CHAPTER 18

THE VOYAGE 1939

The train slows to a halt at the vast station in Trieste. My face brightens at the sight of Poldi, who is waiting patiently for our arrival. From my seat by the window I am first to see him standing there. I wave madly and finally catch his eye. Our meeting is a mixture of emotions, joy and sadness at once, knowing we will soon be parted again.

“Thank God, Nini, thank God you’re here,” he says hugging me tightly first, then Mama and Willi. Dolu is brimming too, glad that we are here, but then he looks around and asks, “Where are our parents?”

Poldi looks at me and before I can say a thing he seems to know what has happened. His eyes fill with tears and his face shows all his wrenching pain. “Tell me, Nini,” he says, “what happened?”

I explain what has happened and we all try to comfort them but they are devastated and inconsolable. We have to keep moving along with the crowd that is pushing ahead towards the dock, but this is not the departure that I had anticipated for so long, one of hope and joy. Now we are swamped in sadness again.

I try my best to ease their worries although the outcome of the loss of the precious tickets is so hard to explain. Dolu begins to rail against Herr Berger, blaming him for the outcome, but I stop him. “Herr Berger has vowed to do everything possible to get them out of the camp and book them on a ship to Shanghai. I’m going to write him as soon as we arrive – I’m sure he’ll succeed. Don’t give up hope.”

Poldi and Dolu help us with our things as we move with the others hurrying from the train to the ship. We trudge through the high-ceilinged building, a troupe of vagabonds, our possessions on our backs or in our valises and bags. After all, we each have something of particular personal value, and although I have sent my skis on ahead there are many others who are labouring with musical instruments of various kinds, ladies dressed in fur coats and hats who are obviously hot and uncomfortable, teetering on high-heeled shoes and struggling with bulky bundles. Others are carrying crying babies or clutching the little hands of irritable toddlers. Down a stairway we go, a few hundred of us of varying ages but a common language and purpose.

We are most concerned about Mama. She is short of breath as we try to keep up with the rest of the crowd. When we emerge from the building and the sea air blows through our hair, we take deep breaths. We have come this far at least, and an escape seems possible. All the terror we experienced is behind us as we look out at the blue water.

Poldi has his arm around my shoulder hugging me close to him as we stare out at the sea, both of us seeming so insignificant against its immensity. We will not say a final good bye, but rather Auf Wiedersehen – “until we meet again.” We vow to each other that we will be together once more and that somehow on the other side of the world we will reunite and face the future. We embrace, unwilling to let go, clinging to one another with utter desperation. A shiver of emotion slips from one trembling body to the other. He promises to meet us in Shanghai as soon as he is able to get everything approved for his departure, and he will write as soon as I notify him of our location. He shakes hands with Willi, then they hug and he hugs Mama too. We are all teary-eyed.

Poldi lifts my hand to his lips and I feel a tear fall onto my fingers. He gently kisses my hands, leans to press his lips against my forehead and then mouth, trying to sustain a brave smile although his eyes are glistening. My own tears have no such restraint and pour freely down my cheeks until my collar is damp. I know these may be our last moments together.

“With all my heart, Nini, I pray we will survive to meet again in Shanghai. I will be thinking of you every minute until I can see your face and hold your hand again.”

It seems more than I can bear. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to endure this hardship, Poldi. I haven’t travelled like you – Vienna is the only home I’ve had. China’s so far away – how can I live in such a place?”

Poldi comforts me. “You are strong, the strongest woman I have ever met. You can do anything you set your mind to. Be brave and watch over your mother and brother. And, Nini, have faith and wait for me. I will find you.”

I nod my head in acceptance but can say nothing more.

A massive white ship, called the Conte Biancamano from the renowned Lloyd Triestino fleet of luxury liners, is anchored, awaiting us in the harbour. The name of that ship, our vessel to salvation, is quickly imprinted on our minds. This, we are aware, is the only chance we have to flee. Looking out to the horizon, we face our future somewhere on the other side of the turbulent waters.

It’s time to leave. The loud horns of the ship blare their warning call, summoning us to board and we must go. Our luggage is taken aboard first. Contained inside are the salvaged bits of our lives. We have become just like the refugees we had seen so often trudging into Vienna. Willi and I hold onto Mama, her head down, her eyes focused on the steps ahead. Each of us is linked to an arm, clinging tightly to steady her as she makes her way onto the ship. She is concentrating on the task of setting one foot ahead of the other, grasping us for balance. Wobbly and struggling to catch her breath, she is exhausted from the strenuous journey. We are concerned about her increasing physical and mental frailty. At the age of fifty-eight she appears so much older, years added by the traumas that have befallen her since Papa’s death and the devastation of the Nazi scourge. We fear that being uprooted so brutally may be more than she can endure. We tighten our grip on her arms when we sense her weakening and try to fortify and restore her courage for what is yet to come.

We crane our necks and lean forward against the railing, waving to Poldi and Dolu, who are standing below. Poldi’s arm swings widely back and forth to be sure I can see him, but the smile on his face is forced. The ship’s throbbing engine and loud farewell blasts signal our departure, and soon the port shrinks away in the distance.

We settle in small clean cabins and soon find that the food is good. After the ordeal that we experienced in Europe, it is the most peace and normalcy we have had for some time. Still this is hardly a holiday. We are stateless refugees aboard a ship to a strange land. The journey, a month-long stretch of over seven thousand miles, will take us from Trieste to Alexandria, through the Suez Canal, then to Bombay and Hong Kong and finally to Shanghai.

In a kind of surrealistic dream, we float upon the endless ocean on a fantasy ship where music plays and waiters in tuxedos serve the meals. The dining room is panelled in richly grained wood, heavy and smooth. Crystal chandeliers sparkle, and the handsome Italian ship’s stewards in their gold-braided white uniforms smile white-toothed grins. They greet the regular passengers with a flourish of deep bows and cheery broken English while we lower-class outcasts are shuffled away in careless disregard.

The non-Jewish families keep their distance from us, offering no words of encouragement or hand of friendship. Our station in life has been determined by the Nazi decrees. The “J” stamped on all our documents might as well have been branded onto our skin for all the world to see.

We are glad to find other passengers from Austria and become closest with those who speak the same language. The current topic of conversation is money – and the urgent need to accumulate it. Those of us who were able to conceal anything of value, at great risk, are making good use of the time on board to find buyers and convert whatever few assets we have into American dollars or British pounds. Aware that the pittance we were given when we left Austria will not be enough to preserve us from starvation, we approach the wealthy passengers and endure their disdain. They are aware of their position of superiority and ours of desperation and know that they will be able to accumulate rare valuables for bargain prices. We sell anything we can manage to dispose of, from the coats on our backs to a few pieces of family jewellery sewn into our garments. The Germans intended that we would have nothing on which to live, that death would be our certain destiny. It is only desperate ingenuity and a string of tiny miracles that can save us.

“Mama, look, I have some money, American dollars.” I show her a few dirty papers in my hand. “I sold my coat to a lady on the upper deck.”

“Good, Nini,” she says, examining the meagre compensation. “I suppose woollen coats will be of no use in Shanghai and even the most basic food is sure to cost us more than those bastards allowed us.”

We gather together in groups reminiscing about the “Old Vienna” and comparing our experiences through the Nazi occupation. Some tell incredible stories of what we can expect to find in Shanghai. We listen to the tales in entranced horror.

“It is a port without laws,” one of the passengers begins, “where criminals are allowed to run free and butcher people without cause or fear of punishment. You must strap your money and valuables to your body or you will be robbed at knife-point.”

Others agree and there is an abundance of advice, all of it terrifying. “You must never trust one of them as they are all thieves. The Chinese are fearsome savages who will kill you for the sport and then steal everything you possess. If they don’t murder you, you’ll soon die from the food they cook. They eat anything that crawls on the earth and live in filth.”

“And you know,” another adds, “all kinds of diseases are rampant. At least we have our own doctors with us or we would all perish within a week in that wilderness.”

Our eyes widen in trepidation. “However will we manage to live in such a place?” we ask.

“That’s one thing about us Jews,” another fellow interrupts, a mocking smile curving up the corners of his mouth. “Although not one of us has ever set foot in China, nor in fact has ever met a single Chinese person, we are all experts on the country and the entire race! Everyone has an opinion. We know everything there is to know, no questions asked.”

We laugh in a spurt of unexpected amusement at the truth of his words. Despite the turmoil of our lives, we can still find some humour in the moment which allows our spirits and brittle tensions to ease. The lightened mood has supplied a temporary break from the memory of what has driven us from our homes and why we are here.

A young woman about my age is seated next to me on the long wooden slatted benches that are fastened to the side of the ship. She turns to me after the discussion we have overheard, obviously shaken about the fears and warnings of life in Shanghai.

“I’m so frightened of that place and, you see, I am alone. How will I ever survive?” she asks.

“What can we do? We will have to face whatever awaits us,” I reply.

Perhaps fearing she was rude, she introduces herself. “My name is Herta Weinstein,” she says, her hand extended.

“I am Nini Karpel.” I take her hand in mine.

During the voyage she and I meet many times to talk about the lives left behind. She tells me she was brought up in a good family with prospects for a secure and happy life, engaged to be married to a young man, a lawyer, who was arrested by the Nazis and taken away, never to be seen again. She is still distraught about the experience, her eyes moistening each time she speaks about her sorrow and the uncertainty of her future. Her mother had died years before, and her father passed away from a long illness only weeks before they were to leave Vienna.

After the Nazis confiscated all their possessions, she struggled to save enough to book passage on this ship. She has nothing but the clothes on her back. Her fingernails, I have noticed as she wrings her fingers anxiously, are bitten down in nervous tension. Her pallid, narrow face is framed by wispy blond curls, giving her a fragile and vulnerable look. Her lips are parched dry. We share our thoughts and worries and promise one another to keep in touch in Shanghai. At mealtimes, she is seated at our table as she is alone and I have asked Mama to allow her to join us. Although the food on board is wonderful and beautifully served, Herta picks at whatever is placed before her, immersed in her own lonely thoughts and unable to swallow more than a few morsels at a time.

After we pass through the Suez Canal and sail down the Red Sea, weeks pass and we see nothing but sea spreading before us. Staring out to the horizon so far ahead, I think of the home left behind in Vienna, the slavish discipline and concern with customs, with order and civility, manners and respect. I remember my relatives, so preoccupied with perfect details, confident that the Austrian homeland would always protect us. I wonder what has become of them. We fear they have been killed by the Germans, but no one wants to believe it. Mama hopes she will see her family members again, or at least that they are still alive.

Most of the refugees expect that Shanghai will be a temporary stopover, just until passage to a civilized place can be arranged. We discuss events in Europe, getting our news daily from reports on the radio. There are conflicting opinions about what the future holds, but underlying all the talk about European affairs, we have our own specific concerns. How, we all wonder, will the outcome affect the Jews? No country has made much effort to help or protect us or to offer sanctuary.

The ship slices through the shimmering blue-green water and foamy white peaks. The wind lashes a salty spray against our faces. We are delighted with the romping dolphins that emerge from the depths and arch in curves, splashing, playing in carefree abandon and allowing us to dream that there may yet be a better life even for us. I think of Poldi’s last goodbye. I miss his smile and encouraging words, his stories and his hand on mine. Half a world will separate us soon, and I wonder with a piercing sting of melancholy regret if we will ever meet again.

We are aware of the weather growing warmer, and we can see and feel the effects of the changing climate. The water, reflecting the sun’s glowing power, is coated in a layer of molten silver. There is a feeling of suspended reality, a zone of dreams, disconnected from the confines of earthbound mortals, somewhere apart from reality. When the sun sets on the huge expanse of the Pacific, the sky and water turn flaming red, and we watch fascinated as the scorching orb disappears slowly into the darkening sea.

The ship glides forward through the night and I find myself lulled into a sound sleep. The possible fulfilment of wishes for peace and security allows me to surrender my weary body and disturbed mind to a silent rest. Like an infant being rocked in its cradle, I doze undisturbed. There may yet be a safe haven ahead.