thee."

As the mourners slowly filed out, Maria came forward toward the altar. She laid down the tribute she'd brought onto the brass plaque that adorned the lid of her fiance's coffin: a floral cross made of deep red roses, tied up with a message.

"O teach me from my heart to say 'Thy will be done.'"

Upward of 1,000 people were in attendance to pay respects to Wallace, and an estimated 30,000-40,000 more people lined his funeral route.

It took over an hour for the cortege, accompanied by nine carriages, eight brass bands, and myriad representives, dignitaries, and police officers, to make its way through the streets, crowded as they were with mourners.

When they at last reached the cemetery, twelve pallbearers carried Wallace's coffin from the gates to the Hartley family sepulcher.

Still, some have blamed the band for giving passengers the wrongful impression that the situation was not as dire as it truly was. But by a number of contemporary accounts, this was essentially the point: to keep the passengers calm by playing frivolous tunes, so as not to cause alarm.

And it appeared to have worked to calm nerves that were fraught and raw. Second Officer Charles Lightoller was glad of the band's presence and their selection in the face of death. "I could hear the band playing a cheery sort of music," he said. "I don't like jazz music as a rule, but I was glad to hear it that night. I think it helped us all."

Others, such as First-Class passenger Colonel Archibald Gracie, insisted the band never played at all. Moreover, he insisted that if they had, and played "Nearer, My God, To Thee," that he would have been outraged.

I assuredly should have noticed it and regarded it as a tactless warning of immediate death to us and one likely to create a panic that our special efforts were directed towards avoiding.

As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

There were also dissenters to the posthumous lauds for the band, specifically because their deaths should not have occurred to begin with. Joseph Conrad, for instance, wrote with weary disdain--not for the bandmembers themselves, but for the saccharine spectacle of it all.

I, who am not a sentimentalist, think it would have been finer if the band of the Titanic had been quietly saved, instead of being drowned while playing--whatever tune they were playing, poor devils. I would rather that they had been saved to support their families... I am not consoled by the false, written-up, Drury Lane aspects of that event, which is neither drama, nor melodrama, nor tragedy, but the exposure of arrogant folly... And that's the truth. The unsentimental truth stripped of the romantic garment the press has wrapped around this most unnecessary disaster.

As cited in © "The Band That Played On" by Steve Turner.

Wallace Hartley's violin was returned to his bereaved fiancee.

After decades in an attic, it was painstakingly authenticated and auctioned in 2013 for $1.6 million, the most that has ever been paid for a Titanic artifact.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Turner, Steve. "The Band That Played On." Thomas Nelson Publishing, 2011.

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“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

“I Can Look Back and See Every Detail”: Lawrence Beesley

Lawrence Beesley was an accomplished science teacher, having graduated from Cambridge with honors in 1902. And while doing his post-grad at his first assignment at a grammar school, he discovered a rare algae that was named after him, called Ulvella Beesleyi.

Lawrence then went on to take a job at Dulwich College in London, where one of his students was future novelist Raymond Chandler.

Lawrence Beesley and his students.

PUBLIC DOMAIN (photo taken & published prior to 1923)

Lawrence's wife passed away at only 37 years old. They had one child, Alec, who would grow up to marry Dodie Smith, the author of "101 Dalmatians".

So in 1912, after two years of grief and personal upheaval, Lawrence decided to take a long-overdue holiday to see his brother in Toronto.

Second-Class entrance on R.M.S. Olympic, circa 1911. Courtesy of Bedford Lemere & Co.

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Beesley boarded the Titanic as a second-class passenger on April 10, 1912, in Southampton.

His accommodations were ideally suited to his tastes. He wrote, “I had been fortunate enough to secure a two-berth cabin to myself, - D56, quite close to the saloon and most convenient in every way for getting about the ship."

Like any true academic would, Beesley mused extensively in his memoir of the disaster--the very first published--about the Second-Class library, which he visited on the afternoon of April 14, 1912.

I can look back and see every detail...the beautifully furnished room, with lounges, armchairs, and small writing or card tables scattered about, writing bureaus round the walls of the room, and the library in glass-cased shelves flanking one side—the whole finished in mahogany relieved with white fluted wooden columns that supported the deck above.

Excerpt from "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic" by Lawrence Beesley, published in 1912.

Beesley was reading in his room when the collision happened. Being on D Deck and above the point of impact, and with Titanic being so large, he felt it as nothing more than "an extra heave of the engines" and thought maybe the ship has sped up.

It wasn't until the incessant white noise of the engines stopped entirely, and Beesley noticed that the top of his mattress was no longer vibrating with their churning, that he knew something was wrong.

The Second-Class Library on R.M.S. Olympic, which was identical to Titanic's.

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Beesley stopped a steward in the hall and was assured that there was no cause for concern. Beesley dressed and went up to the boat deck, and was summarily dismissed.

On his way downstairs, Lawrence noted that even though the stairs appeared level, his footfall was out of balance, and he knew the ship was sinking. So he went to his room, dressed warmly, stuffed some books in his pockets, and returned to the boat deck.

This time, with no women and children in the vicinity, Lawrence Beesley was instructed by an officer to jump into Lifeboat 13.

Beesley not only survived the sinking itself, but also had a near miss when Lifeboat 13 drifted under Lifeboat 15 as it was being lowered, threatening to crush the occupants of Lifeboat 13. It was thanks to Lead Fireman Frederick Barrett that no one was harmed. Barrett managed to cut the ropes in time under great duress, saving seventy lives.

"Leaving the Sinking Liner" by Charles Dixon for The Graphic, published April 27, 1912, depicting lifeboats 13 & 15's near-calamity.

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BeeLawrence sley later described the sinking in poignant detail, making note of the ship's unnerving stillness and "the slow, insensible way she sank lower and lower into the sea, like a stricken animal" whose will to live had been lost.

In the dark after the sinking, he tried to calm a crying baby in the lifeboat by tucking a blanket about its toes, and in the course of conversation with the woman holding the baby, found out they had some mutual friends back in Ireland.

Lawrence Beesley went on to write his memoir, The Loss of the S.S. Titanic, while he was in America; it was published less than eight months after the disaster.

Its contents have proved invaluable to researchers seeking answers to questions about weather conditions, life and accommodations on board, and the last moments of the dead. For instance, Lawrence Beesley was adamant upon the issue of giving special recognition to the doomed bandmembers for their valor.

Many brave things were done that night, but no more brave than by those few men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly lower and lower in the sea.

Excerpt from "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic" by Lawrence Beesley.

Lawrence returned to England on a Cunard liner--reportedly because the White Star Line was the competitor--and never traveled or went to sea again.

He eventually remarried and had three more children. His daughter recalled a single family outing to the beach, and said that her father kept his back to the ocean the whole time.

He also became a notable writer and golfer, and he notoriously crashed the set of the 1958 film "A Night to Remember," in hopes of having a renewed chance to go down with the ship. The director ultimately had him removed.

Lawrence Beesley died in 1967 when he was almost 90 years old.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Beesley, Lawrence. "The Loss of the S.S. Titanic." Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912. Rpt. by Mariner Books, 2000.

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“Deep In Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

“Deep in Desolate Thought”: Masabumi Hosono

Masabumi Hosono was 42 years old when he boarded Titanic as a Second-Class passenger in Southampton.

Hosono was a highly regarded civil servant of the Japanese government. After a brief stint at Mitsubishi, Hosono entered into a career working for the Ministry of Transport.

Having been a graduate of the Russian Department at the Tokyo School of Foerign Languages, Hosono had been sent to Russia in 1910 to study the country's railroad system.

Having done his duty by the beginning of 1912, Hosono elected to head home. He first stopped in London, and then boarded Titanic in Southampton.

Masabumi Hosono.

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Hosono slept through the collision on April 14.

He was awoken by knocking at his door around midnight, when a steward ordered Hosono to put on his lifevest. Hosono immediately made his way up to the boatdeck but was turned away and directed to the lower level--as a Japanese man, he was mistaken for a steerage passenger.

Hosono stated that he succeeded in his third attempt to get up on deck, having evaded the notice of a guard.

Hosono later wrote about the scene on deck.

"flares signalling emergency were being shot into the air ceaselessly, and hideous blue flashes and noises were simply terrifying. Somehow I could in no way dispel the feeling of utter dread and desolation."

Citation courtesy of Encyclopedia Titanica.

Hosono mentally prepared himself to die with the honor befitting his countrymen, but he stated that he still found himself seeking any opportunity for survival.

So when an unnamed officer lowering a nearby lifeboat called out, “Room for two more!” and Hosono witnessed a man jump in, he decided to follow suit.

‘I myself was deep in desolate thought that I would no more be able to see my beloved wife and children, since there was no alternative for me than to share the same destiny as the Titanic. But the example of the first man making a jump led me to take this last chance.'

Citation courtesy of Encyclopedia Titanica.

On board the Carpathia, Masabumi Hosono began to write his survivor account.

He repurposed some Titanic stationary that he had initially intended to use to write a letter to his wife.

Dated April 10, 1912, he crossed out the letter’s original beginning—"My Dearest, I am now on board of the SS Titanic”—and proceeded to recount his daily experiences.

He was bored, he wrote, and wracked with nerves from poor weather conditions—he feared another sinking. The conditions were terribly crowded, as the Carpathia was accommodated hundreds of Titanic passengers alongside their own.

And he was isolated. He was reportedly treated with relentless suspicion. He sought sleep in the Smoking Room when he could manage to find a space, but he tended to avoid it otherwise as he claimed seamen ridiculed him throughout the journey.

 

’Because they are a good-for-nothing band of seamen, anything I say falls of deaf ears… [on the last day] I talked a little about myself; I showed them a bulldog tenacity and finally gained a bit of respect.’

At first, Masabumi Hosono hardly registered among the hundreds the survivor stories. Once he had arrived in New York City, he found his way to friends to ask for help in making his way home, then went on to San Francisco where he departed at last for Japan.

Back home in Tokyo, he was interviewed by multiple periodicals, one of which included a photograph of Hosono with his family.

Shortly thereafter, disgrace came.

Colonel Archibald Gracie, a blustery, a First-Class American who survived the sinking on the back of Collapsible B, released his harrowing account of the sinking.

In it, he referred to Masabumi Hosono as a "Japanese stowaway."

Archibald Gracie IV, whose account of Masabumi Hosono was negative.

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Furthermore, witness testimony at the American Senate Hearing damned Hosono, even though it was hearsay in which he was never named.

When asked if there were any make passengers in his lifeboat, crewmember Edward Buley testified that he saw none but was later told that there were “a couple of Japanese” men in the boat. “They never got in our boat,” Buley testified, “unless they came in there dressed as women.”

And that was enough to condemn Masabumi Hosono.

To date, stories such as these are entirely unsubstantiated. Unfortunately, they are never the less predictable—there was, and still is, a fervent game of blame about the Titanic disaster. And no surviving White Star employee wanted to invite the shame of letting imperiled women and children die all for the sake of men.

The esteemed and accomplished Masabumi Hosono lost his job in 1913, fired for his grave dishonor in the Titanic disaster.

He was reportedly referenced in textbook as an exemplia grata of shameful behavior, an ethics professor declared him immoral, though said source materials have yet to be located. Periodicals denounced him.

In short, Masabumi Hosono was entirely ostracized. But being so adept in his field, Hosono was eventually rehired by the Ministry of Transport, and he worked there until his death in 1939, at the age of 68.

But the shame of his ignoble escape continued to cast its pall over his descendants.

In 1997, the Hosono family wrote a letter to thank director James Cameron for not further villifying the family name.

Masabumi Hosono’s private account of his experience, written on board the Carpathia, was discovered hidden at the bottom of a drawer by his granddaughter.

It was subsequently published.

With the release of the film and the passage of time, Masabumi Hosono’s family has at last been granted exoneration. His grandson, an orchestral musician named Haruomi Hosono, attested to feeling “extremely relieved. Honor has been restored to the Hosonos.”

Masabumi Hosono's account of the Titanic disaster.

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Dining Facilities

Dining On Board

Behold, what First-Class passengers were eating for lunch on April 12, 1912.

There is a noticeable disparity in quality to the modern eye between this fare and the menu options for Second and Third Class, but in 1912, First-Class passengers had never felt more adored, and Second- and Third-Class passengers had never felt more privileged.

The White Star Line commissioned work with various companies for proprietary silverware, china, dishes, pots, and state-of-the-art electric equipment for the kitchens. All menu items were coordinated by 2nd Steward Andrew Latimer, whose recipe book was left behind in Southampton.

First-Class passengers had a dining saloon. They also had exclusive access to the Verandah Cafe, which was more often called 'the Palm Court' because of its trellis walls cloaked in ivy and its potted plants on pretty tile floors. It was also replete with wicker chairs and oversized windows to make full use of the soft light.

The Palm Court on R.M.S. Olympic.

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They were also privy to "The Restaurant," which was available exclusively to their class of ticket.

Tables in The Restaurant had to be reserved in advance; lucky passengers could even get a seat with Captain Smith, or White Star Chairman J. Bruce Ismay. An Italian restauranteur was in charge of The Restaurant; he in turn brought in his head chef from Olympic, a Frenchman by the name of Rousseau.

Adjacent to The Restaurant was Cafe Parisien, which the White Star Line hyped as a "charming sun-lit veranda, tastefully decorated in French trellis-work with ivy and other creeping plants." It was, naturally, exclusive to First Class.

Moreover, Cafe Parisien was also exclusive to Titanic herself, as it had been installed to replace what was an oft-untrod promenade deck on her older sister ship Olympic.

Cafe Parisien on Titanic. Taken by Robert John Welch for Harland & Wolff.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

First-Class passengers could also get room service. Given how gargantuan Titanic was, a hot water jacket was used to keep the meals warm on the commute from kitchen to suite, which had a separate dining area.

Second-Class options were expectedly less highfalutin.

The Second-Class dining area hosted crewmembers as well as passengers, and its kitchen was shared with First Class, but the diners did not enjoy all the same luxuries.

For instance, silverware, although likewise silver-plated, was more utilitarian. Whereas First-Class passengers were given the extremely vital grape scissors at their tables, for example, Second-Class passengers were expected to pull the wanted grape from its bunch by hand.

In addition to Second Class, Titanic had a dining area for the maids and servants of first-class passengers on C Deck, which was accessed just off the Grand Staircase. Their silver napkin rings were engraved with the word "SERVANTS," lest they forgot themselves.

Third Class had plainer fare but no want for enthusiasm.

The Second-Class Dining Saloon on Titanic's elder sister, R.M.S. Olympic, circa 1911.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

In addition to Second Class, Titanic had a dining area for the maids and servants of first-class passengers on C Deck, which was accessed just off the Grand Staircase. Their silver napkin rings were engraved with the word "SERVANTS," lest they forgot themselves.

Third Class had plainer fare but no want for enthusiasm.

Many Third-Class passengers had never eaten better--or received better treatment--than they had on board. Not only were the chairs unbolted to the floor as was customary for Third Class, but the tables had linens, and they were given tissue napkins printed with the White Star logo.

In a marketing bid, Third-Class passengers were encouraged to keep their menus, which doubled as a postcard that White Star hoped they would send back home, thereby enticing their family and friends to buy a steerage ticket and experience the luxury. Despite the opulence that so often springs to mind at the mention of the RMS Titanic, First-Class tickets were not White Star's bread and butter: steerage, thanks to immigration to America, paid the bills.

Third-Class Dining Saloon on R.M.S. Olympic. Courtesy of Bedford Lemere & Co.

PUBLIC DOMAIN

A single Third-Class menu card, dated April 14, 1912, survives. It was safeguarded in the purse of steerage passenger Sara Roth, who was in Collapsible Lifeboat C.

SOURCE MATERIAL

Babler, Gunter. "Guide to the Crew of Titanic: The Structure of Working Aboard the Legendary Liner." The History Press, Gloucestershire, England. 2017.

https://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-survivor/sarah-roth.html

https://titanicexhibition.com/nyc/

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