Somewhere in the Mediterranean

by Mark Tiro

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

  Into the Night: Book One

  Mark Tiro

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

  INTO THE NIGHT: Book One

  By Mark Tiro

  First Edition

  Published by Second Dharma Books

  Copyright © 2019 Mark Tiro.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-948037-08-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express, written permission of the author or the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  I. SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  I

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN

  For Dan Diamant

  1

  One

  “From Somewhere in the Mediterranean, we’re bringing you peace, love and good music, twenty-four hours a day. With our broadcast home at 1540 kilohertz, now we’re also on FM stereo. That’s right, you can now listen to the station that was never supposed to be here at 100 on your FM dial…”

  I climbed out of the water and clambered up the sand to the white plastic beach table to grab my towel to dry off. The waves lapped at my feet as I went, and I reminded myself next time I came for my end-of-week swim that I need to push the table further back from the shore.

  While I was drying off, I reached over and turned up the volume on the radio.

  “Peace, love, and good music—24 hours a day. And now, just like every week at this time—it’s Twilight Time…”

  And it was.

  The familiar song filled the air. I pulled my shirt over my head as I sat down on the white plastic beach chair. Then I gazed out over the water at the sun beginning to set. In the hazy light at the edge of the horizon, I could just make out the ship where the broadcast was coming from. It was Friday, not-quite-day and not-quite-evening… that time just between day and night. The beach was deserted, as far as I could tell, except for me and a few stray seagulls.

  The radio station billed itself as pirate radio, or at least, what passed for it here.

  Anchored off the beach, just in international waters—or as close as the government thought was safe for everyone involved—the Peace ship broadcast its namesake radio station, in defiant resistance to whatever broadcast regulations happened to be in place at the time. These changed based on whatever coalition had won the last election; no one on the ship or on the government had ever seemed overly-bothered by the details.

  From time to time, a coast guard boat would come over and make sure the old ship was still holding together, against the waves and the salt and the passage of time. Other times, the ship would come back to port—to load up on fuel, or supplies… and occasionally, to give the government a chance to conduct its near-ubiquitous security operations just off the coast. Those became more frequent after the one time when a small, unmarked dinghy had sailed right past the ship one night without anyone even noticing.

  Everyone in the small country knew the by-now famous details. Terrorists had been attempting to slip in from the sea under cover of darkness. They’d been planning to massacre tourists, and anyone else out for a stroll, on the boardwalk. The army had rushed to cordon off the whole area, and a catastrophe had just barely been averted.

  No one on the ship, and no one in the security establishment either, wanted to end up as the collateral damage of terrorists. The only real issue was broadcasting licensing rights, and even that didn’t get anyone except the lawyers excited. And so everyone played nice.

  Every hour on the hour, listeners heard those same familiar beeps that preceded the hourly news brief. It happened at the same time, on every radio station across the country.

  The ship’s station was no exception. And neither was this evening.

  At the end of the news briefing, the newsreader made the announcement that one of the city’s smaller beaches would be closed tonight, from sunset until sunrise tomorrow morning. “All residents should avoid the area,” the announcement went, “as security forces will be conducting exercises in the area.” All in all, nothing unusual.

  An out of the way beach being closed normally wouldn’t be a problem. This particular one was almost always deserted, this time of week, anyway. The place was next to a secluded area that was blocked off to give religious women a separate space of their own to swim in privacy. And this being Shabbat—there were no religious women around, in any event.

  No one else was around, either.

  Only me. I guess I should have realized that might be a problem. I happened to be standing on a particular stretch of beach that was about to be officially closed.

  I guess the real problem was that I was in no particular hurry to leave.

  With the summer sun setting on a long work week over a city which advertised itself, at least on tourist billboards, as “the city that never sleeps”—this was the city’s collective nap time. Which is, I figured, why I had the place to myself.

  The news finished, and the familiar music took over. From my white plastic beach chair, I looked out at the ship silhouetted on the horizon against the last sliver of light. Then I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

  That’s when it happened.

  The music on the radio started going in and out, as interference seemed to wash over the bandwidth in waves. I didn’t bother to open up my eyes, though. This kind of thing happened here, more often than it should. I just reached over, toggling the radio dial to try and get a better signal. My efforts didn’t seem to help, and the radio kept popping with static.

  Then it began to fade in and out with voices from other channels competing to bump off the music. A government classical music station wavered in and then, out. A BBC news broadcast floated by. Then it was gone, too. Some Arabic music replaced that, just for a second. Then it was gone as well, covered over by more BBC, and then finally, static.

  That’s when I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I opened my eyes to see what I could do to get the thing to play something that at least resembled music.

  What I saw was not what I had expected to see.

  Dark rumbling clouds swirled where, just a few minutes before, the sun had been. Some kind of storm had taken its place. It swirled, and it rumbled. The radio popped. Then the sky did too.

  And then it was done.

  The waters calmed, and the clouds receded. The music didn’t return, though. Now, the BBC Overseas Service was coming through loud and clear.

  I gave up on finding music, and switched the radio off.

  Darkness had moved in, but with the clouds beginning to clear, I could see the full moon peeking out, beginning to cast its light over the waters.

  That’s when I decided it was time for me to leave.

  I got up to leave, folding my towel. Looking out one more time towards the sea, I was able to see the ship as the moonlight reflected off it.

  Even with that extra luminescence, I don’t think I would’ve been able to see it, now that it was getting dark—except that the ship, it was… getting bigger.

  No. Not bigger.

  Closer.

  The ship was headed back towards land now, towards the shore.

  I was starti
ng to be able to make it out in more detail. I could see the outlines of her deck.

  Are those people on the deck? That many? No, there can’t be that many. And why are they… waving? Moving their arms, flailing all about—the thought occurred to me, maybe they were praying?

  No, that makes no sense.

  And then I realized—now I could make it out much more clearly than before—the ship was on a direct collision course, heading straight at me.

  2

  Two

  I strained to get a closer look at the ship. But even though it was closer now—it was darker now, too. Trying to see, I squinted into the darkness. Then I tried opening my eyes as wide as I could.

  That’s when I saw.

  Not the ship.

  The soldiers.

  Focused as I was on the ship, I hadn’t even noticed the soldiers who’d arrived—seemingly in complete silence… and completely out of nowhere.

  I heard their voices first. I jerked my head around to look. And what I saw—I couldn’t believe. Where just a few minutes before, I had been here alone, lost in my semi-dream, contemplating nothing more than how to get a decent song on the radio, now I found myself in the middle of what could only be preparation for a military operation.

  All around me, soldiers buzzed here and there, preparing this piece of equipment or that makeshift tent. Behind me, the beach had somehow been completely walled off from view, with fencing and fabric rising what looked like halfway up to the sky. There were commanders issuing orders. NCOs scurried around, taking notes on logistical clipboards. There were army medics—or maybe nurses or doctors—preparing a triage area for the wounded. Around the perimeter, there were soldiers taking up positions, standing watch for anyone who didn’t belong here.

  Beside the medical tent, I saw soldiers unpacking and quickly assembling rifles and ammunition out of a crate with the word “Sten” written into the side, underneath a bright red “top secret” stamp.

  As if that weren’t enough, I watched shocked as two navy submarines slowly surfaced, and headed out to flank the ship as it continued in towards the shore.

  A sort of provisional pier was coalescing, made up of pontoons that the soldiers were still stringing together. It stretched out to where I’m guessing the ship would have to anchor to avoid running aground in the shallows by the beach.

  That was when I decided I’d just stand here, over to the side and keep out of the way while the security forces did whatever it was they were going to do.

  And that’s exactly what I did. I stood there, to the side, just watching. The ship was quite close, and I could make them out quite clearly now.

  Some boys unfurled a long banner over the side of the ship. It looked like it’d been sown together out of bedsheets with writing on it. They stretched it out wide, and I heard a burst of cheers rise up from the passengers.

  It wasn’t long after that the ship made it up to the side of the pontoon bridge/makeshift pier. The ship dropped anchor, and a ramp hastily went down from the ship as a sort of impromptu-gangway.

  In their haste to lay down their gangway and leave the ship, the boys let go of the banner. It quickly fluttered off, then fell to the side and into the sea.

  Even with the lights the soldiers had hastily erected, I hadn’t been able to make out what the banner read. What I did see, though, was that as soon as that banner fell into the water, navy divers dove in after it straight away. Two of them gathered it up, then passed it off to more divers who dragged it over and helped to hoist it up to the deck of the small navy cutter that had silently slipped alongside the ship. I hadn’t noticed when the two submarines that had been there had both disappeared silently back under the waters from which they’d come.

  I turned back towards the ship. The passengers were already being helped down onto the pontoon bridge pier and into the light.

  I did a double take. What I was seeing… it couldn’t be happening.

  I staggered back, falling down until I finally just took a seat on the sand. I just sat there, watching in silence. I tried to keep my eyes buried in my hands, but I couldn’t help but keep them glued to everything unfolding before me.

  These people coming down from this ship weren’t disc jockeys or chefs or the crew of some pirate radio station, come to refuel and load up on fresh food.

  No. These people were, they were… refugees.

  And not just any refugees.

  These were Jews.

  I knew this ship. Maybe not this ship, but ones like it. I had seen pictures. In school, I had seen newsreel footage.

  They were fleeing the… fleeing from… death. This ship, probably—and who knows how many just like it—had wandered the seas, looking for a place to land. Loaded with men, women, children… ships just like this one had sailed from port to port, country to country looking for a safe harbor, a nation to take them in and give them shelter against the Nazi storm raging across Europe.

  These were the ones trying to escape the Holocaust.

  And this ship had made it… to here. Right now, it was anchored right in front of me, just off the shore. And this shore, this… land—it was the one destination they had yearned for above all else.

  One by one, the passengers came off of ship. From there, they walked down the floating pier. The babies and the old—the ones who couldn’t make it on their own—they were helped off. Others walked, step by step, with whatever possessions they could carry. Still others threw down what they had and burst out running with complete abandon towards the land, falling to their knees as they reached it. They kissed the ground when they did, wailing and crying. Their tears of thanks and joy filled the warm summer night air.

  These were the survivors. And more.

  These were the lucky ones. By making it onto that boat, these had avoided the fate of so many. These were the ones who had avoided the trains, the camps, the showers… the terror.

  These ones had escaped, and now—they had made it to the promised land.

  Fifty years late.

  3

  Three

  As soon as all the people were off the ship, and moving towards the medical area, a second group of soldiers sprang up and jumped into action. They started loading the Sten guns and ammunition onto the ship.

  And not just the weapons.

  Food too. And medical supplies. Box after box of medical supplies. I watched groups of soldiers, one after another, take box after box of supplies up to the ship without missing a step. They went about moving and loading the supplies with exacting precision, like it was a military operation.

  Which I suppose it was.

  For every box that went up full, packaging and other boxes came back empty.

  That’s weird, I thought. I mean, wouldn’t it be more efficient just to leave the food and supplies and all on the ship but still boxed up?

  While the supply operation continued ceaselessly, a fuel line was attached and started filling the ship’s on-board tanks. At the same time, I saw another group head up the gangway, straight towards the ship’s lifeboats. They descended on every part of the barely sea-worthy looking things, sawing, soldering, patching, sealing…. I think I saw someone jump on and swap out the old radio for a new one—and a whole host of other communications equipment, too. Despite the vintage look to this new equipment, I couldn’t even begin to guess at its function.

  The passengers who’d been processed, or maybe medically cleared, through the medical tent were now heading to a buffet of sorts that had been set up to feed them.

  I figured this would be a good time to take my leave. I got up, grabbed the radio and all my things, then wrapped them inside the towel. Then I turned to go.

  I didn’t get more than a couple steps before a middle-aged man came by. He looked like he’d been sitting behind a desk for the past twenty years, and had been called up to do his reserve duty with no time to get a uniform big enough to cover the weight he’d put on since his last reserve duty.

  “Hi there.
Welcome home,” he said, walking briskly towards me. Then he pointed at the plastic white beach chair where I’d been sitting, and said, “It’s not quite time yet, though. For now, why don’t you just take a seat here.”

  His words were firm, and yet he said them with a kind—even gentle—smile.

  And he said them in Yiddish.

  I, of course, answered him in Hebrew. And why shouldn’t I? Maybe I still spoke it with an accent, sure—but all the soldiers and commanders running around were speaking only Hebrew. Why on earth should I be any different? And so I answered his Yiddish back. In Hebrew.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked me. “We have food over there, if you’d like.”

  “I’m not hungry!” I snapped. I looked over at the ship and noticed that the decks were packed full of supplies of all sorts now.

  “And what’s going on? Why are you loading up that ship in such a hurry? And in the dark?”

  The man gave me another one of those kind looks, but told me again, this time more firmly still, to sit down. I did.

  And that’s when I realized.

  “You’re sending them back!” I burst out at him.

  He didn’t answer. Not right away, at least.

  “You’re sending those people back on that ship, aren’t you?”

  Slowly he nodded, finally acknowledging what was suddenly becoming painfully obvious.

  “Why are you sending them back?” I said, angry and frustrated now. My Hebrew wavered into Yiddish, and then back again, and then back one more time until I finally gave up and just kept going in my mother tongue.

  I was that angry.