5 Cents to Spare: A 1936 Around the World Travel Adventure

By Alfred H. Kramm and Larry S. Kramm

This book is about my fathers 10 month around the world travel adventure in 1936. He visited some 20 countries, traveling by bicycle loaded with camping gear, second and third class train, bus, ship, motor lorry, riverboat, and hiking. His greatest adventure was a 500 mile hike along the Burma Trail from Burma through China to Hanoi.

Wherever my father went he aroused the curiosity of the local people and the suspicions of the authorities. He recorded pre WW-II viewpoints of the towns' people and fellow travelers on social, political, educational, and economic matters. He bedded down in guesthouses, youth hostels, YMCAs, or camped out. He recorded some of his story with over 1,000 photographs.

Over a 15 year period, I transcribed my fathers handwritten diaries. There were many duplicated entries because much of his diaries consisted of letters home to family and friends. Most of these letters contained accounts about the same thing, but each either had a different twist or some new activity altogether. My biggest job was to eliminate all the duplication, fit together the different twists, and to put it all together into a logical timeline.

In my first effort to transcribe I used a manual typewriter, before the personal computer was available. About the time I finished, I bought my first PC, an IBM XT. I re-entered all my typewritten pages into the computer. As the years went on I got better and better computers, copying my fathers adventure into each, making more changes along the way. Eventually I put together a 31 chapter book with 166 photographs.

My father (and my mother) passed away in 1994. It had always been his wish to find a way to publish his travels so that others may see the world as he saw it.

Larry S. Kramm

Antioch, California

July 1999

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 17, 2001
• ISBN: 9780759629424

Alfred H. Kramm

Alfred H. Kramm was born Jan 17, 1910 in Sacramento, California. His father was of German heritage who immigrated to San Francisco in 1905 just in time for the San Francisco Earthquake. A few months after Alfred was born, his father moved the family to Grass Valley, California, to establish a watch making business Alfred grew up in Grass Valley where he met and married Margret Harshaw in August 1937, six months after he returned from his trip around the world. In 1933 he received a BA Degree in Architecture from the University of California at Berkeley. Post graduate work led to becoming a Registered Professional Civil Engineer in 1953. Alfred took a position in 1937 with the Shell Oil Co. in San Francisco as a draftsman. Later he became an engineer working in Portland, Oregon and Long Beach, California. In 1953 he was promoted to Senior Civil Engineer and transferred to the Manufacturing Division at the Wilmington-Domingues Shell Oil Refinery near Long Beach, California, where he lived for the rest of his life. Alfred retired from Shell Oil in 1968 and continued to live in Long Beach. He was active in many activities mostly centered around rock hounding and various California State advisory committees on recreational land uses. Alfred passed away on June 7, 1994 after several years of getting blood transfusions for refractory anemia. He died in his sleep at home. Before he died, he made a specific addition to his will giving his son, Larry S. Kramm, the sole rights to his world trip diaries and photographs. The two of them had been working for several years prior on refining the notes and documenting the photographs. It had always been Alfred’s desire to someday publish his adventure. Larry S. Kramm, eldest son of Alfred, was born July 6, 1940 in Portland, Oregon. He received a BA Degree in Sociology in June 1962. A tour of duty in the US Air Force as a personnel officer with the ranks of 2nd and 1st Lieutenant followed. In July 1966 Larry accepted a position with Chevron Oil in Seattle as a Credit Representative. It was through a fellow worker that Larry met and married on April 13, 1968, Shirley Hill. In August 1969 he was transferred to Chevron’s offices in Concord and a few years later purchased a new home in the nearby city of Antioch, California. In September 1981, after 15 years as a credit/collection representative, Larry accepted a position as a Data Storage Analyst for Chevron Information Technology Co. He worked in that position for the next 16 years and retired in August 1977 after 31 years working for Chevron. In his retirement Larry set about to finalize the book.

Book preview

Prologue

In December 1933 I graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, School of Architecture. It was a long 6 year struggle for a Bachelor of Arts degree trying to make ends meet with small scholarships and part time jobs.

But now I was finished. One may say I was ready to matriculate into the Great Depression where 20% of the U.S. work force was unemployed. There was nothing for an Architectural trainee to do. In a way, however, I was fortunate. During the long period of study time, I had taken a year of engineering courses, had learned a little about land surveying, had become a good draftsman, and just as importantly had learned to work with my hands.

Almost immediately I found a part time job as a carpenter’s helper in my home town of Grass Valley, California. While building a staircase at the Nevada (County) Irrigation District office I overheard the Chief Engineer telling the district manager that he needed a junior engineer-draftsman-surveyor. I was qualified! I dropped my hammer, went across the room to the manager’s office and applied.

I got the job. It paid $110 a month, about 50 cents an hour, and it was steady. In those days any job was welcome no matter what it was or how much it paid. The gold mines in my home town were paying mukers $3 a day and miners $5 a day… if you could get a job.

If wages were low in those days, so was everything else. Girauds in San Francisco served a wonderful French meal for 50 cents. I never ate so much before for the price, I wrote in my journal in 1930. Fior D’Italia, also in San Francisco, served a tremendously big meal for $1. In August, 1930, I wrote that I had bought 5 pounds of tomatoes for 25 cents, 3 pounds of fresh salmon for 42 cents, a quart of ice cream for 25 cents and a quart of milk for 10 cents. In May 1931 gasoline had gone down to 14 cents a gallon in Grass Valley… perhaps it was even lower in San Francisco. Throughout all this depression period first class postage remained at 2 cents per ounce.

During my university days I had a desire to see with my own eyes the great masterpieces of architecture that I had been studying so diligently. Now finally I had a job. I was earning and saving money. My desire to travel became an obsession.

A quotation from the philosopher, Morgan, had made a deep impression during my student days:

Architecture is the printing press of all ages, and gives a history of the state of society in which it was erected.

That statement became my goal to achieve. It was the reason I gave myself when I decided to visit Europe in 1936. I was 26 at the time. It never occurred to me that I lacked the maturity, the wisdom and the time to achieve this noble purpose. Such is the brashness of youth.

By March 1936 I had saved $1000. It was the year of the Olympic Games in Germany. German Marks were being offered at a 25% discount to foreign tourists. I had an invitation to visit relatives in Germany. What more could I ask?

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I was ready. This book is the result of a travel experience that took me around the world visiting 20 countries over a period of 10 months and 2 weeks. What a trip!

Little could I have know that the world stood on the front steps of the holocaust of WW-II and that I would have the opportunity of seeing and talking to ordinary citizens who were knowingly or unknowingly preparing for this conflagration.

I did not advance the history of the state of society but I brought back in writing and in photographs a wealth of impressions of the people I met, befriended and traveled with and the countries in which they lived.

Enjoy my experiences.

Alfred H. Kramm

Long Beach, California

September 1990

Chapter 1

Departure - April 4, 1936

I’m off… left Berkeley via Southern Pacific train at 8:45 PM Saturday, April 4, 1936. I didn’t know whether to believe I’m really on my way to Europe or not.

As a 26 year old student of Architecture I planned to tour Europe to see first hand what I had studied for four years. I had saved $1000; it was the year of the Olympic Games in Germany; German Marks were at a 25% discount to foreign tourists; I had an invitation to visit relatives in Germany. What more could I ask? My plan was to make Germany my home base from which I would make various excursions. Little did I know that one of these excursions would change my plans and take me around the world instead.

I’m off… Left Berkeley via Southern Pacific train at 8:45 PM Saturday, April 4, 1936. (E1-16)

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It was a hectic week. The hustle and bustle of organizing my papers and money, purchasing a Leica Camera with 35mm lens, packing my clothes and gifts for Germany relatives, and seeing my friends in San Francisco, San Jose, Oakland and Berkeley just about got me down. It all seemed like a dream.

Tonight my brothers and sister had dinner at my sister’s house. It was a sort of last fond farewell to me. My brother, Douglas, and I went on ahead to the depot where I purchased my ticket to New York and where I changed my cloths for the trip. I had a suitcase and a small trunk loaded with a suit, informal wear, gifts, paper, drawing equipment and a number of extra rolls of 35mm film.

The rest of my family and friends came down to the station later. Poor Margret, my fiancee, did so badly want to see me off but had to work tonight. It will be a long time before I see her again. I didn’t know it then, but she would be instrumental in my return home after being stranded in Shanghai.

The train stopped only a few minutes at Berkeley station. With handshakes, a few hugs, and a tear or two, I climbed on board and was finally on my way. In two hours we were in Sacramento where I had gone to junior college for two years. At 12 midnight we were in foothill country at Colfax, only 12 miles from my home town of Grass Valley where I had lived almost all my life. The train stopped long enough to take on water, refuel, and absorb some more passengers. As we waited, I thought of my mother and father so close by in Grass Valley and wondered if they were thinking of me this Saturday night as I was of them.

As the train pulled out to make the long, winding climb over the Sierras to Truckee, Reno and the world beyond, I realized with a tinge of nostalgia that I was leaving my country that I knew and loved so well; the land of hills, rugged mountains, deep canyons and thick stands of pine trees everywhere.

April 5, 1936. This morning I awoke to Nevada’s sandy plains. It was nothing but brown sand dotted with olive green and brown sage brush which seemed to grow evenly over the country as far as the eye could see. In the distance the general flatness was broken by a gentle pitching which, in the greater distance, assumed the proportions of mountains. The hills and mountains were perfectly barren of vegetation and the taller ones looked as if they had been sprinkled with powdered sugar on their summits. It was a strange kind of beauty… a country so full of opposites.

The Great Salt Lake in Utah was the only break in the monotony. We arrived there around 5:30 PM just as the last glints of sunlight were striking the distant snow clad mountains on the opposite side of the lake and reflecting in the deep emerald brine. Overhead were a few sea gulls wheeling this way and that. They seemed quite lost at a place so far away from their usual haunts.

At Ogden I had to change from one coach to another. It was perhaps fortunate I did because I met some very interesting people. As I sat there, a couple of well dressed young women, looking and dressing exactly alike, came in and sat opposite me. I overhead them say they had come from San Jose. Pardoning myself, I mentioned I had come from San Francisco. The ice was broken and we discovered we had mutual friends in San Jose. In the course of conversation I learned that they were the Mack Sisters (twins) who sing over KFRC radio every Wednesday evening. They also managed some sort of lace manufacturing business in San Jose. The reason for their trip was to visit their grandmother near Granger, Wyoming, who was very ill.

Meanwhile a young fellow by the name of Joe sat down near us. I had said hello to him in Ogden. He had just been released from the Army where he had served for three years in Manila. The four of us began to talk about the Army. We hadn’t been talking for long before a young girl named Dot walked in with a girl companion. These last two had played cards all afternoon with the Mack Sisters, so we all sat down to talk. The porter started to put up the Pullman births where Dot and her companion were to sleep. It was only 8 PM and these girls had no intention of retiring before 12 Midnight. They decided to see what was going on in the other coaches.

April 6, 1936. It must be very cold out as over most of the country there was a thin crust of icy snow broken by patches of brown grass and earth. The fenders of automobiles often had ice hanging from them. Last night the outside windows of our coach began to freeze into a lacy design. What few trees I saw look so sad and lonesome and so naked without a vestige of green growth. There is no comparison between California and its neighbors to the east.

April 7, 1936. I arrived in Chicago almost completely worn out. We certainly had fun last evening on the way to Chicago. When the train stopped at Omaha, most of us in our coach got off to have dinner at the station lunch room. Joe decided it would be nice to have some whiskey on our last night together. I’m not sure whether he bought it or whether a woman of around 45 whom we called McCarty was instrumental in its purchase. From Omaha to Chicago our coach was practically empty except for the half dozen of us.

We had quite a mixed group. First there was Joe who was always lamenting the Army caste system and how the Army had wrecked his life. The more he drank the more he talked until I got absolutely sick of the story.

Then there was McCarty, who had drunk so much that she began to think she was psychic and insisted on telling everybody’s fortunes. Her fortune telling was concentrated on Joe and Dot who were not the least bit interested and didn’t mind telling her so. All of a sudden McCarty looked at me and decided that she had seen me someplace before and perhaps I was a detective sent by her husband from Berkeley to trail her and report on her. She called me sluefoot and begged the others not to let me get off at the same station with her.

Then there was Dot, a blond of some nineteen years old who knew all the questions and answers… or so she thought.

There was another young girl of seventeen years called Clara who was sensible enough not to take too many drinks. She and Joe did most of the singing while Dot played the part of director and insisted that they tone down so her weaker voice could be heard.

Another girl named Margaret was about 23. She and her mother were crossing the country to Washington D.C., where Margaret had a government job. They were very nice and courteous and temperate.

Still another was a sad faced serious young woman who was going to Kalamazoo, Michigan with her 14 month old baby and mother to stay with her brother. She told me she was leaving her husband in California because they couldn’t get along.

Here we were, a group from various walks of life thrown together and enjoying one another’s company. McCarty was to leave us at midnight, so Dot took it upon herself to try to revive her from a drunken stupor by the application of cold rags to her forehead. She succeeded quite well and, with the application of powder and rouge, had McCarty looking quite presentable again. Her departure was quite touching as she insisted on shaking hands and kissing everyone. The only one she avoided was me who she still insisted was old sluefoot, the detective. I wasn’t sorry.

After this sad farewell, they all sat around my chair each trying to talk about what they were most interested in, none of which was of any consequence.

Earlier in the afternoon Dot had swiped a cup from the railroad for a souvenir which she hid in my coat for safe keeping until she could smuggle it out. Later in the afternoon Joe had written on the inside of the cup, You are nothing but a spoiled brat if you take this cup. In the bottom of the inside of the cup he drew a face and entitled it Dot Hall. On the outside bottom he scratched out the Southern Pacific name (of which Dot was particularly fond) and wrote in Ausgosh A.R.K.

At this gathering around my chair, Joe presented the cup to Dot. Of course she resented the statements and they came to quite an argument with the result that Dot decided she didn’t want the cup at all and threw it on the floor.

Gradually one by one the company became drowsy and lay down to sleep. Long after all were in slumber land, Joe was still going strong. I was awake until 2 AM and how much longer Joe stayed awake I don’t know. We all took different trains in Chicago so the happy party was over. I went on to Cincinnati, Ohio.

It was difficult for me to realize that I had known these people for only two days and most likely would never see any of them again. The long distance we traveled together seemed to have stretched the time with it. Stories of our lives were exchanged among us so that I felt I knew some of them better than friends of many years in Grass Valley. There is safety in distance; the fact that we would never meet families or friends or each other again meant that our deepest secrets were safe. Perhaps the train carries the information away with it, and this train had an invisible but weighty load of the secrets of former passengers.

April 8, 1936. The first scene that made a real impact on me during my trip across the United States was the Union Railroad Station at Cincinnati, Ohio. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that station, but I could not imagine where I had acquired such an impression. However, when I stepped outside and saw its silhouette against a setting sun, I remembered photos and lantern slides of this structure during my architectural studies at the University of California at Berkeley.

Union Pacific R.R. Station, Cincinnati, April 8, 1936. Upon passing thru one of several entrance doors an immense hemispherically vaulted lobby opened up. (E1-18)

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When I arrived in Cincinnati I was tired and dirty. I entered the men’s rest room where I rented a private bathroom. It was equipped with hot shower, toilet and wash basin together with towels and soap for just 35 cents. While taking a shower, I had my suit pressed for an additional 50 cents. What service and comfort!

Cincinnati was a very busy city what little I was able to see of it in less than 24 hours. Located on the Ohio River, there was heavy freight traffic in coal, lumber and iron and some passenger steamer service with Louisville and other river ports. More than a dozen southern and eastern railroad lines entered the Cincinnati Union Terminal. This terminal was ranked as one of the most modern railroad stations in the world.

I had a good night sleep at the YMCA in a clean, quiet room. Next morning I phoned John Devere, a cousin of my mother, and had lunch with him. In his earlier days he was a successful electrical contractor. He had changed his name from Piepenbring to Devere during the years of World War I to avoid the stigma of a German heritage.

I returned to the railroad station to await my train in the passenger’s waiting room. Still awed by the splendor of the walls and ceiling I also noticed some six or seven little doors spaced equally along each of the long sides of the room. On each door was a track number and to the side of the door the number was repeated. Below it was a schedule of all trains leaving that track that day. Furthermore, while the train was being loaded on that track, its number was illuminated.

At last my track number was illuminated and I hastily gathered my bags and hurried down a long straight ramp directly to the place where my train was waiting. There was not the slightest confusion or delay, everything was perfectly planned.

Soon my fellow travelers and I were whisked away and moving along the Ohio River. At home we often sang the song, The Beautiful Ohio, but on this day it was anything but beautiful. Its chocolate colored waters were running high in spring flood. Now and again we would see some hapless residence partially submerged. Darkness mercifully closed down upon us, making the river and its troubles invisible.

The morning found us nearing Washington D.C. We crossed the Potomac River. It was very high and muddy. A stranger pointed out vast areas where it had overflowed, covering the lawns and roadways. I saw nothing of the city except a few fleeting glimpses.

Soon we rumbled into New York City. It glittered against the gray sky like a fine specimen of quartz crystals and overwhelmed my imagination making me wonder if it was real.

I actually saw little of New York but the impression which stayed with me is that it was the noisiest city I had ever visited. The subways under the streets, street cars, autos, people dashing here and there, and elevated tramways above the streets all combined to make an unceasing din.

I found a quiet place to stay overnight in Brooklyn. The following afternoon on April 10, 1936, I boarded the Jean Jadot at the foot of Segwich Street in Brooklyn to be a passenger on her sixty-second voyage.

Chapter 2

Crossing the Atlantic

April 10, 1936. At 7 PM, the Jean Jadot quietly slipped away from the dock. Before most of us on board knew it, we were out to sea. As our ship was mainly a cargo carrier with only a few passengers, there was no hoopla of horns, streamers or whistles to signal our departure. On deck we watched the glorious Statue of Liberty and the New York sky line gradually fade from view in the approaching darkness.

At 7pm, the Jean Jadot quietly slipped away from the dock. New York, Apr 10, 1936.(E1-21).

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My cabin, located in the middle of the ship on the extreme left hand or port side, was about ten by twelve feet in size and had two bunks. It was painted white except for the medium-brown mahogany woodwork trim, drapes over the ports, a drape at the door, and sort of black floor covered with a rug. It was very clean and comfortable. There was ample space for clothes in the closets and various drawers which were here and there. We had electric lights not only from the center of the cabin but also over each bunk. In addition, we merely had to press the button for steward service. There were six cabins such as mine. Also there were two restrooms, one women’s and one men’s.

On the lower deck was the dining room finished in mahogany, nicely furnished and equipped with a radio/gramophone of good quality. Adjoining was the bar and smoking room finished in oak and well appointed. Everything was kept very clean.

The food was excellent, well prepared and in great quantities. A typical meal might consist of vegetable soup, sweetbreads with mushrooms, radishes and celery, veal with potatoes and a vegetable, cheese of your choice and dessert of an apple, orange, or pastry. There was considerable variety from day to day. We had pork, veal, beef steak, hot dogs, lobster, and fish of several kinds. However, all the food was prepared in the French style; consequently it was very rich and I had difficulty in adapting myself to it.

The ship itself was about 400 feet long and heavy enough to ride the waves nicely (as I thought then). It was capable of making 300 miles in 24 hours in favorable weather. The cargo this trip consisted mainly of automobiles, tires and steel.

At the outset of the voyage I knew I was to have a companion in my cabin so I was quite curious about what he would be like. Finally, just before we sailed, a dark skinned individual of about my age and size came aboard. A few minutes later I entered our stateroom to find him putting his things away. In my most friendly English I said, I see that we are to be roommates. To which he replied, No speak English, senor.

I was astounded. I could not remember any Spanish! I frantically searched my traveling bags and hauled forth my little book on the Spanish language. I read it over to refresh my memory on vocabulary phrases and it was surprising how quickly a great deal of it came back to me. We carried on a conversation in Spanish interrupted by long silences in which I searched my book for words to say or tried to decipher words he said. I found out that his name was Dr. Sone, he was 26 years old, he had graduated from a school in Santo Domingo as a Doctor of Medicine and he was going to Antwerp to complete his studies.

In the cabin next to ours was a very serious looking man in his mid-fifties. His deep-set dark eyes looking through rimless glasses perched upon his long narrow nose gave him a shrewd and scholarly look. His English was painfully slow but invariably correct. His accent, although comparatively slight, marked him as from the Old World. His appearance told me he was from Belgium. He introduced himself as Louis Cohn or Monsieur Cohn, the man who raises rabbits in New York.

His great delight was to tell us about his rabbit farm and he would begin in a slow, well enunciated manner: And when I was on the farm, in the morning I was as hungry as an old cat, and I would prepare for myself a small simple little breakfast…yes? And first I would take some oatmeal and putting it in some hot water I would let it simmer, do you say, on the fire. And when it was thoroughly cooked I would eat of it two or three large bowls (and he’d demonstrate with his hands). And then, in the summer time I would have two or three bowls of nice, fresh raspberries… yes? And then, taking two or three potatoes which I had boiled the night before… yes? And, cutting them in flat pieces would fry them in my griddle. And then I would eat these. And, perhaps if I were really hungry I would fry a couple of eggs and a half a dozen slices of bacon. And the, finishing my breakfast, I would have six or seven cups of good strong coffee. Then I was ready to go out in my farm and work hard… hard I say, man, feeding the rabbits and cleaning the hutches. And then, upon getting hungry again, about two o’clock… and so forth forever.

It was vastly amusing for the first day or so but having repeated this daily routine at least once in each of the ten days we were out to sea we became a trifle tired of it.

We discovered at the dinner table, however, that Louis Cohn could speak as fluently in Spanish with Doctor Sone as he would in English, and with the same degree of accuracy. Of course, being a Belgian, his native language was French. His reason for visiting Belgium was apparently to see his mother whom he had left nine years before.

The next cabin is occupied by a very plain, good-hearted Belgian woman of some forty years. Her name is Madame Josephine Jordeans. She spoke broken English, had lived in New York for seven years, and had a husband and three children. She is making a short trip to Belgium to see her mother.

The next two cabins were occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Cobble and their two babies ages about 1 and 2. They were American missionaries and were going to the Belgian Congo. Mr. Cobble had been there four years already and Mrs. Cobble two and a half years. In fact, Mrs. Cobble, who was a well educated young woman of about 28 and a daughter of missionaries, had gone all the way to Africa from America to marry Mr. Cobble. At the end of Mr. Cobble’s fourth year they returned to America only to be sent out again for another four years.

The last passenger was in a cabin apart from us and equipped with a private bath. His name was Scharlach. He was a little fellow about 5 foot 4 inches tall with a round, pink, bland face. Whenever he smiled it was only a silly-looking grin spread across his face almost from ear to ear. He was returning from a three month business trip to Santa Domingo. His home office, of which he was a director, is in Antwerp. He kept me guessing as to what he really was. He seemed to be well traveled and talked like a business man. It occurred to me that he could be Jewish and a secret service man or he could be both. I’m really skeptical of him. He is too interested in what everybody else is doing.

The Captain is the next outstanding individual. He is at our table for dinner. He comes to dinner singing and from then on till dinner is over he is jabbering away in a meaningless, boisterous, and good natured fashion in Spanish to Sone, French to Jordeans, Scharlach, and Cohn, and English to me. He mixes his Spanish with French, his English with French and Spanish, and Lord knows he mixes his French with a bottle of beer. He is certainly a happy clown. He is a great teaser and joker and unless one takes what he says good naturedly, one will always be insulted. His only failing is that every night after supper while we are talking over our cups of coffee he drinks too much.

At the other table are the Cobbles and two officers of the ship. For our coffee, we would adjourn to the adjoining salon and talk on various subjects. That is, when Captain Gonthier chose to talk and not to argue with one or the other of us.

The first day out I felt fine until the evening supper. The ship had begun to pitch and roll a little and as I sat at the table with the walls and ceiling heaving up and down, I began to feel extremely weak. I left the table hurriedly and scampered upstairs to the lavatory, and it was well I did because I was just in time.

Feeling relieved I returned to the table. All eyes were upon me suspectingly (I guess I did look white) but I said nothing and neither did they. I was only at the table for a few minutes when I had another hurried call. Twice in one evening was too much. This time I stayed in my room and rang for service. I was determined to eat something because I understood it was best to do so. The steward brought me an apple, orange, and crackers which I tried to eat. Meanwhile Sone had come in and was lying on his bed holding his stomach and groaning. Suddenly I had another call and hastily left the cabin.

Upon returning I noticed the wash basin in our cabin was full. I opened the door wider and Sone warned me in Spanish to be careful where I stepped. The floor was covered. Sone was helplessly and sheepishly sitting up in bed ringing the steward who immediately came up and cheerfully cleaned house for us while I was on one side of the room grunting and Sone on the other side groaning.

A little later the steward, Theo, brought me a book to read to make me forget I was sea sick as he said. I immediately became interested in the book and gingerly munched my crackers. I was almost afraid to eat. I discovered that if I ate very, very slowly, I could keep things down. I could eat only crackers, raw vegetables and fresh fruit. I could not drink water, soup or eat meat.

For four days Sone and I kept to our cabin, rubbing our stomachs and moaning to each other how badly we felt. During that time I read five novels, more than I’ve read during the past five years. Finally, on the 14th of April, we both went down to the noon meal. That afternoon I didn’t feel so well, so I had the evening meal in bed. On the 15th I felt almost well, and it was good that I did because a storm blew up with such intensity that we were driven 500 miles to the North of our course.

The wind howled and the waves broke over the deck. The ship pitched and rolled at sickening angles. Fortunately I did not get sick. At first we had trouble with the tableware sliding off the tables. Captain Gonthier fixed that. He poured water on the table cloth and that was enough to hold the tableware in place.

The storm was even worse the next day. Captain Gonthier did not join us for meals during the rest of the storm. I hopefully assumed he was in the wheel house and not sea sick or drunk. I tried to obtain pictures of waves as they dashed 50 feet in the air and broke into spray across the deck.

The pictures were not too spectacular, but I became wringing wet and so did the camera. The next day was sunny, the only clear day on the whole trip. The waves and wind had subsided and the storm was over.

Monday we sighted Bishop’s Point, England at noon. We were all excited and no wonder, for it had been a long time (11 days) since we had seen land. We passed Dover and at 10 PM on April 21, 1936, we docked at Antwerp, Belgium.

Antwerp, Belgium’s greatest port, was located inland a few miles up the Scheldt River. All of us were in good spirits and eager for the morning and the new things just beyond our view. We were happy together, but I believe we were all glad the long trip was finished. When I thought of the months required to make the same journey in sailing vessels, the crowded conditions, the hardships suffered by men, women and small children, I marveled that so many emigrants had the courage and endurance to travel to America