Alter cradled the bird in his lap.
Vos zol ikh ton? What was he to do?
The majestic albatross had fallen from the sky and landed right in front of him, sprawled out on the deck, its broken wings spanning the length of two men.
After a lengthy crossing, having set off from Southampton with only ten passengers on board, the SS Moreton Bay was not far off the coast of Australia when the ship began to bellow and flail, grinding slowly to a halt. A flock of birds had been escorting them towards shore, covering over the sky like a swarm of bees hovering over a field of wildflowers. They screeched for scraps. Alter sat cross-legged, patting the injured albatross, who made no attempt to escape. One of the deck crew had told him these remarkable birds slept while flying – gliding and dreaming at the same time. They stayed aloft for months at a time without coming ashore, only to return to the same mate every year.
His first meeting with an Australian. Alter felt he had been poured into the bird, and if it were to sprout new feathers they would grow out through his own skin. The creature’s breathing was rapid, the tiny heart beating wildly against its breast. The ocean, vast and ruffled with hope, stretched out before Alter. Behind them lay tohubohu, the chaos of a turbulent Europe. And here he was, having finally reached ek velt, the ends of the earth. It felt more like a new beginning.
He was in the thirtieth year of his life – perhaps around the same age as the bird, who the crewman also told him could live for up to six decades. He aimed to at least match that.
‘You and me, we’re both wanderers and survivors.’ He stroked its back. ‘But tell me, what will I do with you?’
The vessel remained anchored offshore, its engines silent, adding five unforeseen days to the biblical forty it had taken to make the crossing from Europe. Alter dedicated the time lost to caring for the wondrous creature, sneaking into the kitchen every morning to ask the sous-chef if he might spare a few scraps of fish guts for the bird. If it survived, surely it would be some sort of talisman, a sign that there was hope of freedom in this world for a few humble refugees? Each day the bird grew a little stronger, stretching out its broad wings in aborted attempts to fly.
Finally a tugboat arrived, carrying four crates of beer, two surly engineers and a customs officer on board. The engineers disappeared into the bowels of the engine room, while the crew busied themselves making inroads into the alcohol. Meanwhile the public servant, dressed in a suit and tie, clutched his clipboard to his chest and moved from passenger to passenger asking reams of questions and filling out lengthy forms. When he reached Alter, his sharp gaze already betrayed the intensity of his feeling.
‘Name?
‘Jacob Rosenzweig.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘27th of November 1908.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Radymno, Poland.’
‘Religion?’ The man looked up from his paperwork, raising his eyebrows.
He was met with silence.
‘Religion?’ he repeated, sounding more irritated.
‘I am of the world,’ Alter answered. ‘A non-believer. But very proud of my cultural heritage.’
‘A Jewboy, then?’ A smug grin crept across the customs officer’s face. ‘Anything to declare?’
Alter pointed to the albatross seated beside him on the deck and reached down to stroke its feathers. The official turned his back and moved on to the next passenger.
Just as they had all given up hope and became resigned to having to row into Port Phillip Bay in small dinghies, the engine started chortling, black smoke spewing from the ship’s funnel. The engineers packed up their tools and climbed back down the ladder, returning to the tug, but the customs officer had disappeared. They all leaned over the edge to check he hadn’t fallen overboard. Suddenly, a loud shriek pierced the air. Alter turned to see the albatross a few metres away from where he had left it. It let out an agonised cry, arched its back and crumpled in on itself, a trickle of black blood oozing onto the deck.
The rotund customs officer placed a pistol back in his pocket.
‘Hey!’ Alter ran towards him, yelling. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Sorry. I can’t understand what you’re saying.’ The man didn’t look up, busily scribbling something into a notebook.
‘Why would you kill an innocent bird?’ Alter had to restrain his desire to throttle the officious little man.
‘There are strict rules in our country,’ he said, sneering. ‘We do not allow vermin in, sir.’
He turned and walked briskly over to the ship’s bosun, who helped ease the portly fellow back over the side of the boat. The official disappeared down the ladder. Alter looked across at the mess of feathers and blood sprawled out on the deck. He wanted to push the man into the swell, watch him being swallowed up by the waves, his body a delicious dinner for the sharks, scraps of brain served up as leftovers for the poor dead albatross’s friends. The bosun nodded to one of the crew. The young fellow hauled the bird’s corpse over to the railings and tossed it into the sea.
The Moreton Bay was soon on her way again. As they finally approached Station Pier, Alter Mayseh stared with disbelief at the meagre welcoming committee. Along the stretches of coastline on either side, in place of familiar birches, he saw the ghostly greys, muted greens and pastel blues of the southern continent he had dreamt of reaching for so long.
On his first morning in Melbourne, he sat in a café reading the newspaper. The Évian Conference, organised by President Roosevelt, had just taken place in France. Alter felt angry at the mockery of this outpouring of official concern, as the delegations of thirty-two countries paid lip-service by commiserating with the plight of German Jewish refugees, yet at the same time slammed their doors shut to any further immigration. The paper reported that Australia’s delegate to the conference, T.W. White, claimed that ‘under the circumstances, Australia cannot do more . . . As we have no real racial problem, we are not desirous of importing one.’