New Heavens

by Boris Senior

  I grope in the water below me, trying to remove the safety pin so I can unscrew the bottle to inflate the dinghy. But my frozen fingers cannot even feel the pin. After one last desperate effort, I realize it’s a losing battle. The more I try, the more frozen my fingers become. When I realize the heavy dinghy package is dragging me down into the depths below I give up, unhook the dingy package, and watch it sink into the watery abyss beneath me.

  As we started our dive on the ships, the radio silence ended and the racket in my earphones was overpowering. Now with my helmet and earphones gone, the wind blows gently through my hair and the peace and quiet around me seem unreal. The anti-aircraft guns booming from the nearby shore and the whine of the Merlin and Allison engines above form an uncanny background. I am completely alone immersed in what looks an endless cold ocean, with no contact to anyone who can rescue me. I see the yellow fluorescent dye from my Mae West staining the water around me. I pray my pal Tony above is keeping his eyes on my bobbing head in the slowly expanding patch of discolored water from my Mae West.

  The three remaining Kittyhawks of my flight circle high above me as they try to keep me in sight among the waves. It is comforting to feel that I have not been abandoned, but I know that my chances of coming out alive are minimal. Apart from the paralyzing cold, which gets worse with every minute that passes, there is the virtual impossibility of being pulled out of the sea while under fire from the nearby German shore batteries.

  As if someone has read my thoughts, I see vessels making for me at high speed, their wake churning the water into white foam. It must be the German E-boats we know are in the bay. My mind is in turmoil. Am I being left by our side to die in the cold or to become a prisoner of war?

  I know my comrades’ fuel is running low for they turn southward and become smaller and smaller, tiny specks in the sky. Now I know that I am abandoned, and in utter desperation I prepare myself for the end in the freezing sea or in a Nazi prison camp. Moments later, I am relieved to make out six Spitfires taking over and circling high above me, affirming that I have not been left to die on my own.

  When I hear the firing of machine guns above me, I realize there is no way that Jerry will be able to come out and capture me, for the circling Spitfires are diving down low toward the E-boats near the shore, firing their machine guns and cannons. When the Spits get to the bottom of their dives just above me, I realize how close the Germans are from the deafening staccato of the exploding shells from the strafing.

  In no time, the boats turn and retreat at high speed to the coast, zig-zagging as they try to escape the firing Spitfires. Though the attacking Spits have dashed my hopes of being pulled out by Jerry, I am hopeful now that my side may have some plan to get me out of this predicament before I succumb. Surely the attack of the Spits on the E-boats indicates that there may be some such attempt in the offing.

  The time passes. My body is slowly becoming paralyzed from the cold, and I lose hope. I can see buildings and the campanile of St. Marks and estimate I am less than 800 meters from German-occupied Venice, right under the guns of those I have just bombed.

  The numbness spreads to my legs and loins and to my arms. I see my mother in a summer dress in the garden in far-off South Africa. Memories come and go, and strangely while my body is freezing, I imagine I am back in the safe cocoon of my home and environment, in the familiar surroundings of my youth with my family beside me. Then when I realize where I am and what is ahead of me in this icy sea, I groan. I am lost, helpless, unable to do anything to free myself from the agony of this process leading to my death. There is no way out, for I cannot move my arms or legs enough even to try to propel my body to the land that is so close.

  Gradually, I become still and I know I am freezing to death. My past races through my mind, some parts in clear outline, others in murky silhouette as life begins to drift away. My home, my life fades slowly away and becomes a hazy dream world.

  CATALINA

  By now I have been in the water for two hours, my sodden flying kit weighing me down. Yet, my life jacket keeps me afloat with my head just above water. I contemplate the irony of this slow, painful death next to the peacetime playground of the rich. I can still make out the campanile of St. Marco behind the Lido.

  Apart from the noise of the bombing and the anti-aircraft guns, there is no sign of life. I am alone. My flying jacket and uniform are stained by the dye from the life jacket. I know I am getting weaker. My whole body starts to shake and shiver and my teeth chatter uncontrollably.

  Suddenly, I see and hear high in the sky a large white aircraft approaching. I do not know whether it is coming for me. I don’t even know how many Allied aircraft have been shot down and may have crashed into the water. I watch as the big white bird circles slowly and lands on the water. I see the wake of the big plane and the foam from its hull as it taxies toward me. Until it comes near, I am not sure that it is for me. As they come closer, I know that they have come for me. A sob escapes me.

  But now, all hell breaks loose. The air fills with the shriek and whistle of salvo after salvo as the enemy gunners zero in on the flying boat, a sitting duck for the Germans on the nearby Lido. The Catalina throws a big wake as it bears down on me at high speed. As it nears a hatch opens halfway along the fuselage, and they throw me a rope. I grab for it, but it slips through my frozen fingers and I swallow seawater and retch as I am engulfed by the PBY’s wash.

  Under intense fire the crew keeps the aircraft moving at high speed. Time and time again, the flying boat circles and approaches me, the captain keeping it constantly on the move. The maneuver fails repeatedly as my frozen hands fail to grip the thick rope and my head goes under time after time.

  After about fifteen minutes, I see a crewman in his bright yellow life jacket clamber out, run to the end of the big wing, and jump into the sea near me. The cold quickly overpowers the brave American, and the flying boat circles again and comes alongside him while his crew pull him back with difficulty into the flying boat. Now I fear that they are about to abandon the rescue and leave me to the mercy of the Germans or the icy water. But the captain perseveres, and the big white flying boat repeatedly taxies fast toward me on a circular path and the scene is reenacted. The firing from the shore batteries does not stop for a moment. It looks like the German gunners are getting their range for the shells get closer and closer.

  After more vain attempts with the rope, I manage to keep hold of a long wooden boat hook they thrust at me. That is enough, and a moment later they lift me into the Catalina. I am no sooner in the aircraft when I feel the power surge of engines and we are quickly airborne and heading out of range of the German guns. Through the side of the bouncing aircraft, I hear the sound of the exploding shells near us.

  The crew cut off my uniform, taking my wings, ranks, and insignia as souvenirs. By this time I am barely conscious and the puzzled Americans, not having seen a khaki South African Air Force uniform with red tabs on the shoulders, ask me what force I belong to, who I am, and I remember answering, “I am a South African Jew.” The crew massages my frozen legs and arms, and I begin to feel the blood circulating in my limbs. I slowly return to full consciousness, but I am still in shock. As I lie on the rough blankets, all that is in my mind is relief at still being alive.

  The Catalina gains height slowly as she heads out to sea along the Adriatic coast. In less than an hour, we reach the squadron runway where I had taken off a few hours before. The landing is difficult for the big craft on our narrow PSP strip in the sand dunes.

  I am carried to my bed with my teeth still clattering. The peace and quietness of the little villa in Cervia seems to be another world, though only a scant twenty-five minutes flying time from the sea under the raging hell over Venice. The squadron pilots crowd around my bed with congratulations and a hundred questions. I am ashamed of my trembling jaws, which I fear will be seen as shivers of fright, but try as I might, I am unable to stop them from rattling loudly. The squadron doctor comes into my
room, and after checking me, he says I will be fit for flying duties once I have properly thawed out.

  The following morning I look at what is left of my uniform and my underwear from the day before, stained yellow with the dye that seeped from my Mae West life jacket. The Allied Military Government (AMGOT) money is stained yellow too, and I keep it as a memento of the raid on Venice. I visit the squadron parachute packers to thank them for providing me with the chute that saved my life. After that, I am bundled into a Kittyhawk for a test flight to ensure that my nerves are not shot. Soon I am back on active flying duty and more dive-bombing raids.

  The American pilot of the Catalina received a well-deserved Distinguished Flying Cross. I would have liked to hear that the brave crewman who leaped into the water under fire to help me also received a medal. Years later in Israel, the U.S. air attaché tried to get details of the crewman’s whereabouts without success, so all I have is his name “Al Feliksa,” told to me while I was barely conscious in the PBY. [The pilot was 1st Lt. Jackson S. Dunn, and Sgt. Al Feliksa did receive the Silver Star and the Purple Heart for his attempt to rescue the author. Sergeant Feliksa had sustained injuries when he was apparently hit by fire from shore, although he didn’t know it until he was back in the Catalina.—ed.]

  Recently, I discovered that a friend of mine called Les was one of the pilots of a South African squadron during the Venice raid and flew one of the six Spits detailed to escort the PBY on its rescue mission. By an extraordinary coincidence, he became a Mahal (volunteer) pilot in 101 Squadron in the Israel Air Force in 1948, and we flew missions together in Israel. I have talked to him about the raid. After realizing that it was me he saw in the drink, he told me of his grandstand view of the whole rescue operation. He said the captain of the PBY had radioed them saying that the pilot in the water was in a bad way. Les also described the attack on the German E-boats in the harbor of Venice, foiling their attempt to capture me.

  After my return to active operations, the squadron was detailed to fly missions in Yugoslavia. Briefing sessions before takeoff emphasize that in case of a forced landing or being shot down over enemy territory, we were to try to be taken to Tito’s forces and not under any circumstances to be captured by the Ustachis, Croat forces that cooperated with the Germans. Their nickname in the squadron was “ball hackers,” because they had a habit of castrating pilots who fell into their hands.

  After the Venice raid, our activities were concentrated mainly in the Yugoslav sector of operations. The raids across the Adriatic meant quite a long crossing over the same water in which I had nearly drowned. It was an effort to pluck up enough courage to make the flights, and it has taken me many years to cope with the fear of flying over the sea. However, I overcame it when I crossed the North Atlantic thirty years later solo in my own small Twin Comanche, passing over the freezing waters of the North Atlantic from Labrador to Greenland and Iceland before reaching England.

  After a number of missions, I got a week’s leave and hitched a flight to Cannes on the French Riviera. The city was full of troops on short leave from various battlefronts; most of them were American, the British contingent being limited to one small hotel, the Montana, where we were billeted. The seafront cafés with dark blue awnings looked so very Mediterranean and peaceful that it was difficult to remember we were only on a short respite before returning to combat flying.

  MY BIG BROTHER LEON

  The day after my return to the squadron someone said to me, “Sorry to hear about your brother.” Shocked, I learned he had gone missing a week before I was shot down while flying his B-24 Liberator back from a raid on the marshalling yards of Udine in northern Italy. We had had no contact, apart from a very occasional postcard. He was stationed far back in southern Italy at Foggia in a South African Air Force wing while my RAF fighter squadron was near the front line.

  A poignant letter from him was waiting for me, telling me that he had got hold of a Primus stove for me. Primus stoves were sought by all of us and were virtually unobtainable. My efforts to find out more details of what had happened to Leon were in vain, and after a few days I was ordered to return immediately to South Africa. When my sister Selma had entered my mother’s bedroom in the morning to break the news, she gave one look and asked, “Which one?” She behaved with the dignity that was part of her makeup. In despair and sorrow over Leon’s death, my parents arranged for me to return home. They did not know at the time that they had nearly received two telegrams in one week announcing the loss of both their sons.

  Leon never returned, and the only clue we have ever had about him was that the body of his bombardier was found in the sea just north of Venice, near where I landed in the sea. After completing his bombing raid, Leon had sent a coded radio message that he had accomplished his mission but nothing more was heard from him. I have subsequently seen a report that he was coned by searchlights and went down in flames after being hit by heavy anti-aircraft fire over the target.

  Leon was six years older than me, and as my older brother was my role model. He was of medium height, a handsome young man, refined like his mother and somewhat reserved. With his big blue eyes and shy smile, women were immediately drawn to him, but being fastidious in his choice of everything, he was never involved in a string of shallow romances. Like other members of our family, he was an individualist. I remember him in high school, and he never ran with the herd socially. He was quiet and courteous with everyone, and I never heard him raise his voice. He could easily have completed his military service as a flight instructor in South Africa far from the perils of the air war in Europe but insisted on joining an operational bomber squadron in Italy. One of my two sons bears his name, which has been in my father’s family for many generations.

  My family and Leon’s young wife, though still not giving up hope, seemed to have come to terms with the news of Leon’s missing in action. I witnessed only one heart-rending scene. When I passed Leon’s room, I saw through the open door that Leon’s wife was collecting his clothes to put away. I watched her for a moment and saw her clasp his uniform jacket and hug it closely to her. That small act in the silent bedroom has been with me ever since.

  When I returned to Johannesburg after the Venice raid, I waited in South Africa for news of Leon, for I had agreed to my parents’ wish not to return to operational flying until we heard about him. It was a difficult time for all of us. Until we heard that the body of one of his crew was found in the sea near Venice, we had kept hopes of his being a prisoner of war. As time passed we lost hope. In the meantime, the war ended in Europe. Understanding that I had to assume a more responsible role in the family, I sought my release from active service as soon as possible.

  All that remains for us of my brother Leon, apart from our memories, is his name on a memorial column in Malta, which has the names of all the missing airmen of the Allied forces in the Mediterranean theater of war. Later, Dad financed the building of a community hall in the village of Kfar Shmaryahu in Israel on a hill that was renamed “Ramat Leon.” He also established a permanent scholarship in Leon’s name for South Africans at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Heritage

  LITHUANIA

  MY father was born in Naumiestis, Lithuania, a pleasant village that serves as the hub of a prosperous farming region. Like most of Lithuania, it is in an area of green fields and broad rivers. The 1,600 Jews of the village made up half of the population and had their own synagogue, library, and school. They also set up a medical clinic and a small bank to grant loans to members of their community who needed financial assistance.

  The Russians had occupied Naumiestis in the late 1700s. They instituted draconian laws of military service requiring quotas of recruits, some only twelve years old, from the villages for conscription into the Russian army for as long as twenty-five years. Many grandparents preferred emigration for their children even to such distant places as South Africa. For a long time, I couldn’t understand my grandparents se
nding their progeny so far away knowing that they would probably never see them again. When I became aware of the alternative of serving in the Tsar’s army for a third of their lifetime, I began to understand how they managed to cope with the separation.

  It was in 1893, at the age of thirteen, that my father made his way to South Africa from his birthplace in Naumiestis. He went alone, probably by steamer across the Baltic to England and from there to Cape Town. How he managed it has always baffled me for I cannot imagine the months of travel and the difficulties he must have encountered on his lonely journey and arrival in the strange and distant country in Africa at the end of the nineteenth century. I have always regretted that I did not question him enough about his past, knowing only that when he arrived he worked in a small store in the veld, slept in a packing case, and boasted that he used to make himself a breakfast of ten eggs. He spoke no English.

  At the close of the fourteenth century, continental European Jews who were fleeing persecution from the Crusaders came to Lithuania on the invitation of Grand Duke Vytautas (Witold), who ruled from 1392 to 1430. It was a haven of safety for them, and they were in some cases even granted privileges of the nobility. For a long time, I couldn’t comprehend why the Lithuanians after so many years of fair treatment of their Jews suddenly started to kill them when the Germans conquered the country in 1941. They did not stop until they had murdered more than 95 percent of the entire Lithuanian Jewish population. One-quarter of a million men, women, and children, in some 300 villages and towns, were killed mainly by Lithuanians, who carried out the butchery for the Germans. Apart from the units of the Lithuanian armed forces who did the mass killings, tens of thousands of Jewish citizens were murdered by the Lithuanians who had sat on school benches next to them.