Theo: So the composed man at dinner — was he actually falling apart underneath?
Ada: Financially, yes. Behind the fame, Diesel was near ruin. He'd poured money into real estate and speculative ventures and lost heavily. His royalties were being eaten up by lawsuits and costs. He was deep in debt.
Theo: The father of the diesel engine, broke?
Ada: Broke and hiding it. And here's where the written record gets haunting. The diary he carried aboard had a small cross — an X — marked beside the date, September twenty-ninth.
Theo: He marked the day.
Ada: That's how it reads. And before he left home, he handed his wife Martha a bag, and told her not to open it until the following week.
Theo: And she waited? What was in it?
Ada: Cash — commonly cited at around twenty thousand marks, though the figure varies between sources — along with financial statements laying bare exactly how dire their situation was.
Theo: So he was settling his affairs. Quietly putting money where she could reach it.
Ada: And the day before he sailed, the twenty-eighth, he wrote her a tender letter. He compared his love to a wireless receiver, quivering across the distance between them.
Theo: That's beautiful and absolutely devastating, knowing what came next.
Ada: That's the gap at the heart of this — outwardly composed, sharing a good dinner, ordering breakfast, and privately closing every account of his life. The diary, the folded coat, the bag to Martha — they all point one grim direction.
Theo: Toward the water.
Ada: Toward the water. And eleven days later, a crew at sea spots something floating near the mouth of the Scheldt.