Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Outlines of the gray ships dimmed in the twilight shades of evening when a sun bright fireball exploded behind them. There was no warning. The concussion of noise hit after they saw the flash. Spumes of water engulfed the ship, not the spray of a wild surf, but a violent white blast with the force of Niagara. The shutter clicked as Hans shot one exposure after another. Orange flames erupted against the violet blue sky, images that would be captured in black and white photos, the fireball appearing slightly gray.

  Captain Schoonover’s voice crackled over the speakers. “The VNS Gremer #51 has been struck. To stations for rescue operations.” The convoy stalled to locate survivors. The Gremer was still a good half-mile back, but the waters began to stir. Fish and birds began to float by, their limp bodies resting on the waves and a few sharks circling in to harvest them. Crew kept watch for men in rafts or floating on pieces of debris.

  Shadows disappeared as night fell. Japanese sonar did not distinguish night and day. It could spot ships in ink black waters. Men were ordered to their bunks for rest, while others remained on watch for the metal monsters. Hans closed his eyes but every muscle in his body tightened, ready to spring. In the narrow bunks there were no snores, and there were no audible breaths. He couldn’t turn; he couldn’t sit or stand. Even if he could walk around the ship, there would be nothing to see in the night fog.

  At dawn a concussion shook the Westerveldt #41, and shattered the new day. Footsteps thundered through the ship as the crew ran toward the port side. The entire bow of the Amstelkerk #40 had been blown off in a single strike. The stench of smoke and burning fuel was close, and both ships were drenched from a hundred foot spume. The sailors’ mouths gaped open, speechless. An ensign yelled, “You damn deck apes, get to the rails and get these men before the sharks do.”

  The Amstelkerk lurched sideways, with its exposed engine rooms facing the Westerveldt. Its belly shredded, the ship vomited parts of humans and machinery into the water. Hell on earth erupted as the sea boiled with flotsam whirling in the cauldron. Fires started as the fuel ignited, black smoke and flames obliterating the rising sun.

  Through all this the sailors of the Westerveldt spotted yellow rafts and pieces of wood with Amstelkerk survivors. Hans’s shutter clicked away at objects moving so quickly through his vision that he couldn’t really understand what he was seeing. Expected to photograph heroic acts, he instead observed tragedies in the making. Orange-black light illuminated faces of the condemned crew of the Amstelkerk as their rubber rafts bounced to the side of the Westerveldt, exhausted eyes staring at the rails several meters above them. They were numb with shock. The realization that some of them would die silenced all his senses.

  Turning to look at the commotion on the deck, Hans realized why Captain Schoonover had made sure that he knew how to tie knots. The shutter clicked one last time, and Hans ran to stow his camera. He joined the sailors at the rail, tying large slipknots to drop over the side, and draw across the chests of the victims. They lifted the first man. Releasing and retying knots, the men fished one sailor after another from the flaming sea. His arms went around each sailor that he pulled across the rails, holding the survivor tight until a stretcher was available or the man could walk on his own.

  The debris began to thin. Even the sky began to brighten and they began to breathe in the sea air. Loudspeaker static broke the quiet, and the voice of the captain rang out with the next orders. “All available hands, report to sickbay.” Hans joined the dozen or so men headed for the sick bay. The Amstelkerk survivors were covered in oil and smoke, some with terrible burns that needed to be cleaned and protected.

  The chief medic instructed, “Scrub these men until they are as white as these sheets – as rosy as newborn babies.” On the side of the bay were several stretchers with men who were not moving. The medic turned away to examine a man. He opened the eyelid of his patient, touched the eye itself, and signaled an orderly to remove the body.

  A wave of nausea gripped Hans as he watched the medic. A sailor turned to him. “Mate, these guys need us. We gotta get to work.”

  Hans stripped his first man of his torn and waterlogged clothing, throwing the rags aside. As he began to wipe the young man’s face, some freckles peeked out. The sponge began to reveal skin flecked with carbon from the smoke, and then pink burns. The dazed sailor winced with pain but let him go on to shampoo the black hair. When the soot was rinsed away, the man had red hair. Medics began to unroll their bandages and salves, binding one injury after another. Hans was awed by their power to change men from victims into patients, human beings who had reasons to live.

  A second survivor was in worse shape, semiconscious and black from head to toe. He was a worker from the engine room, an oiler who had been in the belly of the boat. Although he worked right at the site of the impact, he had been blown clear. His wide eyes stared at Hans, but he could not respond or speak. He seemed to be totally deaf. Hans tried to wash him gently, but the oil, smoke, and dirt would not budge. Everything was burned black, even under his clothing. Only the palms of his hands and spaces under his fingernails were pink. A warm cloth was placed over the man’s face to clear the oil from his eyes and ears. Hans picked up the rough sea sponge and began to scrub. The sailor moaned, but the stubborn dirt did not come away. Burn blisters rose as Hans worked to get the wounds clean.

  He flinched when the medic yelled at him. “This guy’s an African!” The man was black. Sailors were white, but some engine room workers were black Africans who were making the same contributions of life and fortune that every other sailor did. Hans set aside his sponge, queasy at his harshness and the damage that he had done to an injured man. Then he located soft flannel cloths and washed his patient once more, gently, like a baby. With tears of apology, his blue eyes met the man’s brown ones and they shared a glance. Before his next patient, he stepped to a corner just long enough to wipe his eyes.

  After #40 VNS Amstelkerk sank, the Commodore gave orders to re-form the convoy. The Westerveldt was to move from its current location into space #40. Instead, when the orders to shift position came through, Schoonover called for full steam ahead. His swift new vessel was leaving the fleet. For the first time its engines were brought to full power as they raced for the outside of the formation and charted a new course in the open ocean. The gamble was that the sub would not chase a lone ship when there was an entire convoy of valuable cargo. Schoonover had decided that his fast boat could outmaneuver any submarine, and he did not choose to be part of this carnival shooting game. There were no prizes on this ride except the load of scrap metal they were already carrying, materiel for bullets.

  Schoonover made a decision that came with consequences. As the ship turned and sped away from the convoy every last sailor knew that they had disobeyed the English commodore’s command. The captain was willing to face a tribunal to save them. Without further incident, the Westerveldt arrived in Sydney, ready to make steel. Hans met up with a few new shipmates, and set sail for New Caledonia.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Amsterdam

  July 1942

  “I herewith commission you to carry out all preparations with regard to… a final solution of the Jewish question in those territories of Europe which are under German influence.”

  ~ Hermann Göring To Reinhard Heydrich, July 1941

  Sarah Goudberg was German born, but it didn’t help her in the end. On every corner were Dutch boys practicing their Nazi salutes, imitating the German soldiers who filled the streets. Dutch citizens who cooperated with the Nazis had some privileges. Those who resisted simply did not exist in the eyes of the Reich. Beneath them were the Jews. For a year now Jews had been arrested on all sorts of pretexts, forced to leave their homes with a few belongings, and never returned.

  The stoop of 94 Herengracht was unchanged, but it no longer welcomed clientele or visitors. Imposing wooden doors sealed off the offices. The ground floor hallway was lined i
n marble, but no maids kept the white stairs spotless, or the brass banisters polished. A dusty bicycle with a flat tire lay in the hall. Max was now the young man of the house. He had lost too much weight. During the wet spring he had so much fluid in his lungs that he sounded like a drowning victim, coughing until he vomited bloody phlegm. When there was food, he couldn’t swallow it without choking. What he needed was a rich broth of chicken and that was nowhere to be found. Even a fragrant cup of tea would help, but it was not available on their rations.

  Esther thrived in the harsh conditions. She was defiant. Her petulant complaints and temper had vanished under steady resolve. The family needed her, and she took charge of providing for them. She had charm and a knack for barter. With the flash of her smile she could get what was available.

  On a morning in early March, Esther opened the windows and dug tulip bulbs from the window boxes and added them to a stew. The produce and meat from Dutch farms had been sent to Germany. The open market stalls were mostly empty, a wooden crate with a few spotted potatoes, empty shelves at the cheese store with only a few moldy pieces of gouda. Parsnips and carrots were gone. The translucent red currants that had graced every July table were nowhere to be found. Oh well. There wasn’t any sugar either. Still, she went out into the streets each day, foraging what she could.

  The visitors changed. No one asked questions of a young man in uniform who appeared after the evening meal one Saturday. Esther’s shopping expeditions had ended when she encountered a Dutch policeman in the street. There was no yellow star on her jacket and her identification papers were smudged.

  “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to shop.”

  “It depends on what I am shopping for.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Oh, maybe some cream …”

  He laughed. There had been no cream in Amsterdam for months.

  “And where would you keep the cream?”

  “It depends on how much you have.”

  He liked the pretty girl. On late summer nights he acted the part of a gentleman, bringing gifts of wine or seized chocolate and cigarettes, but no meat or vegetables. Sarah wept, but she thanked him for the gifts. Her stepfather Sam sat in the library, opened a book, closed it, and opened it again, waiting for the intruder to leave. Max made himself scarce. The intruder’s boots sounded on the stone stairs when he left late at night and doors in the upstairs hallway remained closed.

  Another day had come to an end. Once again they went to bed not quite satisfied, but not starving either.

  ***

  Their peace ended on July 22nd. Max heard the knocking first. He couldn’t find his glasses in the dark, but he wanted to tell the drunks that they were at the wrong door before they woke up the entire household. He grabbed the railing and carefully picked his way down the first floor and to the ground floor.

  The knocking became more insistent.

  “Go away, you have made a mistake.”

  A voice responded in German. “Open up. Police.”

  “We haven’t done anything.”

  “Open up. Police, or we open your door ourselves. “

  He cracked the door open to face green uniforms. Lugers hung from their heavy leather belts, and hastily stitched swastikas decorated their collars. Six policemen barreled into the house, scattering through the ground floor hallways. Two ran for the stairs and the upstairs living quarters.

  One tripped on an Oriental rug.

  “Scheisse!”

  “You don’t have time to shit now.”

  “Maybe I do,” and he started to drop his drawers before his comrade hurried him on. A small Japanese figurine was on a lamp table. One of the men commented, “At least they know enough to respect the Japanese,” before he pocketed it.

  Screaming from upstairs let them know that Sarah’s room had been breached. She had not forgotten any of her childhood German. “You filthy pigs – get out of my bedroom.” Her hair was undone, loose and hanging below her shoulders. Without her corsets, her body shook and swayed under the nightdress.

  “Jew bitch. If you didn’t resemble an old sow I would show you who is the boss of this bedroom.” Her husband lowered his head as they got dressed. A policeman grabbed Sam’s hands and tied them behind his back.

  Sarah glared at her captor. “Where are we going? Why are we being arrested?”

  “To the opera! Oh, and we might need these.” He went through her dresser and grabbed a couple of gold bracelets, then shoved her roughly as she began to cry.

  “I have new bracelets for you. See?” and he tied her hands behind her back as well. She felt something cold and hard pushed into her spine, and knew better than to turn around. As she was forced down the stairs, she looked through her tears into the public rooms and hesitated for a moment. The front door was wide open, and the brick steps to the street were faintly illuminated by the moon. “Get in the truck.” A harsh command in German stopped her from thinking about the years in her home.

  Esther glared at the man as he tied up her young brother, and shoved him down the stairs. A silent scream pushed against her throat. This policeman could hurt Max. She knew this bastard, this comrade of her recent boyfriend. They both patrolled her neighborhood and his hard jawline had contrasted with that of his partner. Max didn’t stumble, but his footing was unstable; he couldn’t use his arms to balance himself like he did when he skipped stairs or slid down banisters. Then it was her turn. A man grabbed her hands and bound them tightly. If she moved, the ropes would cut into her wrists. She stared through him and said nothing. Apparently the new love affair was over. Where was the bastard tonight? Coward.

  They were thrown into an open wooden cart and taken to the Hollandsche Schouwburg, the national theatre that until recently had been reserved for Jewish entertainers. As soon as the wide doors opened, the stench poured out. Nearly 1,300 people were crammed into the 400 seat theatre, and the German soldiers had locked the doors. Two lavatories had broken down. Babies’ diapers were filled, and children cried. Sweat and foul odors saturated the humid night air. Detainees had been there for as long as ten days, waiting. Esther recognized friends and neighbors, young people who had attended Hebrew school and elders who had prayed together their entire lives. She spotted her cousin Judith.

  “Do you know why we are here?”

  “Does anyone know?” Judith shrugged her shoulders.

  “If they do, we are the last ones who will be informed. I’m not sure we even want to know.”

  Judith frowned. “We have been in this sty since yesterday. Do you have anything to eat?” Esther shook her head.

  The two young women looked around at the throng of bewildered Jews. They both knew that once people had been taken, they never returned to their homes. Some had been allowed to bring a single suitcase or carpetbag, but these were now stacked together, inaccessible to all. People and bags would not be matched up for the next transport.

  Old buses and trams came by daily and lists of names were called. By the third morning, Esther started vomiting. She stood in the shadows, unseen among hundreds of others who looked like her. Her fury rose as she thought of Franz, the pig who had lain on top of her night after night. She wiped her face, walked up to a guard, smiled, and ran past him into the street. He turned to block what he thought would be a rush of escaping young people, and didn’t stop her. There were no others, and he couldn’t see where she had gone.

  Ripping the yellow star off of her sweater, Esther ran for the canal district, looking for alleyways and roof overhangs. Churches and their courtyards might provide some immediate shelter. Her leather shoes tapped on the cobblestones as she hurried, trying not to make any noise. Holland was vanquished but she was not. Think. She was squinting at house numbers - an address of a friend, a shop she knew, anyone who might help her. Turning the corner she recognized a corner home where her friend Cristina lived, a
nice girl who had also worked in the stationery store. The steps had not been swept in days. She smacked the buzzer over and over until a head poked out of an upstairs window.

  “Cristina, it’s Esther.”

  “Shhh! I’ll be down.” In a moment the key turned. “Be quiet.”

  Cristina took her arm and walked her back to the dark courtyard. “Stay here.” Her friend walked into the servant’s entrance. In a few moments she reappeared with a roll and some tea. “Esther, you cannot stay.” Esther looked at her puzzled. “If they catch you here, they will take my family too. I’m sorry.”

  “Why would they take you? You’re not Jewish!”

  “Esther, please go. Now.”

  Esther did not look back at Cristina. She sat down on a curb to cry, and to think. Hans had attained refugee status. How had he done it? In the morning she would try to visit some offices and see what she could do, claiming that she had an American brother. She hadn’t really paid attention to some of the changes in the city. Dutch government offices were now German, and the Americans were no longer represented in Europe. Childhood friends whose parents had worked for the government were no longer residing in Amsterdam. Regret did not come easily to Esther, but on this night she shed her tears of remorse.

  For two weeks Esther played hide and seek on the streets of Amsterdam, finding shelter from night to night, and food wherever she could. No one she knew occupied the familiar homes of her Jewish friends. There were ways to hide in dark protected crannies under bridges, or behind porch steps, even in courtyards when she got lucky. The summer evenings were warm and after ten days she began to move out of the heavily patrolled downtown neighborhoods.