The Night of the Burning by Linda Press Wulf

Author:Linda Press Wulf
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2006-08-17T04:00:00+00:00

THE SHIP TO AFRICA

September 1921

We departed London for South Africa on September 2, 1921. Each of us carried a knapsack with a change of English clothing, and some of us had a few belongings from home. In my coat pocket was the old photograph of my family.

The first time I saw our ship on the great Southampton dock, I came to a sudden halt. “Move on, you’re blocking the way!” one of the children behind me called irritably. Then, as the others saw the white vision, they, too, froze.

“That’s not what you would call a … boat,” Itzik said slowly, while the other big boys around him whistled appreciatively. I murmured my agreement. The majestic ship rose several levels into the air, dazzlingly high and white, with the British flag right at the top. The deck was lined with blue railings that seemed to extend forever to the left and right of us. Below the deck were lines of funny windows, all perfectly round. There must be levels of rooms all the way down, maybe even some under the water. The ship was bigger than the hotel, bigger than the whole village of Domachevo.

“The Edinburgh Castle!” Mr. Ochberg announced. “She’s the queen ship of the Union-Castle shipping line, children. A bit worn from her service during the war, but a treat for us all.”

At the top of the gangplank, two sailors wearing lightning-white uniforms with sun-gold buttons were as polite to us as if we were adults.

“Welcome aboard,” they said. “We hope you have a pleasant voyage.” I drew myself up to look taller and more dignified, but Nechama was bouncing with excitement next to me. “Faygele said she heard there are two ballrooms and a big pond for swimming!” I looked at her in disbelief. How could a ship have a pond where you could swim? And why would a ship need two rooms for people to play with balls?

Soon I felt too sick to wonder about anything. I discovered that there were indeed several levels under the water, and our cabins were at the lowest level. Down there, the ship creaked loudly and frighteningly. There were no windows and no fresh air, and the smell of oil hung above the tightly wedged lines of bunks. We lay side by side and groaned. Soon the stench of vomit was added to the odor.

“I want to go home. I want to get off,” Faygele moaned. “Stop the ship.”

Each time I tried to get up to help, bile rose to my throat and I fell back onto my bunk. In the bunk above me, Nechama escaped from sickness into a blind sleep. A kind Englishwoman who had volunteered to escort us to South Africa bustled in and out of our cabins, murmuring in her broken Yiddish. Braindel and Rosha, smug in their immunity to seasickness, helped her to bring buckets and wet facecloths and a little dry toast.

After that first long day, my stomach began to settle. I tried standing up, holding my belly with both hands.

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