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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Across the Atlantic
Jacob stood in the doorway of the cubicle for the last time, his eyes fixed on its naked walls, an hour later arriving at the transit camp.
After rigorous inspections, and inoculations, some last-minute rejections by the C.I.C., he arrived at Bremerhaven, the same place where Sonia had difficulty getting in.
Jacob, his new friend Sol Holtzman and Sol’s uncle were assigned to a room overlooking the ocean, surrounded by idle ships – the cause another dock strike – exploring the port, smiling Frauleins pushing carriages with children of all races, colors – browsing around among Christmas shoppers of a department store.
Across the street was a wide overlapping wooden fence, displaying nude live mannequins, leaving nothing to one’s imagination, lonely sailors scrutinizing.
And in the camp, day after monotonous day, ill-tempered transients stood in line for a coarse meal, frequently ending in a heated argument or a bloody scuffle. At long last the sleepy loudspeaker awoke.
"Attention! Attention!
"This is Colonel Miller speaking! All transients assigned to the ‘Marine Flasher’ will assemble at the main plaza for the final count. Departure this afternoon at 3 o’clock!"
It was the most welcome news, everyone rushing to the camp’s square, the Marine Flasher, from afar, its single chimney puffing black smoke.
"The ship is so tiny," said the elder Holtzman, grimacing. "Look at this line, so many people. Couldn’t they afford a bigger one?"
"You can still change your mind. What you paid for for the fare you can get back anytime," replied his nephew. "If it was good enough for the American soldiers, surely it will be good for you. Better watch your step, and stop complaining."
They climbed scores of stairs, heels noisily clicking on the steel floor, then descended toward bunk-like hammocks.
"My God!" It was the uncle again. "Is this where I have to sleep? In this net? I can’t even climb up!"
"All right, all right already," said his annoyed nephew. "You take the lower berth, relax! We are going to eat soon, I am sure you’ll like that."
After a short rest they entered an exceedingly brightly lit dining room, a tall black officer of novel appearance giving orders to the kitchen help, waiters serving the hungry lot, many with second helpings.
"What are these?" Jacob asked a husky, tall man next to him, pointing to the oversized sliced citrus fruit, but he only answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
"This is a grapefruit," the waiter explained. "It is sour, you may use sugar," and moved to the next table.
"It’s tart, I like it," pronounced the uncle, licking his lips, scooping slices, not sparing sugar.
"Eat, Uncle, you’ll stay behind, save the comments for later," interrupted his nephew.
"That was good, very good," said the uncle, in one hand a slice of strawberry shortcake, the other patting his pudgy stomach. "No wonder the Americans are so fat."
A good half-hour later many were still eating, waiters filling plates with more helpings, encouraging. "There is plenty more, eat now. Tomorrow – who knows?"
"What did the waiter mean by his remark about tomorrow?" the uncle asked Jacob. "Aren’t they going to feed us?"
"No, Mr. Holtzman, don’t worry. There will be plenty of food," Jacob said, suddenly recalling Astrakhan, the Volga, the nausea. If that is so, he thought, one will not be able to look at food, let alone eat.
The next morning the ship left its moorings, tugboats maneuvering her away from the pier into wider waters, many hands waving, more than one wiping away a tear.
Buildings, trees diminished, melting into nothing but water, a feeling of ambivalence flashing by – Warsaw, the city of Jacob’s youth, cherished memories paling before his eyes, blurring his sight.
But most he’ll miss his family, his little Esther’l. He was leaving a cemetery knowing deep in his gut that he would never return, never forget.
Goodbye, goodbye, forever.
When Jacob left the railing, Sol Holtzman wiped away a tear. He was not alone, he had company.
Hours later, when the ship approached the English Channel, the first signs of discomfort were noticeable, the wind becoming rough, the water choppy.
Down in the dimly lit belly of the ship, the serenity of the passengers turned into anxiety and seasickness. In the dining room the variety of food tickled the nostrils, but found no consumers. And if one dared to eat, he left the table in a hurry. Only the hardiest stayed.
Bundled up in the hammock, Jacob synchronized his body with the vibration of the ship, dozing off, to be awakened by a sudden thrust, a shove, a bump.
Soon after a hurricane unleashed its anger; huge clouds darkened the sky, a heavy downpour beating down. Mountainous waves battered the ship, the ocean like a foaming beast, attempting to drown her.
Heavy ropes secured all around, the captain supervising and Jacob curiously inching toward the porthole.
A breathtaking panorama unfolded, nature in a demonic beauty, raging violence, alerting his senses, as he took in the virulent surroundings.
Far away he could see a ship surrounded by skyrocketing waves, its huge crests rising, diminishing, like a matchbox burying her for a while before spitting her out again; swerving in a macabre dance, a satanic struggle, resisting the onslaught, the powers of nature. The Marine Flasher, too, for the most part of the day and night stubbornly resisted the elements.
Toward morning the storm subsided. The clouds vanished, revealing a washed pale blue sky. A huge rainbow unfurled a smile – its curved ribbons dipped in a serene ocean, ripples of waves caressing, nature apologizing for its behavior.
Two days later they encountered another storm, but less intense, finally reaching calm waters, porpoises alongside, jumping noisily, escorting them all the way to New York.
By the 12th day the ship crawled toward the city, famous for its huge structures scraping the sky. Anxious to disembark, the passengers had learned in a most trying way to appreciate the solid ground.
Representatives of the government, the Coast Guard, and customs agents welcomed all on behalf of the United States, and the City of New York, where people of all races, creeds, and religions live in peace and harmony, in pursuit of happiness, and The Statue of Liberty, the great lady with the torch held high somberly looking on.
"Do you hear that, Jacob?" said Sol, his voice intense. "Aren’t you excited? Aren’t you glad to be here? To meet your brother? Don’t you see, this is a new beginning, a chance to start a new life. … Don’t you?" And Jacob looked at him. What could he say? True, he was excited, happy to see his brother, yet uninspired, at the end of his rope.
"From now on," Sol continued wistfully, "everything will change for the better, every day will be a holiday.
"Do you remember the Georgian with the big moustache, his famous words? ‘Ee Na Nashay Ulitzy Prazdnik Budiet.’ Now the day is here. ‘And on our street a holiday will be.’ Yes, Jacob," he said, embracing him.
"So, my dear optimist, yes, you are right. A holiday, a great celebration will be on our street. … But pray, tell me, how many of us will be there to celebrate?
"How many?"
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