Looking forward to the next summer, I was determined to find a more satisfactory situation. I still wanted to work on a farm and there remained a great need for laborers, even teenage help. I joined a pacifist-leaning organization called The International Volunteers in the Service of Peace that had started before the war in Switzerland. Work camps were organized by IVSP for young people like myself, and I was eager to begin my first stint during Easter break near Sheffield digging ditches with two other boys. We lived together in one room for two weeks, became good friends, and worked hard during the day, but when the vacation was over we never saw each other again. Disappointed, I became aware of how transitory friendships could be and learned how much they seemed to depend upon physical proximity.
That summer I continued with IVSP at a camp in Lincolnshire where some thirty of us, boys and girls, worked on a large farm. The crop I remember harvesting most is potatoes. Long rows of them had to first be uncovered from the soil, then individual potatoes were searched for by hand and put into sacks. At the closing time of one work day, we were nearly finished with one field but still had a couple of rows to go. There were about ten of us on this work detail and most wanted to stop and start next day with the incomplete rows. But I spoke up, surprising myself as I was one of the youngest in the group. “We have to finish the field. That’s what is expected of us,” I said with passion that rested on feigned authority. There was grumbling and my fellow workers must have wondered who I thought I was to order them around. Nevertheless, they continued to work and we finished the field. Later I wondered if this showed budding leadership qualities, like a strong sense of responsibility, or if it was just blind bullheadedness with a lucky outcome this time. Even today, once a task is defined I find it difficult to stop until the work is completed, a trait those who know me recognize.
My most deeply etched memories of the summer IVSP camp were of the social life. England enjoyed extended daylight because the country was on double daylight savings time: it stayed light until about ten o’clock. In these evenings we played games, among them chess, checkers, and table tennis. But the game I learned that summer that appealed to me most was spin the bottle. I had never kissed a girl on the lips before and found it especially pleasurable to be a winner at this particular game. After a while I found the courage to ask one of the prettiest girls to go for a walk. I thought we had become special friends, but I lost her a week later to an older, more confident, and socially adept boy. Romance, I learned, involved many challenges.
Then there was my laundry. The camp had no facilities for washing clothes so I made an arrangement to send my soiled clothes to the Bull family in Leeds who had befriended me earlier and whom I occasionally visited. Wrapping paper was at a premium during the war, so I always hoarded the best paper from packages I received and put it away for some special use at a later date. I wrapped my dirty laundry to send to Leeds in small, less desirable pieces of paper and held the packages together with string. Mrs. Bull finally wrote to inform me that my packages were arriving with the clothing sticking out of the parcels which came through with almost no paper covering. Humiliated, from then on I used my best wrapping paper for laundry packages. The lesson I learned was not to store away all the best things with the intention of saving them for some undefined future contingency.
I will never forget visiting Lincoln Cathedral on one of our days off from the camp. The bus ride was long but worth it. The cathedral is perched magnificently on the crest of a hill and dominates the town. As I approached, it came into sharper focus, and I was overwhelmed by the stonework on one of the largest structures I had ever seen. I spent a great deal of time making a study of the intricate carvings that so impressed me all across the wide west wall below the two towers. This was such an unforgettable memory to me that I had to put the cathedral at Lincoln at the top of my itinerary when I visited the UK again years later.
When I was preparing to leave Fulneck, I visited the Bulls to say my good-byes and promised to write, but I never did. I don’t know why I cut off this contact, but I regret now that I did and feel guilty. Experiences at the Moravian school meant so much to me that before I left I decided I needed a permanent memento to take with me. I noticed an impressive aerial photograph on a wall that showed the whole community and I coveted it. My earlier promise to the school principal in the bookstore incident and my personal vow at that time to never steal again were shelved for the time being. I stuck the framed photograph in my suitcase and lovingly hung it in all future rooms I lived in. But, eventually, I developed severe pangs of guilt about taking the picture, so when I visited England in 1985 and planned to visit Fulneck, I packed it again, to go back. Later I handed it over to the current headmaster who was very glad to receive it. I also gave him a sizable check which served as penance.
By the summer of 1944, it was clear to my parents that the Allies would defeat Germany and equally obvious to them that life in postwar Czechoslovakia would be very difficult. They decided to immigrate to the United States, where we already had family, and applied for our visas. Anticipating with growing excitement a new adventure ahead, I accompanied my parents to the US embassy in London and was being interviewed when a loud siren warned that a V-2 rocket was on its way. I followed the interviewer and we both ducked under a desk. We were obviously relieved when the “all clear” sounded, and after a couple of minutes the interview continued. As soon as our visas were received, we booked passage for the voyage we hoped would deliver us safely to America. In October 1944, my Fulneck headmaster accompanied me to Leeds and put me on the train for Liverpool, where I was to meet my parents to board the ship.
Chapter Six: Perilous Voyage to America, 1944
WE WERE ON the move again, like prey seeking a safe haven. In the gathering dusk the silhouette of our ship was barely visible. I was a boy of fifteen who had never been on a large boat except for the ferry that transported me across the English Channel. I looked forward to being on this vessel, which was to carry the three of us from England to America and a new life. Frank, my brother, had volunteered for the Czechoslovak army in England when war broke out and was by this time at the front in France.
As my parents and I walked slowly up the gangplank, I saw a friendly face above, smiling and wearing a crisp white uniform. Looking at the passenger list on his clipboard, he gave us a hearty, “Welcome aboard, mates.” He was short, balding, a little on the pudgy side, and introduced himself as Bill. I liked him at once. He told us he was the medical orderly on our ship, the S.S. Beaverhill. We told him our names, and I quietly volunteered, “We came from Czechoslovakia in 1939.”
“Let me show you to your cabin,” Bill offered. The cabin proved to be the size of a large bathroom with just enough room for two upper and lower bunks, a washbasin, and a small closet. On one of the lower bunks sat Mrs. Bassová, a compatriot and an acquaintance of my parents. She was their age, on the plump side with reddish hair, decidedly plain, and obviously disgruntled.
“How can four of us live in here for two weeks?” she complained immediately. Glaring at me she added, “There isn’t enough room to even turn around and I won’t have any privacy at all!”
Bill tried to cut through the tension by explaining, “Unfortunately, this is a cargo ship and there are only twelve passengers on board, and if it were not for the war there wouldn’t be any of you here.” Mrs. Bassová ignored him.
That night, as we prepared for bed, I began to understand what close quarters were going to mean. Mrs. Bassová barked out an order to me—“Turn your head and close your eyes so I can get in my nightgown and wash up.” I shut my eyes as tightly as possible, thinking, “Who wants to look at her anyway?
The next morning I was up early and walked around on the deck stopping frequently to watch our ship cut effortlessly through the waves. During the night, a convoy had formed and there were ships about a quarter mile to port, to starboard, as well as fore and aft, and beyond them more ships all in neat rows. I was curious to know how
many there were and went looking for Bill. “There are about seventy, including destroyers and cruisers that will protect us from U-boats,” he told me. That was very reassuring.
“You want to see the rest of the ship? I’ll show you around when I get some free time,” Bill offered. I jumped at the chance, and at eleven o’clock I was ready and waiting at his door. He came out to announce there were only two patients that morning and they were both feeling bilious. I had never heard the word.
“What does bilious mean?” I asked.
“It’s usually an upset stomach from being at sea,” he replied, “but it covers everything imaginable when one is out of sorts—and that happens often to people not used to the motion.”
We started our tour at the back of the ship, where I saw the cargo area first. The hold was full of large containers, but since everything was crated I couldn’t see what cargo the ship was carrying. “The engine room may be more interesting to you,” Bill continued, so we walked to the entrance of the hottest, noisiest, and most unpleasant part of the ship. Conversation in there was impossible.
I observed the convoy and asked, “How can you tell we are even moving since all the ships are always in the same position?”
“You’ll know by tomorrow,” he nodded with assurance. “Expect it to be much warmer because we’re sailing southwest right into the Gulf Stream. We’re going to zigzag across the Atlantic so that German U-boats don’t detect us … hopefully.” It was his “hopefully” that made me uneasy. In the closing days of the trip we did hear depth charges exploding around us as our escort vessels warded off the dreaded submarines.
I felt I knew Bill pretty well by this time so I asked him directly, “Are you ever afraid being at sea all the time during the war?”
“Not very,” he replied. “You get used to it and don’t think about it too much.” I could tell he didn’t want to expand upon the topic I had raised when he abruptly transitioned into, “It’s almost lunch time and I’m busy this afternoon, but after supper I’ll show you some night sights. Meet me on deck about eight o’clock.”
Later, as I looked around me, it was totally dark and I couldn’t see the other ships. But I saw millions of white dots all around us—constellations, stars, planets. How thrilling for a budding astronomer like me! I couldn’t make out where the sky ended and the sea began as everything blended into blackness, but the convoy plowed on. We were at the railing when Bill asked me, “Have you looked down?”
I did, immediately, and I answered with, “Look at that! All those little things that are lit up are bumping against the side of the ship—what are they?” Amused, Bill explained that they were phosphorescent particles found in the sea and at night they shone in this way.
“Then it’s like the reflection of the stars in the water,” I said with great excitement as if I alone had just discovered an eternal truth.
The next day I lingered on deck watching the ships when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my cabinmate nemesis approaching. I scooted into a doorway in order to avoid Mrs. Bassová but was too late. “Ivan, come here,” she bellowed, and like a shamed puppy I obeyed. “Mě je špatně,” she spat out, meaning I am not well. “I need your friend the orderly,” she continued. I saw my chance to escape and immediately set out to find Bill.
“What’s the matter with her?” he asked.
“She’s feeling bilious in a big way,” I told him, proud of my seafaring vocabulary.
“Tell her to meet me in the dispensary right away,” Bill directed.
I was relieved to be temporarily free of her; but, unfortunately, I was in our cabin alone when Mrs. Bassová returned. “Your friend was so nice to me,” she cooed. “He gave me some pills and told me to stay in bed for a day. “But,” she frowned, “how can I rest with all of you coming and going in here?” Hiding my delight at getting to leave, I told her I would gladly vacate so she could lie down.
And so the journey continued day by day. After a few days of balmy weather, it turned colder, and I knew we were heading north. Sometimes when he wasn’t busy with health duties, Bill and I would talk about his experiences on various ships, and I described to him the boarding school I had just left. I learned about the seafaring life and was able to get away from the unpleasant Mrs. Bassová.
Conversations at meals were desultory, with only twelve passengers seated at two tables. But I remember one conversation well. It was a couple of days before the first Tuesday in November 1944, when Americans would choose between President Franklin D. Roosevelt and Thomas Dewey to be president of the United States for the next four years. “Roosevelt is our savior,” my father declared more than once, “and without him America would not be in the war, and without America the allies would be finished.” Another chimed in to agree. “How can you trust Dewey? He has no foreign policy experience.” Election results came in slowly as we huddled around the radio. When it became clear that FDR had won a fourth term there was a loud “hooray” from both passengers and officers.
As we neared the end of the voyage I noted that my parents grew more pensive. I tried to read their thoughts beyond what they shared with me. Father was preoccupied with his ailing heart, wondering how he would support us. Mother was eager for our new country with its promise of opportunity, but she, too, had worries. How dominant would Father’s older brother, Paul, be? He was sponsoring us in America, but would he try to interfere in our lives as well? I was mostly looking forward to being in America, my new country.
When we reached Saint John in New Brunswick, Canada, we said our good-byes. Bill had become my guide and a friend and contributed to making the trip memorable for me. “Good luck, mate,” he waved as we disembarked. “Same to you, Bill,” I shouted back.
A few weeks later in New York City we read that our ship went aground in the Saint John Harbour. The S.S. Beaverhill had an interesting history and a tragic end. It was one of five ships known as the “Beaver Class.” These were general purpose vessels built in Scotland and registered in the Port of London. They were used for fast freight runs between Canada and the UK.
The SS Beaverhill was the last of this class of ships, the rest had been destroyed earlier by U-Boats and Luftwaffe bombers. It seemed to have had a charmed life, ferrying thousands of air force trainees across the Atlantic. In November of 1944 she steamed into Saint John, and its crew was given shore leave while longshoremen unloaded the ship. The ship was no stranger to Saint John, and her crew was familiar with winter sailing conditions in the Bay of Fundy as well as the mingling of Saint John River outflow and salt water tides.
The ship prepared for departure with a heavy cargo load in the early hours of November 24, 1944 as she had done many times before. She was being guided by a tug when suddenly the towing rope snapped and the loose end began to wrap itself around the propeller. The wind then pushed the ship onto Hilyard’s Reef. When the tide receded, the damage that the S.S. Beaverhill had sustained opened wider and the ship cracked apart.
Chapter Seven: New York, 1944–1946
ARRIVING IN New York City by train through the tunnel to Grand Central Station is the least picturesque way to enter this great metropolis; yet on a cloudy, chilly November day, that was how my parents and I first viewed the area about which I had heard so much and dreamed of experiencing. But the warmth of our human reception more than compensated for the inauspicious weather conditions when we arrived. Waiting on the platform were my Uncle Paul, Aunt Julia, and their daughter, my cousin Anna. I had not seen them for five long years, since they had left Prague already in March 1939, immediately after the Nazis occupied our country and two months before I boarded the Kindertransport train. We celebrated being together with a sumptuous supper at their apartment on 72nd street. The home-cooked meal was a special treat for me after eating only institutional food for the past few months at camp, at boarding school, and most recently on the ship.
My father, a diabetic, had not been well for some time, suffering from a heart ailment. Uncle P
aul took charge of Father’s health regimen by taking him to several doctors Paul selected and finally deciding Father should live, at least for the time being, with him and his family on 72nd Street. Mother and I were to live nearby. Mother agreed to conform to this plan and found a furnished room on 71st Street for the two of us. From 71st Street there was a convenient entrance to the 72nd Street apartment building, and we used it to visit Father every day and ate our evening meal there.
Living with my mother and my father, uncle, aunt, and cousin next door was altogether different from being in boarding school. I found Aunt Julia to be an overflowing fountain of love. Her enthusiasm and warmth was infectious and her concern for Father was touching. I liked that she could laugh at herself, especially when telling us her adventures of being constantly lost on the subway, and I found myself opening up to her. When Julia was a renowned singer in Europe in the 1920s and 1930s, she was performing in Prague as Cherubino in Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. There is a scene in which Cherubino (the role is sung by a woman) is having “his” ears boxed. All of a sudden Paul, Julia’s young son sitting in the audience, cried out, “Mother, DON’T LET HIM DO THAT TO YOU!” The audience broke into laughter.
I watched my Uncle Paul come home from the office every day, and promptly sit down with paper and pen to compose a letter to each of his sons who were in the army—Charlie in the Pacific and Paul in Italy. I was impressed with his commitment and consistency in writing to his sons. When Uncle Paul had to move his writing paraphernalia from one room to another, he would place the letters carefully on top of several folded newspapers to smooth out the paper. Observing this operation, it occurred to me that a big firm blotter pad would be an easier way for him to transport his letters, so I bought him one that first Christmas in America. I was overwhelmed by my uncle’s response to my gift: he was very appreciative, thanking me more than once. One would have thought I had given him a brand new Cadillac.
My Train to Freedom Page 7