Recalling Kommissar Göring’s stories, I smile at the naiveté and wonder how brave these brash boys will be when they’re facing Herero warriors with guns. It’s one thing to shoot, from a distance, people armed only with clubs, but I would think it’s a whole lot different when they’re shooting back. It’s a sobering thought, as I may have to operate on some of these boys. If the rebellion hasn’t been put down by time we arrive, I may have far more than a few contusions and malaria to deal with.
My thoughts drift off in scattered directions as bits of overheard conversations lead them one way and then another. There are promises to write every day. Admonitions to keep well. A mother praying for her son. A sweetheart vowing to wait for a sailor’s return. A child clamoring for souvenirs. “I’ll bring you something,” a sailor promises his young brother. “Perhaps a horn or some ornament worn by one of those savages. And what would you like, Father?”
“How about one of their skulls?” the father responds.
I cringe, glad that I’ve finished eating and can leave the restaurant.
It’s dark by time I reach the barracks. Ignoring the music and laughter spilling from the enlisted men’s quarters, I head to the solitude of my room. I sit down on the bed, feeling sorry for myself. Just then, a young clerk enters my open door. “You have a telegram, sir,” he says, clicking his heels together. He hands me the message, waiting for me to read it.
“Mazel tov. Son born. All well. Papa,” I read quietly to myself.
“Would you like to send a reply, sir?” the clerk asks.
It takes a minute for the abbreviated message to make sense. When it does, I smile – a big, goofy smile that I’m sure makes me look like an idiot. “I have a son,” I say simply.
“Congratulations, sir. Is there a response?”
I quickly jot a brief message – “Give my love to Hanna. Kiss my son for me. Here’s to our future. Yaakov” – and hand it to the clerk along with a few marks.
After he leaves, I close the door and look at the telegram again, letting the words sink in.
I have a son! I’m a father! All the loneliness and self-pity of the past few hours vanish in the shadow of this miracle. Hanna and I have had many discussions about our children, about this baby. But none of those talks prepared me for the emotions that sweep over me at the thought of my son. Is this how Papa felt when I was born? I feel guilty, knowing how little I understood or respected that love – until this moment.
I pour myself a small glass of wine and make a solitary toast to my son. “L’chaim, my son. May you be a king among men.”
I picture Hanna lying in my boyhood bed, cradling our son. I can see the love and pride shining from her eyes. I wish so badly I could be there, enjoying this moment with her, holding our son, laughing as Papa fusses over his first grandchild. Instead, I have to settle for being grateful from afar.
If I were home, I’d go to the synagogue with Papa to say the Birkat HaGomel on Hanna’s behalf, offering thanks for her deliverance from the dangers of childbirth. But I don’t even have time to go to the synagogue here. God will understand. I place my yarmulke on my head and wrap my tallis about my shoulders. I look toward heaven. “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Haolom, hagomel lechayavim tovos shegemalani tov.”
Shivering in the wintry cold, I gather with the battalion at midnight. Accompanied by a brass band, we march through Kiel on our way to the train station. All the families crowd around us, cheering and yelling, offering to carry our bags and weapons. Along the way, we’re greeted by citizens pouring out of their houses to wave at us or toss flowers. I look around, bemused by the hundreds of people flanking us. What would it be like if they thought we were going to a real war?
By time we reach the station, the city square is swarming with people. An old man who has worn the Iron Cross for three decades speaks a few words about bravery and duty to the Fatherland. Caught up in the fervor of patriotism, we all cheer. “We will fight honorably,” Major von Glasenapp promises the crowd. “And if it must be, we will die for the honor of Germany.” The cheers go up again – raucous, solemn, naïve.
The crowd lingers, still calling out, as we file onto the train. The last thing I see as we pull out of the station is a sea of German faces and waving hands.
UNDER WAY
I try to sleep, but all I can manage is fitful dozing broken by the occasional jerking of the train and scattered conversation among the marines. Half-formed dreams of the baby and Hanna vie with wide-awake thoughts of what the day will bring. I make mental notes of the supplies I must check. And I think a letter to Hanna. And one to Papa.
Several hours later, and very much in need of sleep, I arrive in Wilhelmshaven. Too tired to go into town with the others, I head toward the port to make sure all the medical supplies are properly loaded on our ship. Accustomed to the naval base at Kiel, I’m surprised at the activity and immensity of the base here. Tucked against the Jade Bay and protected by a series of locks and fortifications, Wilhelmshaven is literally the womb of Kaiser Wilhelm’s new naval fleet. On my way to the floating docks, I walk past the massive Kaiserliche Marine Werft. The blocks-long brick buildings make up one of three shipyards charged with building thirty-eight new battleships over the next fifteen years.
When the Kaiser announced his shipbuilding plan a few years ago, all of Germany praised his vision, but many were skeptical about the ambitious time frame. I had my doubts, but not now. Seeing the workers bustling about, hearing the clanging and banging of steel parts being shaped and fitted together, I’m convinced the fleet will be built on time. At last the Fatherland will have a navy superior to that of the English! Germany will rule the seas! With that heart-felt burst of patriotism, I walk a little taller as I head toward the docks and the SMS Darmstadt, the battleship that will be my home for the next few weeks.
The port is so big and so crowded with ships that I have to ask for directions. A young dockhand points me toward a big steamer with twin stacks flanked by towering masts. I whistle beneath my breath; it’s the biggest ship I’ve ever seen.
As I get closer, I take in its intricate details – the ornate scrollwork on the elegantly pointed bow, the giant guns jutting out from a turret. I’m dwarfed by its shadow as I walk along the quay.
I show my papers to a guard, who studies them carefully before waving me on board. With a sense of eager anticipation, I walk up the long narrow flight of steps onto the ship. I’m met by a sailor, who leads me down the main passageway to the infirmary. After checking the inventory of medical supplies against the manifest, I sign off on it and head to the medical staff quarters next door.
I stow my gear in the compartment beneath the mattress of my bunk and settle down for some alone time. Alone. That’s a pretty common state for me. Even when I’m surrounded by marines, I’m alone. Papa and Epenstein were right – wearing this uniform may make me feel more German but it hasn’t changed how Germans see me. At least, not yet.
At the thought of Papa, I pull the telegram from my breast pocket and carefully unfold it. As I read the message again, I chuckle over Papa’s frugality. I can picture him at the telegraph office, counting the words and crossing out any he deemed unnecessary.
Again and again, I read the telegram. Holding the paper and reading the words “Son born” make my firstborn real. It’s proof that I’m a father. I close my eyes, trying to picture him, to hear his baby cries and gurgles. Does he have Hanna’s heavily fringed hazel eyes? Or my black ones? Blonde hair or dark hair? Or any hair?
I’m missing out on so much – my son’s introduction to the world, Hanna’s first days as a mother, and Papa finally becoming a grandfather. For him, this child is the promise that his family will go on, that he and Mama and all of our ancestors will not be forgotten. Although he had difficulty being a father, I know he will be a great grandpa.
I pull out my writing paper and pen. “My beloved Hanna,” I write. “Thank you – for our son, for your love, and for your faith in me. Although I c
annot physically be with you, I am there, always, in spirit. I miss you so much. I am impatient to begin this journey so I can return all the more quickly to you. When I return, I promise to never leave your side again, my love.”
Writing to Papa is a bit harder. I have so much I want to say to him, but I don’t want to sound like a sentimental old woman. There are things I must write because I fear he won’t live to hear them from my lips. “Dear Papa,” I pause, twirling the pen in my fingers, leaving an ink smudge on the paper. Then the words spill out: “From one father to another, thank you. Thank you for the lessons you taught me, for the opportunities you gave me, and for the care you are now giving to Hanna and the baby. We have had our differences over the years, but I never doubted your love for me, and I have always loved you. I know it was difficult for you when Mama died. It can’t be easy raising a child by yourself when the love of your life is gone. I pray I will never have to face such sorrow. If I’m a good father, it is because of the example you have set.”
Hearing voices in the passageway, I glance at my pocket watch. It’s almost boarding time. If we don’t make it out of the port by noon, we’ll have to wait until the next high tide washes in at midnight. I quickly finish my letters and find a clerk who will post them for me. Despite the bitter cold winds blowing from the sea, I stand on the deck overlooking the quay teeming with sailors and crowds of well-wishers. The marines line up, two abreast, and attempt to march up the steps onto the boat. From my perch above them, they look like little boys playing soldier. God help us all, I pray silently.
The engines throb to life, and we stand at the rail, watching the slip of water between the ship and the quay grow larger as we creep toward the locks. Even though I have no one to see me off, I join the others in waving and shouting until the well-wishers on the dock become specks on the horizon. Then I turn toward the locks, curious about how they work. I wish Christof were here. He’d be able to explain it all.
Christof…. I haven’t seen him since I left Hamburg. I might even enjoy this trip if he were traveling with me; it would be so much easier to have a friend on board. But he’s with the army. The marines, with the help of the soldiers already in the colony, are expected to put down the uprising on their own. So even though Christof is never one to miss an adventure, it looks like he’ll have to sit this one out. Oh, the stories I’ll have to tell him when I return!
I pull my coat collar up over my ears. The wind, wet with the icy sea, bites at my face as we leave the relative shelter of the port. Although it’s midday, the sky is the iron gray of twilight, mirroring the winter grayness of the bay. I shiver and decide it’s time to head down to the relative warmth of my berth.
The other surgeons and I quietly arrange our possessions in the tiny cabin that we’re to share. I can hear the laughter coming from the large quarters down below where all the marines are housed. While I appreciate the dignity of the medical staff, right now I could use some of the camaraderie of military life.
I join the other surgeons and some of the officers for dinner, but other than a bit of small talk, I have little to contribute to the conversation. I’m content to sit back and listen as the grizzled old hands share their war stories. A few were in China during the Boxer Rebellion and another had helped General von Trotha quell native uprisings in German East Africa. They try to outdo each other with their tales of brutality and bravery. A captain, one who had been with the general, gets particularly gruesome as he laughs about the public hanging of Abushiri, who had led a revolt against the German colonial authorities in an effort to reclaim the East African colony. In the commander’s reckoning, Abushiri, an Arab half-breed, was hardly human – not only because of his race, but because he dared to oppose the Fatherland.
I don’t join the laughter. I discreetly look around the table. Apparently, I’m the only one who’s troubled by this callous dismissal of a fellow human being. As soon as I can politely do so, I excuse myself and head back to my berth.
But I’m too disturbed to sleep. I bundle into my heavy woolen coat, cap, and gloves and head for the fresh air of the deck. Although the sea is relatively calm, I remember Epenstein’s words of caution and hold tightly to the railing as I come out on the deck. I fumble in the darkness with only the faint yellowish glow of the ship lights reflecting off the water to guide me. Hearing voices, I strain to make out where the men are so I can avoid them. I’ve had enough company tonight. I need to be alone with my thoughts.
As my eyes adjust, I realize it’s not as dark as I had thought. The daytime clouds have cleared, giving way to a night sky dazzling with bright points of starlight. And the horizon is dotted with specks of motionless light – perhaps from lighthouses or a few ships. I stand at the rail, watching as those distant lights grow fainter and fainter. The steady hum of the ship’s engines and the lapping of the dark waves lull me into a melancholy that overwhelms me when, for the first time, I fully sense the distance separating me from my family. And I know that distance will only grow in the weeks ahead.
Roll call comes too early the next day. Bundling into my warm coat, I join all the marines and officers on deck for what is to become our morning ritual. Winter dawn on the North Sea is, at best, a murky twilight. Today, it’s hard to determine where the endless gray sky gives way to the endless gray ocean. It’s only our first day on the open sea and already I’m dreading the monotony that’s to come.
The men, however, are in high spirits as they drink in the novelty of being at sea. Their laughter grows louder as our tropical khaki uniforms, complete with cork helmets, are handed out. The marines make quite a show of putting on their great pot-shaped helmets before we all head to our quarters to try on the rest of the uniform and fasten on the buttons and appropriate insignia. My insignia, that of the surgeon, is a serpent wrapped around a pole – the healing stave of Moses. What irony, I think, as I affix it above the top stripe of the sleeve. The military, with its deep anti-Semitism, embracing a symbol that’s so Judaic.
The buttons attached, I carefully fold my new uniform, fingering the thin linen fabric. It’s hard to believe there’s any place on earth right now where I could wear this uniform and not freeze to death. It serves as yet another reminder that I’m heading off to a strange new world where nothing will resemble home.
Late in the afternoon, I force myself to join some of the others at the bow. If I’m going to be on a ship with these men for several weeks, I might as well try to get to know them. Unlike at the base, officers and marines mingle more freely, discussing everything from hometown reminiscences to astronomy and maritime history. A few of the young volunteers pepper me with questions about scurvy, sea sickness, and other common ailments of the sea. The conversation quickly turns to advances being made in medicine, and I’m pleasantly surprised that they’re not all the country rubes I had supposed them to be. Scattered among the tradesmen and farmers are teachers and even a few lawyers. Perhaps this voyage won’t be as bad as I had thought.
My hours of leisure end the next day as we approach the English Channel. A lieutenant fetches me to look after one of the marines who’s sick in his bunk. After tending to the young man, I join the lieutenant on deck as we pass by the steep chalk cliffs of the English coast. We lean against the starboard rail, watching the tiny fishing boats, with their gray and black sails, rocking on the waves.
“Have you met any Englanders?” I ask the lieutenant, who has been to sea several times.
He nods.
“What are they really like?” Most of us in Germany consider the English our rivals – inferior ones, whose day of greatness is being eclipsed by our ingenuity and know-how.
The lieutenant raises his voice so I can hear him over the wind and the waves. “I’ve come across English sailors in every port I’ve visited. And like most seamen, I’d have to say I admire them. They’re decent, respectable people. Despite what you hear back home, England is truly the first nation of the earth.”
“How so?”
“As
a people, they’re distinguished, wise, brave, united, and wealthy. Then you take us Germans. Yes, we’re brave. We’ve always been a brave people. And we’re slowly acquiring the riches England enjoys. But whether we can distinguish ourselves or acquire wisdom and unity remains to be seen.” He blows on his hands and rubs them together to get them warm.
“Germany hasn’t been united very long. Many of us still think of ourselves as Bavarians or Prussians rather than Germans,” he continues. “And we’re experiencing a lot of growing pains as we try to figure out who we want to be as a nation. Having a big naval fleet and fancy uniforms are just trappings. What’s more important is having the wisdom to use those trappings wisely and build a culture embraced by all Germans. Then and only then will we be a distinguished people.”
I think about the lieutenant’s words as I go back to the infirmary. Is there room in his vision for Jews? Is that what he meant by unity? Or does he see unity coming only as a result of ridding the country of “outsiders”? I wish I could ask him such questions.
Right now, I have other things to deal with. Although our ship isn’t rolling like the fishing boats in the channel, I’m beginning to feel a bit queasy. When I reach the infirmary, I see I’m not alone. I force myself to straighten up and tend to the young men experiencing their first bout of seasickness.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I tell myself as the last man leaves the infirmary.
But then the next bout hits as we pass out of the Channel and sail down the coast of Spain. I’m standing by my cot when suddenly the floor pushes up diagonally under my feet. I grab onto the bunk, struggling to keep my footing as supplies crash around me. From down below, I can hear the sailors shouting. The ship creaks loudly as the bulkheads shift. The other side of the ship thrusts up, tossing me against the door. I panic, convinced the ship is breaking apart. But then I remember Epenstein’s stories and force myself to calm down. “We’ve hit rough seas. This is what it feels like. Stay in control,” I tell myself.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 15
