He eventually drifted into a half sleep, but was woken by the sound of the hold door crashing open, followed by what sounded like someone tapping on the side of a nearby crate. He clenched his fist again and thumped the side of his prison cell, shouting, “We’re in here!” This time his mother didn’t try to stop him.
Moments later he could hear two, or was it three, voices, grateful they were speaking a language he recognized. He waited impatiently, and when the lid of the crate was finally torn off, he saw three men towering over him.
“You can get out now,” said one of them in Russian.
Alex stood up, and helped his mother as she slowly unwound her stiff body. He took her hand as she stepped gingerly out of the crate. He then grabbed her small suitcase and his lunch box before climbing out to join her.
The three deckhands, dressed in navy blue, oil-stained overalls, were peering into the crate to make sure their promised reward was in place.
“You both come with me,” said one of them, while the other two began to remove the cases of vodka. Alex and Elena obediently followed the man who’d given the order, as he dodged in between several other crates until they reached a ladder attached to the side of the hold. Alex looked up to see the open sky beckoning him, and began to believe for the first time that they just might be safe. He followed the deckhand slowly up the ladder, the suitcase in one hand, while his mother tucked his lunch box under her arm.
Alex stepped out onto the deck, and took a deep breath of fresh sea air. He stared back in the direction of Leningrad, which looked like a tiny village melting in the early evening sun.
“Don’t hang about,” barked the sailor, as his two mates hurried past, each carrying a case of vodka. “Cook doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He led them across the deck and down a spiral staircase into the bowels of the ship. Alex and Elena were quite giddy by the time they reached the lower deck, where their guide stood in front of a door displaying the faded words MR. STRELNIKOV, HEAD CHEF.
The sailor pulled open the heavy door, revealing the smallest kitchen Elena had ever seen. They stepped inside, to be greeted by a giant of a man dressed in a grubby white jacket that had several buttons missing, and blue-striped trousers that looked as if they’d recently been slept in. He was already unscrewing the top off a bottle of vodka. He took a swig before saying in a gruff voice, “Your brother told me you’re a good cook. You’d better be, or you’ll both be thrown overboard and then you’ll have to swim home, where I expect you’ll find quite a few people waiting on the dockside to welcome you back.”
Elena would have laughed, but she wasn’t sure the cook didn’t mean it. After taking another swig, he turned his attention to Alex. “And what’s the point of you?” he demanded.
“He’s a trained waiter,” said Elena, before Alex could reply.
“We don’t need one of them,” said the chef. “He can wash the dishes and peel the potatoes. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth, I might even let him have one or two scraps at the end of the day.” Alex was about to protest when the cook added, “Of course, if that doesn’t suit you, your worship, you can always work in the engine room and spend the rest of your life hurling coal into a blazing furnace. I’ll leave the choice to you.” The words “the rest of your life” had a haunting conviction about them. “Show them where they’ll be sleeping, Karl. Just make sure they’re back in time to help me prepare dinner.”
The sailor nodded, and led them out of the galley, back up the narrow staircase, and onto the deck. He didn’t stop walking until he reached a lone lifeboat swinging in the breeze.
“This is the royal suite,” he said, with no suggestion of irony. “If you don’t like it, you can always sleep on deck.”
Elena looked back in the direction of her homeland, which had almost disappeared from sight. She found herself already missing the meager comforts of their tiny flat in the Khrushchyovka. Her thoughts were interrupted by Karl barking, “Don’t keep cook waiting, or we’ll all live to regret it.”
* * *
Most chefs occasionally taste their food, while others sample each dish, but it soon became clear to Elena that the ship’s cook preferred to devour whole portions between swigs of vodka. She was surprised that the officers, let alone the rest of the crew, were ever fed.
The kitchen, which Elena would quickly learn to refer to as the galley, was so small that it was almost impossible not to bump into someone or something if you moved in any direction, and so hot that she was soaked in sweat within moments of putting on a not very white jacket that didn’t fit.
Strelnikov was a man of few words, and those he uttered were usually prefaced by a single adjective. He looked fifty, but Elena suspected he was only about forty. He must have weighed over three hundred pounds, and had clearly spent a considerable portion of his wages on tattoos. Elena watched as he stood over a vast stove inspecting his handiwork while his assistant, a tiny Chinese man of indeterminate age, squatted, head bowed, in the far corner, endlessly peeling potatoes.
“You,” barked the chef, having already forgotten Alex’s name, “will assist Mr. Ling, while you,” he said, pointing at Elena, “will prepare the soup. We’ll soon find out if you’re as good as your brother claims.”
Elena began checking the ingredients. Some of the scraps had clearly been scraped off the plates of previous meals. There was also the odd bone of an animal that she couldn’t immediately identify floating in a greasy pan, but she did her best to salvage what little meat was left on them. She dropped what remained into the bin, which only brought a frown to Strelnikov’s face, as he wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything away.
“Some of the deckhands consider bones a luxury,” he said.
“Only dogs consider bones a luxury,” mumbled Elena.
“And sea dogs,” snapped Strelnikov.
Strelnikov focused on preparing the dish of the day, which Elena later discovered was the dish of every day: fish and chips. Three fish at a time were being fried in a vast, round, burned pan, while Mr. Ling expertly sliced each potato the moment Alex had finished peeling it. Elena noticed that only three soup bowls and three dinner plates of different sizes had been laid out on the countertop, although there had to be at least twenty crew on board. Strelnikov interrupted his frying to sample the soup, and as he didn’t comment, Elena assumed she had passed her first test. He then ladled a large portion into each of the three soup bowls, which Mr. Ling placed on a tray, before taking them off to the officers’ mess. As he opened the door, Elena saw a long queue of morose-looking figures, billycans in hand, waiting to be served.
“Only one ladle each,” grunted Strelnikov, as the first deckhand held up his billycan.
Elena carried out his orders, and tried not to show that she was appalled when Strelnikov dropped a fried fish into the same billycans as the soup. Only one member of the crew greeted her with a warm smile, and even said “thank you,” in her native tongue.
Once she’d completed the task, twenty-three men in all, the cook returned to the stove and began to fry the largest three pieces of fish, one by one, before tipping them onto the officers’ plates. Mr. Ling selected only the thinnest chips to accompany them, then placed the plates on his tray before leaving the galley once again.
“Start clearing up!” Strelnikov barked, as he sank into the only chair in the room while nursing a half-empty bottle of vodka.
After Mr. Ling had returned with the empty soup plates, he immediately began to scour the large pots and the two frying pans. When he heard Strelnikov begin to snore, he grinned at Alex and pointed to a pan of untouched chips. Alex devoured every last one of them, while Elena continued scrubbing the pots. Once she’d finished, she glanced across at Strelnikov. He was fast asleep, so she and Alex slipped out of the galley and made their way back up the spiral staircase and onto the deck.
Elena began to unpack her little suitcase and place each item neatly on the deck, when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. She quickly turned around
to see a tall, heavily built man approaching them. Alex put down his dictionary, leaped up, and stepped between his mother and the advancing giant. Although he knew it would be an unequal contest, he didn’t intend to give up without a fight. But the man’s next move took them both by surprise. He sat down cross-legged on the deck, and smiled up at them.
“My name is Dimitri Balanchuk,” he said, “and, like you, I’m a Russian exile.”
Elena looked more carefully at Dimitri, and then remembered he was the man who’d thanked her at supper. She returned his smile, and sat down opposite him. Alex folded his arms and remained standing.
“We should arrive in New York in about ten days,” said Dimitri in a soft, gentle voice.
“Have you been to New York before?” Elena asked.
“I live there, but I still consider Leningrad to be my home. I was on deck when I saw you climbing into the crate. I tried to warn you to get into the other one.”
“Why?” said Alex. “I’ve read a lot about New York, and even though it’s full of gangsters, it sounds exciting.”
“It’s exciting enough,” said Dimitri, “although there are just as many gangsters in Moscow as there are in New York,” he added, with a wry smile. “But I’m not convinced you’ll ever get off this ship without my help.”
“Are they going to send us back to Leningrad?” asked Elena, trembling at the thought.
“No. The Yanks would welcome you with open arms, especially as you’re refugees fleeing from Communism.”
“But we don’t know anyone in America,” said Alex.
“You do now,” said Dimitri, “because I’d do anything to help a fellow countryman escape from that repressive regime. No, it’s not the Americans who will be your problem, it’s Strelnikov. You’ve cut his workload in half, so he’ll do anything to prevent you getting off the ship.”
“But how can he stop us?”
“The same way he does Mr. Ling, who joined the crew in the Philippines over six years ago. Whenever we approach a port, Strelnikov locks him in the galley and doesn’t let him out until we’re back at sea. And I suspect that’s exactly what he has planned for you.”
“Then we must tell one of the officers,” said Elena.
“They don’t even know you’re on board,” said Dimitri. “Even if they did, it’s more than their life is worth to cross Strelnikov. But don’t panic, because I have an idea which I hope will see the cook ending up locked in his own galley.”
* * *
Although she was exhausted, it was some time before Elena fell asleep, as she couldn’t get used to the pitching and swaying of the lifeboat. After she had finally managed an hour, perhaps two, she opened her eyes to find Mr. Ling standing by her side. She clambered out of the boat and shook Alex, who was fast asleep on the deck. They accompanied Mr. Ling back down to the galley with only the moon to guide them. It was clear that they weren’t going to see the sun for the next ten days.
Breakfast consisted of two fried eggs and beans on toast for the officers, served on the same three plates as their meal the evening before, with cups of black coffee to accompany them, while the crew were handed two slices of bread and dripping, and a mug of tea, with no suggestion of sugar. No sooner had Elena, Alex, and Mr. Ling cleared up after breakfast than they had to begin preparing for lunch, while Strelnikov took his morning siesta. More sleep than Elena had managed the previous night.
Elena and Alex were given a short break after lunch, but were not allowed to go back on deck, as Strelnikov didn’t want the officers to find out they were on board. They sat alone in the corridor, hunched up against the wall, wondering how different things might have been if they had climbed into the other crate.
6
SASHA
En route to Southampton
By the end of their first week on board, Sasha had mastered the dumb-waiter so well that he even found time to help Fergal serve the passengers, although he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the captain’s table. Once they’d laid up for breakfast each night, Sasha would return to his mother’s cabin and regale her with what he’d overheard the passengers talking about, and what he’d said to them.
“But I thought you weren’t allowed to speak to the passengers.”
“I’m not, unless they ask a question. So now they all know you’re working in the kitchen and looking for a job in England, and if you haven’t got one by the time we dock at Southampton, we won’t be allowed past immigration, and will have to remain on board. And here’s the bad news. Once they’ve reloaded, and the new passengers have come on board, they’re going straight back to Leningrad.”
“We certainly can’t risk that. Have any of the passengers shown the slightest interest in our plight?”
“Not a dicky bird.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s cockney rhyming slang for ‘word.’”
“What’s a cockney?”
“Someone who’s born within the sound of Bow bells.”
“Where are these Bow bells?”
“No idea. But Fergal will know.”
“Are there any English passengers on board?” asked Elena.
“Only four, and they rarely speak to each other, let alone anyone as lowly as a waiter. They’re standoffish.”
“I’ve never heard that word before.”
“Fergal uses it a lot, particularly when he’s talking about the English. I looked it up in the dictionary. It means distant and cold in manner, unfriendly.”
“Perhaps they’re just shy,” suggested Elena.
* * *
With only three days to go before the ship was due to dock in Southampton, the chef informed Elena that Mr. Hallett, the purser, wished to see her when she came off duty.
“What have I done wrong?” she asked anxiously.
“Nothing. In fact I suspect the exact opposite.”
Once the cook had released the kitchen staff for the afternoon, Elena went straight to the purser’s office. She knocked on the door, and when she heard a voice say, “Come,” she walked in to find two men seated on either side of a large desk. They both rose, and the purser, dressed in a smart white uniform with two gold stripes on the sleeves, waited for her to be seated before he introduced Mr. Moretti, and explained that he was a passenger who had asked to meet her.
Elena took a closer look at the elderly gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit. He addressed her in English with a slight accent that she couldn’t place. He asked her about her work in Leningrad, and how she had ended up on board the ship. She told him almost everything that had happened during the past month, including how her husband had died, but didn’t mention why her son had nearly killed the local head of the KGB. By the time Mr. Moretti came to the end of his questions, Elena had no idea what sort of impression she’d made, although he did give her a warm smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Karpenko,” said Mr. Hallett, “that will be all for now.” Both men rose again as she left the office.
She returned to her cabin in a daze, to find Sasha waiting for her. Once she had told him about her interview with Mr. Moretti, he said, “That must be the Italian gentleman who owns a restaurant in somewhere called Fulham. I know he’s also asked to see the chef and Fergal, so keep your fingers crossed, Mama.”
“Why Fergal?”
“He wants to know how I’m getting on in the dining room. I think he’s hoping to get two for the price of one. So Fergal’s going to tell him I’m the best assistant steward he’s ever had.”
“You’re the only assistant he’s ever had.”
“A minor detail that Fergal will not be mentioning.”
* * *
The meetings with the chef and Fergal must have gone well, because Mr. Moretti asked to see Elena a second time, and offered her a job at his restaurant in Fulham.
“Ten pounds a week, with accommodation above the premises,” he said.
Elena had no idea where Fulham was, or if it was a good wage, but she happily accepted the only offe
r she was likely to get, if they didn’t want to go straight back to Leningrad.
The purser then proceeded to ask her several more questions about why she was seeking asylum, while he filled out a long official Home Office form. Once he’d double-checked each entry, he and Mr. Moretti signed on the bottom line, having agreed to act as her sponsors.
“Good luck, Mrs. Karpenko,” said the purser as he handed the completed form to Mr. Moretti. “We will all miss you, and if things don’t work out, you can always get a job with the Barrington Line.”
“That’s kind of you,” responded Elena.
“But for your sake, let’s hope not, Mrs. Karpenko. Before you leave, don’t forget to collect your wages.”
“You’re going to pay me as well?” said Elena in disbelief.
“Of course.” The purser handed her two brown envelopes. He then walked to the door of his office, opened it, and said, “Let’s hope we never see you again, Mrs. Karpenko.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hallett,” said Elena, who stood on her toes and kissed him on both cheeks, which left the purser speechless.
She went straight to her cabin, keen to let Sasha know about the offer. When she opened the door, she was both surprised and delighted. Delighted to find her son waiting for her, but surprised to see a large parcel on the bed.
“What’s that?” she asked, taking a closer look at the bulging package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.
“I have no idea,” said Sasha, “but it was there when I came off work.”
Elena undid the string and slowly removed the wrapping paper. She gasped when she saw all the clothes that spilled out onto the bed, along with a card that read, Thank you both, and good luck. It was signed by every member of the crew, including the captain. Elena burst into tears. “How can we ever pay them back?”
“By being model citizens, if I remember the captain’s exact words,” said Sasha.
“But we’re not even citizens yet, and will remain stateless until the immigration authorities are convinced that we’re genuine political refugees, and have real jobs to go to.”
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