Lost and Found

By Rachel Biale

Lost and Found: Historical Novel

NOVEMBER 1940: a mysterious explosion sinks the Patria, anchored in the Haifa Harbor. On board are 2,500 Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi-occupied Europe. The British Palestine Mandate authorities are ready to deport them. A four-year-old boy disappears while his parents and newborn brother are saved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildcat Books
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088244692

Rachel Biale

Rachel Biale grew up in Kibbutz Kfar Ruppin in Israel. After completing her IDF service she came to the US (married to David Biale) and earned a BA and MA in Jewish History at UCLA and a Master of Social Work at Yeshiva University.Rachel is the author of the path-breaking "Women and Jewish Law" (Schocken, 1984) which received the Kenneth Smilen Award in Jewish Thought from the National Jewish Book Council in 1985. The book remains in print - an important volume in the growing field of Jewish Feminism and Jewish Women’s History. In 2020 she published a memoir, "Growing Up Below Sea Level: A Kibbutz Childhood" (Mandel Vilar Press), and a parenting advice book, "What Now? 2-Minute Tips for Solving Common Parenting Challenges" (Koehler Books). Rachel has also written and illustrated several children’s books.Rachel has worked in the Bay Area Jewish community in various capacities for twenty-five years and has been active in community life related to Jewish culture and learning, Jewish feminism, Israel, and social justice. She has a parenting counseling practice and wrote a parenting advice column for the community’s weekly paper, the J., for three years.Rachel also writes and illuminates Ketubot – Jewish marriage contracts.

Book preview

Part I: October 1940

C

HAPTER

1

Gertie awoke in the dark. In the faint light of the lone weak bulb at the far end, the slender phosphorescent hands of her watch showed 4:20. A long wait until dawn. When her eyes adjusted, she made out the outlines of mounds everywhere—people sleeping two and three to a bunk. She could certainly smell them. Taking only small sips of air did nothing to hold back the stench. People sweated so much in the hot, dank space, the fetid odor permeated every thimbleful of air.

How long had they already been on the Atlantic? Ten, twelve days? Remember the first days on board? You thought you’d never adjust. First the heat, blasting into the hold under the deck as if there were no walls separating it from the furnaces. Then the dense burnt-coal air; how could anyone breathe? By now she actually longed for that sickly-sweet smell; it was more agreeable than this reek of humans.

Can you blame them? Bathing in seawater only once a week, the salty brine did little to clean you and less to diminish the odor of bodies soiled by diarrhea and vomit. It left your skin with a lacey crust of salt. Don’t, she ordered herself, folding her fingers into fists to stifle the urge to scratch. Think about those who couldn’t resist: their skin flared red and bled. Infections were rampant and medications scarce; the most effective ones, Gentian Violet and Sulfa, critically low. She’d kept close watch over her Emil and cut his fingernails nearly to the quick, so he wouldn’t break his velvety skin when he scratched. But can you make a four-year old remember not to scratch? Better not to bathe him at all, she had decided.

Gertie lifted her head to look at the lump that was Emil and Alfred, nestled into one another a handbreadth away. She was lucky, in her unluckiness—she was so big, she had a bunk all to herself. Though the bunk was less than two feet wide, she had learned how to accommodate her belly by lying on her side with her legs arrow-straight. Alfred and Emil shared their bed with their two suitcases and rucksacks. Alfred contorted his tall frame in the shape of a half-opened folding chair. He was pencil-thin, so there was enough room for Emil to squeeze himself into the triangle Alfred made with his bent knees. He’s kind of a giraffe, Alfred is, Gertie chuckled, and Emil—a bear cub. And me, a hippo, my huge belly nearly scraping the floor. Quite the menagerie.

Gertie’s eyes trace Alfred’s rectangular face. So gaunt! She shakes her head. His dark hair is thinning on top. Already? He’s not even thirty-two. The worrying or the physical exertion? She rests her eyes longingly on the small cleft in his chin. It’s just a lentil-size indentation, but it makes a perfect nest for her pinky. She liked to rest it there after they made love. And his unusually long earlobes: strange, even ugly to most people, certainly to women. Did women look at him that way? Even here on the boat—when he was up on the deck, and she trapped down here?

Whatever those earlobes were to other women, she loved them. She used to kiss each one and talk to it on nights they were amorous. A stirring in her pelvis seemed to come from hundreds of miles across the sea. She sighed. Will that ever come back? She closed her eyes to savor the sensation, but it left her and now all she felt was pressure in her bladder. Ach, she is going to have to go to the bathroom; not yet, but soon. At least at this hour there was no line.

Even without a line, going to the toilet was an ordeal. She was so heavy in her pregnancy that her belly swayed with its own rhythm. Standing and walking, she had to cradle her belly in her hands to keep it moving with the rest of her body.

I look ridiculous, she’d complained to Bronia early in the journey. Look at me! A bulging-bellied chimp with long arms hanging to the floor.

Oh, Gertie, what do you care? It’s too dark and crowded down here for anyone to notice you anyway.

On that point, you are right. And there are other advantages; no one sees my matted hair, either. Gertie touched her hair, so thick with sea salt it stood on her head like a haphazard pile of twigs. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the soft swells of her blond mane; how it had made three graceful waves from the part at the top of her head to just above her shoulders.

"Ach, Gertie said, what I would give for a hot shower, shampoo, and a clean towel."

Would you settle for a mirror? Bronia asked and fumbled among her things.

A mirror? Gertie touched her fingertips to her cheeks. How long since you’ve seen rouge? she whispered to them. And you two, lipstick? she ran her finger along her thin, elegantly etched lips.

And to think, Bronia, how much time I spent every morning back home, fixing myself up.

I’ll bet . . . 

Well, I had a reputation to maintain! And now look at me.

I’m looking. I don’t see . . . 

You don’t? Skin chafed by sea salt, lips cracked and peeling, eyebrows grown wild. It’s a patch of weeds up there!

You are still beautiful, Gertie.

"Danke. You’re lying, but you’re a good friend."

Gertie glanced at her watch: 4:28. In the soothing silence around her all she heard were occasional snores and the faint lapping of the waves against the side of the boat. Of course, there was also the constant rumble of the turbines, but she had learned to tune that out. Try to hold it a bit longer, so Alfred can sleep a little more.

She closed her eyes, hoping to doze, but instead her mind took itself to the steps ahead of her. Three times a day she had to get herself up to the deck to the so-called toilets. At least there was one benefit to the water and food rationing, she told herself. She remembered the last month of pregnancy with Emil only vaguely, too far away in so many ways from her present reality, but she was sure the bathroom trips were much more frequent.

She had come to loathe the Toilettereise—the voyage to the toilet. First, she’d try to make herself a little more presentable, smoothing her hair with dampened palms or hiding it with a scarf, then pulling on her oversized blouse to cover her belly. It was as if she were inside a moving tent. Lucky that Mama had insisted on the blouse. Once dressed, she snaked her way between people and luggage, careful not to step on a hand or foot. Every horizontal surface was occupied, from the upper deck to the lower hold, their cave. And the stairs were getting harder and harder. She had to rest every other rung. If no one was watching, she went up by hauling her behind up from step to step. It was actually faster, and she felt safer staying low to the ground.

Once she got up on deck people let her go to the front of the line, and she thanked them warmly. The toilets, a long plank with holes cantilevered over the edge of the boat, had sheets of rough fabric marking individual stalls, providing minimal privacy.

Just thinking about the revolting stench of toilets made the urge subside. Who knew your body would do that of its own accord? She lifted her belly to relieve the pressure on her bladder. No hope of sleep now, though. Worries chased one another as marbles roll down a narrow chute. Food and water severely rationed, medical supplies dwindling, typhus and dysentery rampant. Thank God they got typhus vaccinations back in Vienna, despite the unpleasant side effects. But dysentery you couldn’t inoculate against. She could catch it from anyone—Alfred, Emil, her friends. How much longer before they get there? What if it’s more than a week? Or two? An icy chill shot through her despite the heat.

C

HAPTER

2

She had hoped when they first boarded the Atlantic that the baby would wait until they made land. God forbid, Alfred, I should give birth here, she’d said the moment they settled down on their bunks. But as the promised week-long sail went past two weeks, it seemed more and more likely the baby would come at sea. Thank God, there were five doctors among the refugees on the boat. She had seen the Mother and Baby Clinic set up in the small cabin on the deck. Everyone called it The Panama Room. Alfred said it was because a Panamanian flag was painted on its flat roof—their rather pathetic attempt to hide their identity. They flew the Panama flag as well, hoping to appease both the Germans and British with their supposed neutrality. She chuckled every time she said it— The Panama Room! It sounded like an exotic dance lounge or a gentlemen’s club.

Enough! She told herself. Tomorrow you’ll try to organize the basic necessities: food, water, medical supplies, and a few things to swaddle and dress the newborn. She’d brought no baby clothes, never imagining she’d still be on the ship for the birth. So many delays . . . Their journey unrolled in her mind like a spool of silk ribbon.

They left Vienna in late May only to learn in Bratislava, the gathering point for the journey, that they would be detained there until all the permits are in place.

"Welcome to the Patronka," the Czech Jews had called out when the Viennese Jews arrived. The Czechs had already been there since January, when the Danube froze over. They no longer noticed the acrid smell of old gunpowder, which still made her shudder with nausea.

An old munitions factory, Alfred, she remembered saying, it’s no place for a pregnant woman!

We’ll only be here for a few days, Gertie. You’ll feel better on the open water of the river.

Two months later they finally boarded the Schönbrunn, an old glory Danube paddlewheel. The passengers cheered as if they were only a few hours away from their final destination. Not that it was going to be a pleasure ride. There were so many of them crammed onto the boat they would have to stand most of the time.

"This is the Schönbrunn?" Alfred called out. "Sic transit gloria mundi!" he shook his head theatrically as they stepped onto the deck. Emil was asleep on his right shoulder, exhausted by both the waiting and the excitement.

"Ja, certainly not what it was in its heyday, Gertie sighed. Not to mention that we have to sail under a Nazi flag."

Yes, Alfred snorted, the God-dammed swastika—

Alfred! Gertie grabbed his arm, her face blanched with fear.

It’s all right, Gertie. At least we can say what we want now.

I guess so, she let her breath out slowly. But the boy . . . 

Still sleeping, Alfred assured her.

They shuffled forward, carried by the river of people deeper into the boat. Gertie scanned the cabin as they entered. You could barely see the walls for the people jammed inside it. She looked up at the ceiling: the ornately carved wood was chipped, the painted moldings peeling, the chandeliers all replaced by bare bulbs on twisted wires.

No glory left, indeed, Gertie said, her voice dark with foreboding.

They’d found a corner where Alfred stacked their two suitcases on top of each other. Gertie lowered herself down slowly, careful not to crush the luggage and Alfred carefully transferred Emil into her arms, hoping not to wake him.

"And to think, Alfred, how we used to stand on the dock back home and eye the passengers embarking onto the Schönbrunn with such envy."

"Sure, only the crème de la crème could afford a journey on the Schönbrunn. As a matter of fact, my parents did go on it soon after it was launched. To celebrate their wedding anniversary; their 10th, I think. Just before the war."

Just before the war?

The other war, Gertie.

Well, that was different.

Emil squirmed and sat up in Gertie’s lap and his eyes grew bigger as he looked around.

Why are there so many people, Mama?

That’s what they call ‘standing room only,’ Gertie said, more to Alfred than to Emil, then thought the better of it and said in a cheerier tone, we are lucky, Emilein. At least we can sit down. Papa fixed it for us.

Thank you, Papa!

Alfred smiled and tousled Emil’s hair, but Gertie could see he was still back in the Olden Days.

"The famously palatial Schönbrunn turned into a huge tin of sardines at the hand of the damned Nazis, Alfred said, loud enough for everyone around him to hear. It smells that way, too. A can of sardines left open too long."

"It does smell. Pfui!" Emil tried to join their conversation.

"Not much Schön left in this Schönschiff…" Alfred shook his head.

"Not much. But the Schönbrunn Palace hasn’t fared any better. They turned half of it into military barracks."

Much of Vienna is like that.

Ja . . . it seems so far away now.

The trip down the Danube should have taken six days, but it stretched to almost a month. At every border crossing and every river port they had to appease and bribe the local officials to gain permission for passage. They passed Czechoslovakia, Hungary (at least Budapest was a beautiful sight), Yugoslavia, and finally a long stretch along the Romanian—Bulgarian border.

Don’t think about it! Gertie warned herself. But it was too late. The image was etched on the inside of her eyelids. She had been standing at the edge of the Schönbrunn’s deck with Emil by her side, holding more and more tightly onto the banister and his hand. They stared at a dilapidated boat with the strange name Pentcho, right in the middle of the Danube, listing to the left. They got close enough to call out to the big crowd on its deck.

A jumble of voices until a young, muscular man yelled: Quiet, everyone! Let one person speak from each boat. A tall man with a wild beard stepped forward on the Pentcho. They had been stranded for weeks. The engine broke down and neither the Romanians nor the Bulgarians would let them dock at their shore. They were enemy aliens with no permits to stop in either country. By now they had run out of food and water, not to mention medical supplies. People on board had started dying.

Everyone started throwing things to the stranded boat; half-loaves of bread, sardine tins, water canteens. Gertie wanted to spirit Emil away from the scene, but it was too late.

Why are people throwing things at them, Mama?

They want to give them some good things to eat, she said biting her lip to hold in her rage. They are Jews, like us. Their boat is making a stop and . . .  Her voice trailed off. Get him away! she ordered herself. Speaking of good things to eat, she forced out a cheerful voice, I have some . . . candy for you!

Candy?

Yes, I saved two pieces. Let’s go inside and get them.

Look, Emil! She said inside the cabin, we have the whole place to ourselves! We can stretch out and lie down on the bunks. How nice is that?

Nice. I’m tired of sleeping sitting on Papa’s lap. It’s so crowded in here, Mama!

It is. Emilein. But not right now! She lay down and pulled Emil over to snuggle next to her.

"It’s going to be crowded for a few more nights, Liebling, so let’s enjoy this now." Emil curved himself around her belly.

Your belly is getting huge, Mama. Soon there won’t be any room for me.

Don’t worry, Emilein, soon we’ll get to Palestina and the baby will be born and we’ll have big beds and our own house and plenty of room . . .  She stopped herself from getting carried away.

That will be good, Mama. But now it’s candy and story time, Emil said and laid his head on her chest. She handed him two small toffees.

One after the other, alright? And suck them slowly to make them last longer.

I know, Mama. He popped one into his mouth and cupped the other in his fist, clutching it to his heart.

Gertie began a new adventure story, this one about a pioneer settlement in Palestine. Emil was mesmerized and seemed to forget about the scene outside. As she had hoped, with the comfort of lying horizontally with legs fully stretched out, he soon fell fast asleep.

A loud bang startled her and she realized she had dozed off too. She grabbed hold of Emil.

What’s that, Mama? he cried out.

Another two loud pops followed.

Emil buried his head in her chest.

She didn’t know. They sounded like rifle shots but she wasn’t going to say that to Emil.

Oh, Emilku, don’t worry. Sometimes when they rev up the engine it makes a loud bang like that. It probably means we’ll be moving fast soon. But for now, put your head down and sleep a little more, while we can still stretch out. Emil scooted back down from Gertie’s embrace. She stroked his hair and, in a minute, he was asleep again.

Thank God he’s asleep, Alfred said as he entered the cabin.

Yes, he needed a good sleep.

No, more than that— he sat down on Gertie’s bunk, visibly shaking. He gripped his fingers in such tight fists she could see the whites of his knucklebones.

Up above . . . "

Yes, Gertie interrupted him, what were those bangs?

Gunshots.

Gunshots?

"Yes. Several people from the Pentcho jumped into the water to swim ashore; some to the Romanian side, others to Bulgaria. All of them . . . "

He shook his head.

All of them what, Alfred?

Shot by guards standing on the shore.

He covered his face with his hands as his body trembled. Gertie said nothing. She gently laid her open palm on his back.

C

HAPTER

3

When they finally disembarked from the Schönbrunn in Tulcea, Romania, they saw hundreds of people lined up on the dock, amid a clutter of luggage.

Look at all the people, Mama! Are they coming onto our boat now?

Maybe, Emil, Gertie said then turned to Alfred: Are these Germans going back up the Danube?

Must be. Eichmann’s devilish plan is working, Alfred said sotto voce, cocking his head towards Emil.

They don’t look that different from us, Alfred.

Mama, there are boys like me, Emil tugged on her sleeve, can we play together?

No Emil, they’re leaving soon.

Not fair, he whined.

Not much different, with their suitcases and little children in their arms, Gertie continued her conversation with Alfred. But they must be happier about their journey.

Some are, but, as a matter of fact, many are being repatriated against their will.

I’m sorry, Alfred, but I cannot feel sorry for them.

Who does?

Look, there, Gertie pointed, a pregnant woman. About as far along as me.

"Yes, Gertie, but they are going home!"

So are we, Alfred!

After a fashion . . . after a fashion . . .  Alfred muttered.

How the wait in Tulcea dragged on! Day after day, promise after promise—camped in rough-hewn wooden warehouses, former granaries, with wheat kernels still stuck between the boards. The ships are coming any minute now, the organizers reassured them. Meanwhile, the Romanian guards did everything they could to keep them docile. Those who had a little money to spare or a bottle of liquor got extra food and a few Romanian cigarettes, which they broke into four pieces and shared with their friends. The brand was . . . yes, National. Everything had patriotic names. How she hated it. Non-smokers themselves, Gertie and Alfred traded their meager possessions for food. The memory of the dry salami made her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth; an unpleasant sensation, yet a sweet memory. Would be nice, right now . . . Hungarian salami on the Atlantic . . .  she laughed at herself, but her stomach was already growling. Shush, you, she patted it.

She looked at her watch again: twenty-three minutes had passed. Five more and then we go, she whispered, patience.

Her mind back in Tulcea: how long had they been stuck —really imprisoned —there? Eight, nine days? Longer? But finally, the ships did arrive at the port, three of them.

These they call ships? Gertie had muttered when they’d lined up on the dock, ordered at dawn to get ready to board. They look like patched-together floating crates!

Shush . . .  Alfred nodded towards Emil.

You see the ships, my boy? he said, mustering as much as cheer as he could.

Yes, Papa. I see three.

One of these ships will be ours.

The only ship-like thing about these is their names, Gertie said, her voice low but harsh. Milos, Pacific and Atlantic.

Are these sea-worthy, Alfred? How will these wrecks hold all of us?

Shh . . .  don’t frighten him.

Alfred hoisted the rucksack on his back, then Emil on his hip. He picked up one of their suitcases.

You take the other one, Gertie. Let’s go.

The long line of passengers stood in stunned silence. They shuffled forward a step or two at a time. Gertie dragged the suitcase along the rough pavement. Finally, they climbed aboard the gangplank and entered the Atlantic.

As a matter of fact, Alfred picked up where he’d left off, trying to sound confident, the man from the Jewish Agency was very proud of these boats.

He was?

They bought them for a song. Fixed them up in two weeks.

Fixed them up? Ours looks more like they barely kept it from sinking.

Alfred shrugged. Emil’s head was now lolling on his shoulder. Gertie wondered if somehow Emil knew he must shield himself from the situation. No, she corrected herself: You! You must shield him.

They filed onto the deck. But really, Alfred, isn’t it much too small? We are more than 1,600, no?

We’ll have to manage.

Yes, we will, Gertie said between clenched teeth. Does it have family cabins? she asked, determined not to complain anymore.

Cabins? I doubt that. The man said it was a cargo boat.

Gertie pressed her lips together. What was the point of her protests? Europe was locking its jaws around them. They were lucky to escape.

Hanging onto Alfred’s arm, Gertie followed as he navigated the steps leading down to a barn-like hold. Row after row of narrow rough-hewn wood bunks lined each side, most already occupied. They moved through the aisle towards an area lit by three bare bulbs.

Don’t touch the wires! a woman shouted at them from her bunk. You’ll get a bad shock.

Thank you, Gertie said.

My name is Bronia, the woman introduced herself.

From Vienna? Am I right? Gertie said.

Indeed.

We are, too. Gertie, Alfred, and our boy, Emil.

Just past my bed there are two open bunks, Bronia said with the welcoming gesture of a stylish hostess. Looks like you’ll need one for yourself and one for your husband and son.

That was just two weeks ago, Gertie marveled now.

They had sailed side by side with the Milos and Pacific across the Black Sea and into the Dardanelles.

The Three Musketeers, Alfred announced.

Indeed, Gertie said, but let’s hope there are no sword fights ahead of us.

But once the boats passed into the Sea of Marmara, they lost sight of each other.

"Arrivederci, Alfred said, we’ll see you all in Haifa."

C

HAPTER

4

Now she couldn’t hold it any longer. She woke Alfred and they set out. Since no one else was awake, she hauled herself up the stairs on her bottom.

Not bad, hah? Gertie said at the top.

Amazing how fast you do it this way.

Ja. Not elegant, but very efficient.

Up on the silent deck Gertie breathed in the fresh air. Delicious. Despite everything, there were moments of bliss out in the open air. They passed someone sitting up wrapped in a blanket, then skirted around a young couple deep in hushed lovemaking. They pretended not to notice. Alfred pushed Gertie from behind as she climbed up to the toilet stall. She sank into the relief of letting go. The waning, still nearly full moon, lit their way back.

Near the stern, they heard voices, then silence, then a splash.

"Yitgadal veyitkadash shmeh rabbah."

What is it, Alfred?

"Kaddish."

Someone died? she whispered. Did you know?

Yes.

You didn’t tell me!

It’s like that almost every day, Gertlein. Typhus, dysentery . . . 

You didn’t tell me.

I didn’t want to upset you. You have enough to worry about.

And they always do this at night?

"Not usually. For most of them we have a proper ceremony with Kaddish and a eulogy before they are pushed overboard. Maybe this person had no one."

Back at her bunk, Gertie was so exhausted she fell asleep right away. When she opened her eyes, Emil and Alfred were already dressed and heading up to the deck. Only Bronia stayed back to keep you company. But Gertie knew it was also to keep an eye on her. Everyone was nervous about the baby coming.

Don’t worry for a minute, Bronia said after Gertie listed all the things she would need if she gave birth on the ship. I will ask the other mothers for a few things. There are several babies who must have outgrown their newborn outfits by now. I’ll go on a hunting expedition.

Danke, Gertie smiled, and some cotton towels or sheets—to make diapers.

"Natürlich! I know that, Gertie, even if I don’t have a baby myself. My friend, Elsa, you’ve met her . . . "

Of course, you two are inseparable.

Well, she’s investigated the diaper question already. The mothers tear tattered clothing people give them into strips and boil them with Lysol. Then they hang them on a clothesline up on the deck.

Oh, yes, I’ve seen them flapping in the wind up there. That’s at least one thing this blazing Mediterranean sun is good for. Bleaches better than any chemical.

Elsa is a treasure, Gertie said. What a comical sight it had been the first time she saw them arm in arm. Elsa was as tall as Gertie, but much thinner. Her willowy frame was crowned by sleek black hair, that stood at attention by each cheek. Her mouth seemed set in permanent disapproval, perfectly fitting her role as the purveyor of gossip; putting the haughty in their place, tzek-tzeking at the dandies. Every inch of Elsa’s height went into Bronia’s width, every sharp angle into roundedness, all topped by curly brown hair. A beauty spot right above the left corner of Bronia’s lip made it seem as if she was always smiling.

Time for breakfast, Bronia said, looking at her watch.

Go ahead. Try to find Alfred in line and remind him to bring me my rations.

Or course. And if he is too busy, I’ll bring it myself. But don’t get your hopes up about either the size or the taste.

I haven’t for a while, Gertie said and went back to sleep.

Alfred’s footsteps hammering on the steps woke her. He had Emil with him and her breakfast. She took the food and asked him to inquire at the Panama Room about food and supplies. I’ll keep an eye on Emil. He’ll stay with me and rest.

I don’t need to rest! Emil protested, I want to be on deck with Papa.

"I’m sure, Liebling, Gertie tousled his curls, but let’s practice your numbers now. When we get to Palestina you’ll go to kindergarten, and what if the children there already know how to count to a hundred?"

I do too!

So, show me, Gertie said and made room for Emil on her bunk. She felt a tinge of guilt for using the practice as an excuse to savor the last few days, maybe only hours, with him as her only child. You’re allowed, she told herself.

I’ll go up, then, Alfred said and took the steps two at a time. Gertie wrapped her arm around Emil and pulled him closer. After he recited his numbers, she began to tell him a story. Soon Emil fell asleep.

Alfred returned with a forced smile.

Well? she whispered so as not to wake Emil, do they have anything there?

As a matter of fact, they’ve stocked a small cache of food. He counted off on his fingers: Eight tins of sardines. Three jars of jam —the ersatz kind.

No matter.

Six packages of dry biscuits, probably moldy by now.

We can scrape off the mold. And? She looked at him expectantly.

Where was I? Alfred put up his fourth finger: powdered milk —they said enough for ten days, but I don’t know if I believe them. They saw I was worried.

Ja, I imagine so, Gertie sighed. Then she brightened up. I also managed to save some food from our rations. And one water canteen. For the critical moment.

How? Alfred’s raised his eyebrows.

My friends. Mostly Bronia and Elsa, but others too. They’ve been bringing me little portions of their daily rations. Whatever can be dried, I save. The rest I eat and a few bites I give to Emil. He’s hungry all the time now. You too, Alfred, I know.

Alfred took her hands. He leaned down and kissed each finger, then laid his palm on her stomach. Huge, isn’t it?

I’m better nourished than anyone else on board, Gertie said. But you . . .  she shook her head, you’re getting so thin.

A little bit. But I’m only eating for myself. And I don’t need to keep my strength the way you do.

She worried about him, about the hard physical work: carrying huge pots of soup for dinner, stacking heavy sacks, coiling cables, heaving garbage overboard. He certainly wasn’t used to this. His clothes hung on his frame like the scarecrows she had loved spotting in the fields on her family’s trips to the countryside. She winced at the twine he cinched tighter and tighter to hold up his pants. But, she admitted to herself, she did like the new ropes of muscle in his arms.

In the afternoon Elsa and Bronia came back with two small packages. They laid the items out on Gertie’s bunk.

Hardly anyone has anything to spare, Bronia said, but they were still generous. Look at this one, she picked up a light blue bonnet and twirled it around her finger. It’s so small! Gertie thought, barely big enough to fit over a man’s fist.

Would you look at it? Bronia exclaimed. She pointed to the tiny embroidery stitches around the rim, green arrow-shaped leaves and yellow daisies, each with a bright red center made with a tight knot.

A grandmother’s handiwork, Gertie said with a smile, but then her face darkened. Ach . . .  a world without grandmas.

And these, Elsa said counting out ten cloth diapers, three baby outfits, and two receiving blankets, enough for three days.

And these soft rags for your bleeding, Bronia showed Gertie a small bundle.

After three days we’d better get to land or we’ll have to start laundering, Elsa concluded.

I’ll wash if we have to, Bronia said, but I vote for getting there.

Don’t we all, Gertie said and began stacking everything into a neat pile.

C

HAPTER

5

"A lfred, Alfred! Wake up. Bitte ."

"Was ist?"

Wake up, Liebling. I need you.

What’s wrong?

Nothing. I mean . . . I have to throw up. The baby —it’s pressing my stomach so much now.

Coming! Alfred sat up and swung his legs over Emil so as not to wake him. Gertie waited as he pulled on his sweater. He helped her to her feet and they maneuvered to the stairs.

The usual method?

My method, Gertie sat down and one by one, hoisted her bottom up the stairs.

On deck they navigated slowly between sleeping passengers and their possessions.

What’s that noise? Alfred said and looked over his shoulder.

Don’t bother with that now, Alfred. I really need to get to the railing!

Yes, Liebling. Hold my hand.

What a relief, Gertie announced after her meager dinner went overboard.

But now she heard it too.

What is it, Alfred? Can you tell?

Shush! It’s coming from the other side of the boat.

Yes, heavy scratching sounds.

But now, that’s something else, Gertie, like something fell into the water.

Not another dead person, I hope.

I don’t think so, didn’t hear of any deaths today.

Another plop.

Stay here! Alfred commanded. I’ll go see what it is.

No, Alfred. I’m coming, too. I’m not that slow.

Alright, but quiet! Be careful—who knows what it is?

They circled to the front of the boat, tiptoeing as if they were thieves. Louder now, they could hear muffled voices. What in the world is going on? Gertie whispered. Reaching the other side of the boat, they saw a large sack fly overboard, landing in the water with a big plop. Then several smaller ones, plip, plip, plip.

Alfred held Gertie back with his hand, then inched along the railing. Gertie waited, counting her breaths. He returned, panting. "Schrecklich! It’s dreadful! The sailors are throwing the coal overboard! Some in sacks, some with shovels."

What on earth for?

God knows, Gertie. I must wake people —the Leadership. You go back to where we passed someone who was awake. Tell him to find the right people on deck. Then we’ll meet right back here. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Alfred raced off. Gertie gripped the railing and advanced towards the man they had seen sitting up. She heard Alfred’s shouts ricocheting back from the steps to the lower deck, then other voices, shouting orders. Mayhem down below, she thought, and for once I am not stuck there.

Two much louder plops came from the stern of the boat. Leaning over the railing Gertie spotted two lifeboats in the water crowded with sailors rowing as fast as they could. What on earth? Where and why are they going?

Alfred returned, gasping for air. The Greek sailors . . . they threw the coal overboard.

And escaped! Gertie pointed to the lifeboats.

Yes, most of them did. But we captured the captain and locked him in his berth.

Why? Why did they do this? Gertie demanded.

People are saying they got a message by Morse Code that Italy just declared war on Greece.

What’s that got to do with us?

The sailors panicked. They don’t want to be caught up in the war. Maybe they were afraid they would be charged with transporting illegal passengers.

Gertie shook her head. I can’t say I’m surprised. All of them looked to me like nothing more than small-time criminals.

That I have to agree with, but . . . 

But what?

It’s not irrational. There must be Italian warships not far from here at war with their country. But why throw the coal overboard? Alfred was shouting now. I fail to see how that helps them! What is the logic in that?

Alfred, they are criminals, not philosophers, their glorious Plato and Aristotle notwithstanding.

Still, it makes no sense. That is not rational.

Gertie sighed.

Alfred took her arm. Let’s go down. Then I’ll find out what’s going to happen.

Gertie shot one last glance at the sea. The lifeboats were slipping away. They looked no bigger than toys now, and the sailors’ silhouettes were outlined by the first light of dawn.

Back at her bunk Gertie found Emil in Bronia’s arms. She gasped. He must have woken up from the shouting and been terrified. Thank God for Bronia!

Mama, here you are finally! Emil rushed into her arms. Bronia said you would come right back, but you didn’t!

I’m sorry, Emilein. I had to go to the . . . hmmm, the ladies room. But I’m back now.

I didn’t cry, Mama, he said, but his lower