The Voyage of Their Life

by Diane Armstrong

  But as she strolled along the deck with the first officer, she sometimes passed Colonel Hershaw deep in conversation with some of his Baltic friends and the comments she overheard made her bristle. Although she was not Jewish herself, she felt angry whenever she heard the derogatory remarks. It seemed to her that instead of trying to foster harmony among the people in his charge, as befitted the escort of a multi-racial group, Colonel Hershaw was actually stirring up racism and encouraging the formation of two enemy camps on board.

  A recent incident had increased her mistrust of him. In the report he had written and sent to IRO Headquarters from Colombo, which she had typed, he had described the overcrowded, unsanitary conditions on board the Derna. Before sending the report, he had shown it to Dr Frant, who concurred with his views. As soon as the IRO received his report, they passed it on to Stavros Livanos who sent a wire to the captain straightaway, inquiring about the source of the complaints. At the dinner table one evening, Dorothea was shocked when Captain Papalas told her that when he had asked Colonel Hershaw about the report, he had categorically denied writing it. He said that it had probably been written by one of the Jewish passengers.

  At about this time, one of the youngsters in Dr Frant’s group was transfixed by something he saw in the washroom. As the German in the next shower raised his arm to soap himself, he saw the tattoo in his armpit. The German army tattooed SS officers with their blood group so that if wounded in battle, they could be transfused without delay. Everyone knew that after the war many SS men had tried to excise this mark, claiming that the resulting scar had been caused by a shrapnel wound or an abscess, so that they would escape investigation and be accepted as migrants. Having been persecuted by the Nazis, who had tattooed their emblem of slavery on his left arm, he was outraged. Within half an hour, the ship was buzzing with the news that a German SS officer was sailing to Australia with them.

  Like most of the others in Dr Frant’s group, Bill Marr was shocked that after all they’d suffered at the hands of the Nazis they now had to share a vessel with them and their collaborators. The Jewish boys felt that from the moment the voyage had started, the escort officer had been stirring the Baltic group up against them. He was always watching them, accusing them of vandalising the upholstery and furniture, and complaining to Dr Frant about their noise, untidiness, loud singing and rudeness. It was time he was stopped.

  Restless for action, some of the orphans held a meeting on deck one night and plotted to get even with the hated colonel. ‘We should throw him overboard one dark night!’ one hothead suggested, but he was shouted down. Sensing that their frustration was rising, Dr Frant urged them to remain vigilant, but warned them against taking matters into their own hands. In an attempt to defuse their anger, he assured them that he would send a letter to the colonel’s employers in Geneva, informing them of his predatory and divisive conduct during the voyage. Dorothea, with whom Dr Frant discussed the letter, typed it out and added her own observations about Colonel Hershaw’s behaviour.

  Frustration and anger continued to build up in Sam Fiszman as well. Esther had remained in sick bay, and although my mother and Mrs Frant helped to take care of little Maria, he felt agitated the whole time. Worried about Esther’s emaciated state, he cornered the ship’s doctor and pleaded for something to stop the seasickness.

  Wiping his wife’s clammy forehead and stroking her arm, which was so skinny that the tattoo stood out, he said, ‘After all she’s gone through, she shouldn’t have to suffer like this.’

  With his impassive expression, the doctor said, ‘I’ve heard the passengers saying that some of you people had the numbers tattooed just to get a passage.’ Sam clenched his teeth and gripped the edge of the bed until his knuckles were white to stop himself from punching this despicable man.

  One night, in an attempt to pressure the captain to give him and Esther a cabin to themselves, Sam camped in the passageway outside the captain’s quarters and lay the baby on a blanket beside him. Perhaps if her crying kept him awake he would agree to give him a separate cabin. But the captain was not impressed by this tactic. It merely confirmed his initial impression that this young man was a troublemaker.

  ‘If you don’t pick up that baby and go back to your cabin, I’ll have you locked up,’ he growled.

  Sam delighted in irritating the passengers he perceived as Nazi sympathisers by hanging the blood-red Russian flag with its hammer and sickle near his bunk, above a group photo taken while he was in the Soviet army. On deck he often wore the army jacket with all the medals. Provoking glares and hostile mutterings helped to defuse his tension.

  He was having breakfast one morning when a Jewish passenger reached across the table for the marmalade. Without any warning, one of the others at the table, a thick-set man of about forty whom Sam believed to be Estonian, grabbed the dish and smeared the marmalade in the Jew’s face. Sam leapt to his feet, jumped up onto the table and lashed out at the attacker, but others pulled him away and stopped the fight.

  At dinner a few days later, while some of the Jews were speaking Yiddish, the same man said to one of his companions, ‘Pity we can’t feed them to the sharks.’

  Sam was boiling. Hitler had gone, the Holocaust was over, but the ancient hatred was still there. ‘You scum,’ he hissed. ‘You fascist scum. If you’ve got the guts to fight it out, I’ll teach you a lesson.’

  The man shrugged. ‘You talk big because you’re sitting on the other side of the table,’ he sneered. ‘I’d like to hear what song you’d sing if you ever met me man to man.’

  Sam’s eyes blazed. ‘Suits me,’ he spat back. ‘Whenever you’re ready, I’ll fight you.’

  The following day, one of his adversary’s cronies came looking for Sam. ‘He wants to meet you up on the top deck around midnight when it’s quiet and there’s no one around,’ he said.

  Sam nodded, teeth clenched. ‘I’ll be there.’ Later that day he told two young Greek sailors about the impending fight. They had a common bond because the sailors had fought with the partisans during the civil war that was still raging in Greece. When they heard about his midnight rendezvous, they offered to keep watch in case his opponent brought reinforcements.

  It was quiet on the upper deck that night. The only sound was the dull hum of the sea and the plashing of the waves against the hull, but in the past few hours, the sea had become rougher and the ship was rocking from side to side. A new moon with edges so sharp they might have been carved from marble cast a pallid light over the bulkhead and lifeboats when Sam arrived at the appointed place ahead of his opponent.

  He was pacing the deck when the man emerged from the shadows. Eyes locked, they walked towards each other and started throwing punches. Although Sam was shorter and less solid, he was younger and more nimble. He had learned hand-to-hand combat as a boy from an uncle who had been a jujitsu champion in Warsaw and had coached him. Later, while in the Russian army, he had consolidated his martial skills.

  But it was Sam’s fury that gave him the biggest advantage. When he looked at his adversary, he saw not one man but a whole battalion of Germans advancing towards him. Punching, darting, slapping and kicking, the combatants grappled to gain an advantage. As Sam later described the fight, after they had thrown a few punches, his opponent knocked him down. Sam lay on the deck on his back with his opponent poised to strike. He put all his strength into his legs and, taking his opponent by surprise, lashed out and kicked him off. At that moment, the ship lurched and the man toppled backwards. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell over the rail.

  Motioning for Sam to disappear, the sailors gave the alarm. Whether his opponent had fallen overboard or onto the deck below, Sam couldn’t tell, but he never saw him again.

  On 12 October, the day that the Derna had been scheduled to dock in Melbourne, we were still wallowing in the Indian Ocean. As soon as the first star appeared in the evening sky, it ushered in Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the most solemn day of the Jewish year. At this time, Jews
are encouraged to take stock of their lives, accept responsibility for sins committed against God and man, and ask forgiveness of those they have wronged. Given their recent sufferings, the worshippers demonstrated admirable forgiveness towards the Creator who had allowed their families to perish on account of their faith.

  On the Day of Atonement, observant Jews all over the world fast for twenty-four hours, to focus the mind on prayer and reflection. The fast usually concludes with a festive meal. Although the Jews knew that the traditional food was not available on board, the prospect of breaking the fast with the usual spaghetti and tomato sauce was dispiriting. A small delegation asked Colonel Hershaw, in his capacity as liaison officer between the passengers and the captain, to request that a more satisfying meal be prepared for them when Yom Kippur ended.

  Colonel Hershaw surveyed the group in front of him with obvious distaste. These self-styled God-fearing Jews always complicated life with their unreasonable demands. Bristling with sarcasm, he said, ‘I’m sure you’re aware that the ship’s menu is somewhat limited and that the chef can’t procure special dainties in the middle of the ocean. But of course you’ll be given every consideration.’ With that he ushered them out, irritated to hear them muttering something about intolerance.

  The next day, once again prayers were held in the stern, but by the time the first evening star brought the fast to an end, those who had abstained from food and drink for the past twenty-four hours could hardly wait for dinner. When the waiters started bringing around the usual spaghetti and tomato sauce, there was an uproar.

  Some banged down their cutlery, others pushed their chairs noisily away from the table and left the food untouched. Later that evening a group protested to Colonel Hershaw about the lack of consideration they had been given. ‘We politely requested a different meal after our religious fast but were ignored. Look at the inedible meal they served us! It’s an insult! It’s discrimination!’

  Appalled at what he perceived as undisciplined, unruly behaviour, Colonel Hershaw decided to let them have it. He had played the role of the Good Samaritan long enough. ‘The food on the ship is nourishing and substantial, but there are 545 passengers on board and we are not in a position to prepare special treats for special groups. You people just have to fit in and make do with whatever is available,’ he told them. He noticed that the most outspoken members of the group were former IRO employees who had made a nuisance of themselves from the beginning of the voyage, wheedling favours and showering him and the officers with unsolicited and unwelcome advice.

  The colonel decided to include his observations about these aggressive types in his report on the voyage, because from their expressions as they left his cabin, he could see that he hadn’t heard the last of it.

  18

  While we were drifting towards Fremantle, the Derna was the subject of urgent memos being circulated within Australia’s Department of Immigration. The letter from the information officer in Cairo about the ‘headache ship’ with its overcrowded conditions and excessive number of Jews aroused great concern in Canberra. If his report was true, it meant that the quota they had imposed was being flouted. To compound the problem, they knew that once the press got hold of this information, it would exacerbate public antagonism towards the immigration program. In order to find out the truth, a departmental memo asked the IRO for particulars about the nationality of the passengers, especially the number of Jews aboard, to be supplied urgently and added, ‘Minister anxious that no undue publicity be given in the press re overcrowding.’

  Several days later, a reply arrived from IRO Headquarters in Geneva, stating that out of 219 passengers travelling under its auspices, 61 were ‘of Jewish extraction, thus approximating to the agreed figure of 25 percent’. The IRO telegram concluded with words that set alarm bells ringing in the offices of the Department of Immigration: ‘We must disclaim any responsibility for composition of groups placed aboard by other agencies.’

  As Canberra well knew, only two agencies were responsible for transporting most of the passengers, so the ‘other agencies’ referred to could only be JOINT. Noting the disturbing implication, the Department of Immigration official in Canberra scrawled at the bottom of the IRO telegram: ‘The agents for the Derna were advised that the Jewish quota of passengers must not exceed 25 percent of the total passengers on the vessel. It would appear from this telegram that the vessel may have more than 25 percent Jewish passengers and that IRO is aware of this.’

  The following day, after a hurried consultation with Mr Calwell, Mr J Horgan of the Department of Immigration wrote a memo in his exemplary copperplate handwriting. ‘We received advice that the Jewish quota had been exceeded but the Minister did not desire any Jews on board to be restricted.

  ‘Those disembarking at Fremantle will be allowed to land. It was also mentioned that we had received a report that the ship might prove a “headache” case, as it was definitely overcrowded. The press might play this up and we would like an early report as to conditions on ship generally.’ It was arranged that a Commonwealth migration officer would board the Derna as soon as it arrived in Fremantle to investigate the situation.

  But although our scheduled arrival date had come and gone, Fremantle was nowhere in sight as we continued to drift in the Indian Ocean.

  ‘If we got into one of those lifeboats and started rowing, we’d get to Fremantle before the ship!’ David Weiss joked.

  ‘With our luck, there’d be a hole in the boat and we’d sink!’ André Wayne retorted.

  The others shrugged. ‘We’ll probably sink anyway, the way we’re going.’

  In the meantime, everyone peered at the horizon in the hope of seeing another ship.

  To while away the endless hours, Gilda Brouen sometimes sang operatic arias on deck to the delight of the Italian stewards who loved music and sometimes joined in. With her musical training, Gilda felt that singing against the wind would strengthen her voice and help her get work when she auditioned in Melbourne. She longed to sing in opera, but was willing to accept any singing role she was offered to resume the career that the Nazis had cut short.

  Whenever Dorothea walked past, they exchanged a few words, but although the two young women had travelled together from Berlin to Marseilles, they had drifted apart soon after the voyage began. Already in Marseilles Gilda had decided that her lively travelling companion was very flirtatious, but after Dorothea had moved in with Colonel Hershaw they saw little of each other. Following the episode with the Italian girl, Dorothea had taken up with the first officer, and her old friend felt that she had been dropped in favour of more rarefied company.

  Gilda, who spoke Italian, occasionally chatted with the young Italian girl who was still distressed about the incident with the colonel. Ashamed and humiliated, she gnawed her nails with worry. What if she became pregnant? What would her relatives say? The disgrace was unthinkable. Gilda tried to comfort and reassure her, furious that this unprincipled man had taken advantage of her vulnerability and was now strutting around the deck, ogling other potential victims.

  The idea of writing a verse about the voyage had been germinating for some time and on a particularly tedious day, Gilda started to jot down some ideas. After poring over her poem for several days, she passed the ‘Ballad of the Derna’ to her cabin-mates Ilse and Elfriede, who laughed appreciatively at the way she had captured the boredom, gossip and distractions of shipboard life.

  When she wrote, ‘There’s water, water all around, but little on the ship is found,’ she was not exaggerating. Water had been rationed ever since we left Colombo. Whether this was due to the unexpected length of the voyage or to the fact that the captain had underestimated the amount we would need, the shortage became so acute that all the showers were turned off and water was only available for several hours each day. The captain’s claim that passengers had been profligate with the supply only served to increase the general anger.

  In the tropical heat, the water shortage caused desperate ha
rdship, especially for mothers with babies. Rationing increased congestion in the washrooms as hundreds of passengers converged on the cramped area and had to queue for their turn. Babies screamed and toddlers whined while exasperated women shouted, jeered and abused each other.

  ‘Wait your turn!’

  ‘Didn’t they teach you to stand in line?’

  ‘What primitive hole in the ground did you crawl out of?’

  ‘Look at her, Lady Muck, thinks she doesn’t have to clean up after herself. Whoever saw such a disgusting mess?’

  To avoid the chaos, Topka would wake the younger children late at night to wash their hair, because she discovered that there was a trickle of hot water at that time. Every few days Halina Kalowski would creep into the dining room to steal a few jugs of water and give Stefan a good wash. Hardly able to move in the heat through her advancing pregnancy, she spent most of the days slumped in a deck chair, a moistened handkerchief on her haggard face. For the thousandth time, she wished that she had gone ashore that first day when the captain had told the pregnant women to disembark.

  The water shortage took Bill Marr back to the Death March from Auschwitz across Germany to Dachau three years before. They had already been marching for about ten days without food or water. The hunger was terrible but it was nothing compared to the excruciating thirst he felt when every cell in his body had screamed for water. Occasionally Bill would snap young shoots off the trees and suck the blessed moisture onto his parched tongue. When by some miracle it rained, some of the prisoners could not control themselves and threw themselves on the ground to scoop puddles of dirty water into their thirst-scabbed mouths. Near Kutno, when they reached a river, some were so crazed with thirst that they leapt in and drowned.

  Somehow Bill had found the strength to keep going. Perhaps it was sheer bloody-mindedness, a refusal to let the enemy triumph now when the end of the war was so close. A few days later, they were stumbling across a potato field. Desperate for something to drink, they started digging through the clods of earth with the metal mugs they’d brought from the camp. They had almost given up hope when water suddenly spurted up. Artesian water, but water just the same. The rabbi who was hobbling along with them said, ‘Today is the holy day of Tish B’Av. This water is a miracle from God!’ Bill wasn’t religious but when he heard the rabbi’s words his gaunt face was split by a grin as he said, ‘All right, I’ll accept that!’