Mama Namibia: Based on True Events

by Mari Serebrov

  Just as my nerves calm down, I begin to feel like I did when Christof and I snuck one of his father’s expensive cigars. My head is too heavy to hold up and my stomach rises in my throat. I break into a cold sweat as I retch my way to the bunk. I fall onto the bed, clinging to it to keep from being tossed off. I’m drowning in motion. But there’s no lifeline of calm. Trapped in the middle of the ocean, the ship is my world. There’s nowhere I can go that’s not affected by the upheavals of this wretched sea.

  I take little comfort in knowing that some of the other surgeons and most of the marines are probably feeling the same way. The only reason the men aren’t banging down our door is that they can’t walk far enough to get to the infirmary. I feel guilty that I’m not tending to them, but I know I couldn’t manage the passageway in this state. Besides, there’s not much that can be done for seasickness.

  Thinking I might be able to sleep it off, I scramble for the rope Epenstein advised me to bring and tie myself into bed so I won’t be thrown out by the rollicking waves. My sleep is almost delirious as the motion of the sea merges with disjointed dreams of home. I toss and turn, thankful the rope is securing me. Having emptied my stomach, I at last drift into a dull, heavy sleep.

  When I wake, it’s nearly morning, and the sea is a bit smoother. We’re no longer climbing up mountains of waves only to plunge into deep troughs, but the ship still rocks on the waves like a cork bobbing in the water. Only now, there’s a rhythm to it. If I can just match it….

  I untie the rope and gingerly sit up, trying not to focus on anything. Having mastered the sit, I try for a stand. It takes a few attempts, but at last I’m on both feet, standing more or less erect. I manage to get dressed before I have to sit down again, doubling over from the stench lingering from last night. One of the other surgeons groans as he vomits violently. I’ve got to get out of this confined space.

  On my feet again, I match my steps to the rocking of the ship and lean heavily on the heaving walls and rails as I make my way to the deck. Clinging tightly to the railing with both hands, I gulp in the fresh morning air. I force myself not to focus on the huge roiling waves, but to look upwards at the gray sky instead. Although it’s still chilly, the bite is gone from the wind and there’s a promise of sunshine on the eastern horizon.

  Feeling better, I look around and see I’m not alone on the deck. Scattered about the rails are miserable-looking fellows, too ill to be embarrassed by their lack of stamina. I hope I don’t look as bad as they do. I take another deep breath and head down to tend to the sick.

  SHIPBOARD ROUTINE

  It’s been eight days since we left Kiel, but it feels like a lifetime. As soon as the seas calmed, we established a daily routine. Every morning, we have shooting practice at the stern where a target has been secured to a beam. The marines are getting used to their new rifles, and the officers take aim with their pistols. The other surgeons and I are not excused from the drill. “You never know what you’re going to encounter,” the lieutenant tells me.

  I’m not a great shot. I can hit the target, but I’m rarely dead on. Still, I enjoy the camaraderie as the men brag about their guns and exploits. The new volunteers tell about their hunting adventures while the old-timers reminisce about glorious days of battle. Other than at mess, the social divisions that separated us in Germany have slipped away on the boat. Here, in this small world, we all have our jobs to do, and no one seems to care how we worship God or where our families came from.

  In the afternoon, we sit on the deck, basking in the warmth of the sun as we sail south. I’ve put away my woolen coat, but I have yet to swap my standard uniform for the tropical one. The men spend this time cleaning their guns or washing and mending their clothes, singing and whistling as they work. When I have free time, I write letters to Hanna and Papa and generally read through my medical books, honing up on everything I’ll need to know in the field. I won’t have time to look anything up when the bullets are flying.

  In the evenings, one group plays skat constantly, paying no attention to the passing of a ship, a beautiful sunset, or the occasional school of flying fish. The rest of us sit in a circle, telling stories of home and discussing the future. I usually just listen, unless they talk about Africa. Then I sometimes share some of Epenstein’s stories.

  The biggest worry is that the skirmish will end before we get there, and we’ll be given orders to go home without ever stepping on the shores of the Dark Continent. It would be a shame to have come all this way and then be deprived of that great adventure. For most of the men, it’s a very real fear. After all, how can a few natives armed with primitive weapons hold out much longer against German troops? I tell them the Herero have guns, but they brush it aside. Such talk frightens some of the younger volunteers, who sit there quietly, their eyes glowing big in the twilight. The farther from home we sail the more they realize this isn’t a lark they signed up for. I temper my comments, not wanting to scare them more. But I wonder if this is a disservice. These boys need to know what they might be facing so they can be prepared.

  As the talk winds down tonight, the sailors head below deck, where some of them are putting together a makeshift band comprised of flutes, drums, clappers, and a comb. But I stay out a little longer, enjoying the quiet peacefulness as I think about home. It has been eight days since my son was born. He would have been circumcised today.

  I can almost hear the mohel blessing my son and giving him the name Hanna and I agreed upon: “Our God, and the God of our fathers, preserve this child for his father and mother, and his name in Israel shall be called David ben Yaakov…. Give thanks to God for He is good, for His kindness is eternal. May this small infant David grow and become great. As you have come into the Covenant of Abraham, so may you come into Torah, into marriage and into good deeds.”

  David is now part of the Covenant that binds our family through the generations to Abraham. I should have been there to give my blessing. Tears roll down my cheeks as I think of all I’m missing. How can I ever make this up to my son? To Hanna? Or for that matter, to myself?

  I look out over the dark ocean in the direction of home, longing to be with Hanna and David. From down below come the sad strains of Nach der Heimat möcht’ ich wieder. How fitting. I softly hum along on the familiar ode to home. Right now, Germany seems so far away, so unreachable. And then I notice the phosphorescence gleaming in the moonlight, like stars on the water, forming a glittering path pointing home. I wipe away the tears and whisper my blessing to David, my son: “Zeh hakatan gadol yihye. Mazel tov!”

  * * * * *

  The novelty of being at sea has quickly worn off. Every day I follow the same routine, meet the same people, feel the same constant throbbing of the ship’s engines, and see the same heaving gray waves stretching endlessly in all directions. Occasionally, we pass another ship. When we do, we greet it with a frantic waving of hands and a volley of shouts and cheers. It’s as if we’re starving for human contact beyond the confines of our boat, for a reminder that we’re not alone on this vast ocean.

  To keep my spirits up, I follow our progress on the chart hanging in the companionway that shows the landmasses out of sight to the east. According to the chart, we’re passing the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar, but the only differences we notice are an increase in the number of ships we see and a shift in climate as we leave Europe and head for northern Africa. The heat from the sun makes our woolen uniforms unbearable, so we begin wearing the tropical khakis we were given all those days ago when we were freezing on the North Sea.

  As we head further south, the monotony grows – until we’re informed at roll call that we’ll be making a port call in Portuguese Madeira. We’re like schoolboys being told of an unexpected holiday. After everyone quiets down, the lieutenant reminds us of what’s expected of German sailors. “I know you will want to get souvenirs, but don’t buy everything you see,” he cautions. “You don’t have room for a lot of things. And remember, not everything you see will be g
enuine. Don’t be taken in by fake gems and great-sounding offers. And one more thing – watch how you drink the wine.”

  Everyone laughs, and a few men, known for their drinking, are singled out for good-natured teasing. The rest of the day, our chores seem lighter and the mood merrier as we all keep an eye on the southern horizon for our first glimpse of the island.

  I’m on the deck early the next day when a young sailor calls out excitedly, “There it is!” Sure enough, there on the distant horizon, the sheer rock walls of Madeira rise up, like a mirage, out of the ocean desert. The word spreads quickly throughout the ship, and soon, all the young volunteers are crowding on deck, eager to take in every aspect of the foreign coast as it draws closer and closer.

  As the ship sails around the island to the southern port of Funchal, I take in the volcanic outcroppings and the dense jungle crowning the rocky peaks. After the winter gray of the north, the island is a feast of color. Even the ocean around it has put off its drabness for ribbons of blue in shades I never would have imagined. How I wish Hanna were here to enjoy this with me.

  At first glance, the southern side is as rocky as the rest of the island, but then the craggy heights break open to reveal a bay that seems to spill out from a city flowing from the jungle-crested peaks above it. The red-tiled roofs and gleaming white walls of the houses form a mosaic with bright fields of flowers. There is much ooohing and aahing as we each point excitedly to everything that catches our eye.

  Sharp whistles and shouts from down below pull my attention from the city opening up in front of me. Small boats laden with fruits and vegetables approach us. Olive-skinned men, dressed in colorful clothing, shout to us, waving baskets of produce. I smile and wave, but I’m not interested in their wares. I’m saving my money for the markets in the city.

  That afternoon, I wait my turn to descend the long rope ladder let over the side of the ship to a big rowboat below. Once on shore, I’m dazzled by the sights and smells of the island. Vendors call to me, holding up colorful silk shawls and blouses. Others invite me to sample their food or the wine that makes the island famous.

  My comrades break into groups of twos and threes, but once again I’m alone. This time, I don’t mind. I’d rather explore the city at my own pace. I walk up a steep street lined with four- and five-story buildings, admiring the iron balconies and Portuguese architecture and enjoying the feel of solid ground beneath my feet. A side street takes me into an area of steeply gabled houses, painted in bright reds and blues, their pitched roofs covered in a tightly woven thatch. Because of the European influences, everything is at once familiar and yet exotic. I drink it all in – the heavy aroma of the tropical flowers, the dark-eyed women wrapped in their colorful shawls, the pealing church bells, the sun glinting off the turquoise water of the sea, the men swaggering about with bright scarves tied about their waists. Having seen little but gray for the past several weeks, I’m almost blinded by the festival of color.

  Overwhelmed, I head back to the markets to buy a few postcards to send to Papa and Hanna. I want to get a silk scarf for Hanna, but they all seem too bold for her liking. After much searching, I find one in soft, muted colors that will complement her pale skin. For Papa, I buy a bottle of the famous wine – and hope he lives long enough to drink it.

  The afternoon ends too quickly, and I fall in line with the rest of the men heading back to the Darmstadt, each of us clutching our treasures and the impressions of this island paradise.

  A few days later, I’m standing by the rail in the dawn mist, waiting with some of the marines for the morning drill, when one of the men points out a strange cloud hovering motionless above the water. It’s unlike any cloud I’ve seen – snow white with a glistening sheen.

  One of the other men laughs. “That’s no cloud,” he says. “That’s the peak of Teneriffe.”

  We watch in awe as the mist unfolds, revealing the ancient volcano rising out of Spain’s Canary Islands. It looks as if some great giant heaved boulder upon boulder to create this towering peak. But the most amazing feature is the eternal cap of snow that doesn’t melt, even under the scorching sun of Africa. As we glide by the stony base of the island, I remember Epenstein telling me about the peak and the dog-worshippers of old who are responsible for the islands’ name. Wishing we could visit this island, I think of all the countries that lie beyond it in northern Africa and of all the sights they hold. Sights I’ll never see. For the first time in my life, I fully realize the world is much bigger than the Fatherland.

  I’m reminded of that again a few days later when, according to the navigational chart, we’re passing by Cape Verde. I stand on the deck peering toward the east where the island should be, but nothing interrupts the expanse of ocean.

  Soon after passing the Canary Islands, I get my first glimpse of Africa as we approach the Liberian coast where we will take on laborers who will help unload the ship when we get to Swakopmund in South West Africa. Again, I join the other men lining the deck to feast on the visual wonders of the land. It’s exactly how Epenstein had described it – the grass huts, slender palm trees, and lush forests of mangrove trees crowding the narrow beach.

  Tearing myself away from the sight of land, I head back to my quarters to get the stack of postcards I’ve written to Papa and Hanna before the mailboat goes to shore. I take a minute to jot one last note about my first impressions of Africa. Suddenly, I hear such a clamor and shouting that I rush back to the deck to see what’s going on. Our ship is surrounded by canoes carrying black men of all ages – our Kroo-boys. Within minutes, the men swarm over the sides of the boat; the pots and bundles they have tied to them bang against the metal sides of the Darmstadt in a percussive rhythm. I stare in astonishment at these new bare-chested arrivals who smile their greetings as they straighten their bundles. I’ve never seen a black person before, outside a photograph. And now I’m surrounded by nearly 100 of them – old men with their toothless grins, muscular men in their prime, and young boys shyly returning our stares. They’re all laughing and joking in a language that sounds oddly familiar.

  The headman takes out a cloth and dries himself off before shaking hands with the lieutenant, who greets him in English. After a few words, the headman nods and the Kroo-boys run across the deck to vanish into the hold below. “Those heathen speak English?” one of the marines asks incredulously.

  “Of course they do,” the lieutenant replies. “The Kroo are master seamen when it comes to navigating the rough waters along the coast. They’ve been helping the British for more than a century. Now all the European ships use them.”

  The days return to the old routine as we continue our journey ever southward, except the drills become more frequent and target practice more meaningful. As we approach the equator, some of the older men tease the country boys about being on the lookout for the line in the water that marks the equator so they have time to find something to hang onto as we head downhill.

  By now, the heat is intolerable, even with our tropical uniforms. The worst part is trying to sleep at night. I stay on deck until I’m ready to drop, but then I toss and turn in my stifling quarters, longing for just a breath of winter wind. The Kroo-boys sometimes join the rest of us on deck, but they stick to themselves, squatting around their pots of food and joking with each other in a mixture of English and their tribal language. They don’t seem to mind the heat that has the rest of us sweating through our clothes. Of course, they’re not wearing as much clothing as we are.

  When I hear the men complaining about how hot it is, I wonder how they’re going to hold up in the deserts of South West Africa if they’re forced to march with all their gear. Seeing how well the Kroo handle the heat, I think the Herero could have an advantage over us. They’re used to the climate and the terrain, but it will all be foreign to us. Sunstroke and dehydration could win half the battle for them.

  SWAKOPMUND

  After another few days at sea, we finally get the news we’ve been waiting for – we will reach
Swakopmund in South West Africa today. I help pack up the medical supplies and get my gear in order before joining the others in a vigil on deck. Eager to end our long voyage, we try to peer through the deep fog shrouding the coastline. It begins to lift at about noon, revealing several German ships on the horizon. But still no sign of the great city of Swakopmund. Having explored Funchal and glimpsed Monrovia in Liberia, we’re sure that the German port will be no less their equal.

  As the fog recedes, we see an endless ridge of sand rising up behind the ships, but still no sign of a town. “Perhaps it’s just a sand bar that protects the city,” one sailor muses as he wipes the sweat from his forehead.

  “Or maybe it keeps the lions and palm trees from getting wet,” another one jokes.

  The midday sun burns off the rest of the fog, becoming more unbearable as we approach the coast. It’s only February, but on this side of the equator, we’re in the intense heat of summer. Shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the sand, I finally see Swakopmund – a few wooden houses, a makeshift barracks, the imperial flag flying above some sort of government building, and a squat round lighthouse, all surrounded by an ocean of sand.

  The joking stops as the men take in the foreboding landscape. This is the great German colony? This is what we’re supposed to offer our lives for? “To think we came so far for a country like this,” one man says, putting words to my thoughts.

  “The rest of it can’t be like this,” a corporal muses. “After all, this is part of Germany.”

  A gloom, born of the harsh landscape and the looming reality of war, settles on the ship as we wait to disembark. It’s been a long journey, and the destination is not what we’d imagined. I should have been prepared for this, given all the stories Epenstein and Göring had told me. But they had been here twenty years ago. I had thought that surely in two decades we would have brought civilization to the land. Isn’t that the purpose of colonies?