But after crawling around the grimy hold, lifting up cases and pushing boxes aside for several back-breaking hours, her spirits sank. Perhaps her suitcases weren’t on the ship at all. Either someone had stolen them or they’d been left behind in Marseilles. She sat down on one of the chests, blinking away the tears as she tried to figure out what to do. Apart from her clothes, the cases contained some carefully chosen pieces of Meissen porcelain her mother had given her for her cousin in Sydney, some family silver and the only photographs of her parents that she possessed.
Towards the end of the war, she had packed that photograph of her father before going down to the cellar with her mother, because the Russians were about to enter Berlin. Her father had been arrested and thrown into prison the previous year for criticising the Nazi regime and she had given up hope of ever seeing him again. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Expecting bad news, she had opened it cautiously but when she saw who it was, her heart stopped beating and then she was screaming, laughing and crying all at once. There he stood, a blanket around his thin shoulders and a chunk of bread in his hand. That had been the most fantastic moment of her life. And now she was travelling to the end of the earth without even a photograph. But right now the biggest loss was her clothes. How was she going to get through the voyage in that loathsome cabin and this heat without summer clothes? Thank God she’d had the foresight to put one cotton print dress into her hold-all, but she couldn’t live in that for five weeks.
She reported the missing suitcase to the purser, the stout Egyptian Turk who stared at her, blinking his heavy-lidded eyes. He obviously couldn’t have cared less.
‘Go and see the man responsible for the passengers travelling with the International Refugee Organisation. Maybe he will help,’ he told her in his brusque way, probably relieved to pass yet another problem onto someone else. Dorothea found out much later that she hadn’t travelled under the auspices of the IRO at all, because her cousin in Australia had paid her fare.
Clutching her typewriter, which she was determined not to let out of her sight, she ran along narrow companionways, took wrong turns, and climbed up and down stairs until she reached the upper deck and looked around. What a contrast! It was like entering the cool oasis of a luxurious hotel after staying in a derelict boarding house.
The man she had come to see had a swagger in his voice and the confidence of a man skilled at making the best of the opportunities that life threw his way, but despite his air of smugness, there was something likeable about him. Perhaps it was his courteous manner, or the bemused smile playing on his sensual lips when he looked at her. He had receding hair and a neatly trimmed moustache which he smoothed from time to time, but although she thought he was old enough to be her father, the way he looked at her was certainly not fatherly.
The Honourable Lt-Colonel Ogden Hershaw eyed this buxom young woman with the animated face as she told him about her lost suitcase in excellent English, so charmingly arranged in German syntax. Everything about her was effervescent: even her curly hair bounced around her face as she spoke.
‘Your cases must have been left behind on the wharf. I’ll ask the radio operator to wire Marseilles and make sure they send them out on the next ship,’ he told her, and from the twinkling eyes and the irrepressible half-smile playing around his mouth, it was obvious that he was trying not to laugh. In spite of her distress at the prospect of having to make do for five weeks without a change of clothes, Dorothea soon found herself laughing with him.
He wasn’t surprised to hear that her suitcase hadn’t been loaded on the ship because he already knew of other luggage that had been left behind. He had already noted the inefficient way the crew had processed the passengers for boarding, and the air of lethargy that pervaded the ship from bow to stern. The crew were clearly a bunch of inexperienced riff-raff who stood around bickering when there was so much to be done. Of course the fact that the ship was owned by a Greek explained everything. Everyone knew that Greek ships lacked hygiene, discipline and efficiency, and no self-respecting English or Canadian sailor would ever work on one if he could help it.
The Honourable Lt-Colonel Ogden Hershaw, who was born in Norway forty-three years earlier, had become a Canadian citizen. During the war he served as a transport officer with the Royal Canadian Army and later became an administrative officer with the Royal Norwegian Air Force. His grandiose title did not originate from any act of military distinction but had been bestowed on him shortly before the voyage. After the war he had worked in public relations and advertising, and while assistant director for the Ontario Department of Travel and Publicity, he had done a favour for a politician who had given him the title in gratitude. In July 1948, seeking a change of occupation and environment, Ogden Hershaw, who was married at the time, had applied to the International Refugee Organisation in Geneva. They appointed him to escort 219 displaced persons travelling under the auspices of the IRO to Australia, at the handsome salary of US$2700.
Ogden Hershaw had no patience with anyone who questioned his actions, so when he boarded the Derna and met his charges, he was pleased to find that most of them were Estonians and Latvians: calm, quietly spoken people who appreciated whatever he did for them. The Balts were a jolly good bunch, not demanding like some of the highly-strung Semitic types he’d already noticed on board, who were always questioning everything and making a nuisance of themselves.
As he surveyed the comely young woman in front of him, his eyes fell on the Triumph typewriter in her hand. ‘I brought it in case I end up working as a secretary in Sydney,’ Dorothea explained. ‘I had the pound key put in before I left so I can use it in Australia.’
He paused, obviously considering something. Although he had declared in his application that his German was adequate for the job, he knew that in fact he had overstated his proficiency. ‘I’ll need someone to type up reports, distribute soap and cigarettes, and make announcements in German, that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘You can type and speak German, so you have all the qualifications. Come and be my secretary during the voyage.’
Dorothea beamed. What a marvellous opportunity! She couldn’t believe her luck, to be asked to assist this important man. Her disappointment over her lost clothes momentarily forgotten, she ran down to tell Gilda about the new job. On her way to the cabin she passed several passengers staring pensively at the receding coastline as the waves slapped gently against the side of the ship. Although it was morning, the sun already blazed down on the decks which burned bare feet and offered no shade. Most of the passengers had escaped the cramped, stuffy cabins and were searching for shade on the deck. She almost tripped over two young girls sitting on a bulkhead near the bow of the ship, obviously exchanging confidences, their fair hair falling forward and intermingling as they talked, engrossed in each other’s secrets.
The younger, prettier one was Helle Nittim. She was wearing socks with flat-heeled shoes and the only cotton dress she owned, and looked up enviously at the chic long skirt and pretty shoes of the woman walking past. Pushing her long blonde hair back from her face, she wished she had high heels and dresses with long skirts, instead of the short skirts that made her feel like a hick from a country town. How she had sighed in front of the shop windows in Marseilles, longing for high-heeled shoes or new sandals, but she knew that her parents couldn’t afford them. Looking down with distaste at her feet, she sighed. ‘How am I going to get through five weeks on this boring ship, with nothing to do except think about Ilmar and write in my diary?’ she complained to her friend Rita Lindemanis.
It was Rita’s sympathetic smile that had first attracted Helle when they had met in the Bucholtz transit camp in Germany. She had also noticed Rita’s brother Jack, tall and blond as a hero from Baltic legends, but not at all conceited. Helle looked away whenever he glanced at her so that she wouldn’t give herself away. Although Rita and Jack were Latvian, not Estonian like her, all three were able to communicate in German. That was a relief, because many of the young pe
ople on this ship spoke languages she couldn’t understand. Helle was flattered that this warm-hearted twenty-one-year-old woman was interested in her, and was soon confiding about her romance with Ilmar at the displaced persons camp, and how heartbroken she had been when they parted.
Forgetting everything and everyone around them, the two girls became so engrossed in exchanging confidences and sharing dreams, they didn’t notice that the sun had burned their pale arms and faces. Tears mingled with laughter as they talked about their doomed romances. Like Helle, Rita had been separated from her sweetheart too, and wondered if she’d ever see him again. ‘Eric and I were promised to each other from the day I was born,’ she said in her dreamy way. ‘His father had the neighbouring farm, and as soon as he saw me he said, “This girl will be my daughter-in-law.”’
Helle was intrigued. ‘But what if you hadn’t liked each other?’ she asked.
‘But we did. We fell in love,’ Rita said softly. ‘Eric and I used to swim out to a big rock in the river near our homes, and we spent hours there, planning our future, and imagining how happy we would be when we got married.’ She looked away and the radiant smile vanished, as though a light had been switched off. ‘But that was before the war.’
In 1941 Rita’s world had been smashed into pieces that never fitted together again. She was fourteen when the Communists trampled over Latvia and the men started to disappear. She couldn’t understand why they had taken her father away when he hadn’t committed any crime. He was a landowner with forests of oak and pine, fields of wheat, and cows that grazed on pastureland beside the River Memel which she often saw in her dreams. After her father was taken away, Rita became so depressed that she couldn’t eat, sleep or concentrate on her books, and she missed a year of school.
Three years later, when the Germans were retreating and the dreaded Russians returned, they still didn’t know whether her father was alive or dead. Terrified of the Russians, her mother said that they had to flee or they’d be arrested as well. Rita cried as she helped her unhasp the barns and stables and let all the cows, pigs and horses go free on the day they left their beautiful farm forever to become refugees in Germany.
Rita brushed away a strand of fine hair that the sea breeze had loosened, and pulled a face as she licked the salt on her lips. ‘Can you tell that I used to limp?’ she suddenly asked Helle, who shook her head in astonishment. ‘It happened in Hamburg during an air raid. I ran into a building as soon as I heard the sirens, but the next thing I knew I was lying in a hospital bed and couldn’t move my legs,’ she said. ‘They told me that the building had collapsed on top of me and that I’d never walk again. But you know what? I never really believed them!’
During the long year she spent in hospital, she gritted her teeth, dragged herself around in a grotesque, twitching parody of walking, strained until her tendons bulged and the sweat poured down her face, until she managed to hoist herself up. She clutched walls, chairs and tables, forcing herself to shuffle step by step until she finally proved them wrong. ‘Look at me now!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m going to the dance tonight. Are you?’ Helle nodded. She was about to say something but stopped herself in time, too proud to ask whether Rita’s brother would be coming. As if she’d read her friend’s thoughts, Rita leaned over and whispered, ‘Jack is in love with you!’
The dance was held at the back of the ship near the bar, where the prices were beyond the reach of most passengers. Young Alice, one of Dr Frant’s group, watched the handsome young French barman mixing cassis with soda water and coveted the fizzy pink drink. Dorothea, wishing that she could wear one of her pretty dresses instead of the boring print dress, arrived with Gilda, who had pinned her light brown hair into two soft wings on either side of her face.
Hoping to have an opportunity to sing, Gilda looked around for the band. Although her real name was Gisa, she had adopted the more romantic Gilda, which seemed better suited to her operatic persona. She had studied music at the Rome Conservatorium but after Mussolini’s Fascists came to power, it became impossible for a woman who was part Jewish to continue her singing career either there or in Germany, so her dream of becoming an opera singer had been destroyed. Several years later, her chance of personal happiness was also shattered when her fiancé, a singer with the Berlin Opera, was killed in one of the last battles of the war.
In the soft Mediterranean night, the tensions of the day began to recede. The sky was studded with millions of stars, bigger and brighter than any they had ever seen, and so close that you could almost reach up and pluck them. Glasses clinked and bursts of self-conscious laughter swept over the deck. Occasionally bigger waves rocked the ship and pushed the girls off balance until they tottered and collided with the boys standing nearby, provoking giggles and instant introductions.
Young men stood around in awkward groups, looking speculatively at the girls who pretended not to notice them. The svelte, pretty ones like that blonde with the shoulder-length hair and tiny waist looked snooty, while the ones who returned their gaze were either too young or too dumpy. Emil Kopel noticed a striking girl with an enchanting smile and hair the colour of a cornfield in July braided on top of her head like a coronet. Beside her stood a girl with a similar hairstyle, probably her sister. In eager whispers, he and his friends conferred whether to take the risk and ask them to dance. They didn’t look Jewish and he wondered whether he would be rebuffed.
From her side of the deck, Helle watched some of the Jewish boys. The good-looking one strumming a guitar gave her a mischievous grin, and she thought she’d like to get to know him. Then her heart started to thump because Rita and her brother were coming towards her. She told herself not to look too keen if he asked her to dance.
The Derna had a small selection of thick black records with red HMV labels depicting a white dog looking into the horn of a phonograph. One of the officers hand-cranked the gramophone to play the same few languorous tangoes and rhumbas over and over again: ‘Besame Mucho’, ‘Amor, Amor’, ‘Jealousy’ and ‘La Cumpasita’. Some of the married couples started to dance, holding each other closer as they moved in time to the sexy beat, inflamed by the rhythm and the touch of their bodies, and knowing that after the dance was over they would have to return to their segregated cabins. Some of them, like Bronia and Heniek Glassman, hadn’t been married very long, while Krysia and Heniek Lipschutz were experiencing an unexpectedly celibate honeymoon. Occasionally the men whispered in their wives’ ears, the women blushed and shook their heads, laughed coquettishly, and shortly afterwards the couples went off arm in arm to look for a secluded section of the deck.
The officers were there too, snappy in their crisp uniforms and braided caps. The most popular ones were George Parthenopoulos, the purser, Kosmos Papalas, the third officer who was the captain’s son, plump and good-natured, and George Alexiou, the radio officer. But all the women’s eyes were on the first officer, John Papalas, who had the same surname as the captain. Tall, slim, charming and very handsome in the white jacket which set off his Mediterranean appearance, John sparked off fantasies in most of the single women, and in some of the married ones as well. Dorothea, who had been invited to join the officers’ group, was thrilled when he asked her to dance, and closed her eyes as they swayed to the seductive rhythm of the music.
As soon as there was a lull in the dancing, Gilda stepped forward. As she began singing Mimi’s plaintive aria from La Bohème in her clear soprano voice, everyone fell silent. Nostalgia descended upon the listeners, soft and palpable as the evening mist that rose from the dark sea. Nothing evokes past pain and pleasure as powerfully as music, and each note was a key to moments of ecstasy and loss. Puccini’s wistful melody transported them to the best moments of their lives, the long-gone days of velvet theatre seats and gilded opera boxes, and for one bitter-sweet moment they tasted once again the pleasures of the culture and sophistication they had left behind.
When her song ended, there was a moment’s silence before the spell was broken. Like t
he others, Dorothea clapped loudly, impressed by the beauty of her friend’s voice and the mood she had created. She was still applauding when she looked up to see Colonel Ogden Hershaw standing by her side, smoothing his moustache. She thought he had come to give her instructions about her secretarial duties when he said in his suave voice, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. Here I am in a cabin with four bunks all to myself and there you are, squashed in with all that lot. Why don’t you move in with me?’
For a moment her heart stopped beating and she was sure he could hear the tumult in her mind. Just thinking about her sardine can of a cabin was enough to make her jump at his offer, but how could she move in with a strange man? It wasn’t that she suspected his motives, but it just wasn’t done. What would people say? Reading her hesitation, he gave her a disarming smile. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m hardly ever in the cabin, and I come in very late at night, so you’ll have it virtually to yourself. No one will disturb you and you can come and go as you please.’
Dorothea flushed with excitement. Why not? There was no one on the ship whose opinion she needed to worry about and she knew she could look after herself. She had managed to get away from the Russian brutes who had tried to rape her in Berlin, so she would certainly be able to handle this elderly fellow if he ever tried anything. She smiled, already imagining the amazement on Gilda’s face when she told her she was moving out of their cabin. This voyage was going to be a real adventure after all.
The Voyage of Their Life Page 3