I turned to Irena in alarm. ‘Is this true? What if that man’s right and Stalin changes his mind? What will happen to us? Where will we go? I haven’t any food or money; we’ll starve here.’
‘You are a little worrier, aren’t you?’
Everyone spent the night huddled together beneath the open skies, and spoke of nothing else but whether the Soviets would let us go. More refugees kept arriving so that by morning we were cramped beyond capacity. It was cold; the rain had stopped, but the sea looked rough.
‘I need a pee.’
Irena pointed to some distant bushes. ‘Be quick; you don’t want leaving behind. In fact, we’ll both go. We might not get the chance later.’
Clambering to our feet, we were careful to avoid the uncontrolled stools from the dysentery of the ill, who had defecated wherever they lay.
It proved to be a long wait with everyone else queuing for the same purpose, but we waited, crossing and uncrossing our legs, tolerating the discomfort in our tummies.
Just as we were crouching down, the hum of voices grew louder, and as a wave of undulating geese taking flight, the crowd began rising to its feet.
‘Hurry!’ I was half walking, half running, the puddle of remaining drinking water sloshing around in my pail. ‘There might not be room for us.’
36
Irena and I tagged onto the end of the queue and shuffled along.
Crawling with lice, we endured our fate with stoicism. Our clothes and shoes were in tatters. Some had feet bound in rags, yet everyone clung to that one intangible thing – hope.
A flat-topped corrugated shack at the far end acted as the checkpoint. The NKVD and Polish soldiers stood checking lists of names and permits before they allowed passengers onto the quay. Once in a while, the NKVD asked somebody to step aside, where a Polish soldier would explain the problem, and that person and his family couldn’t sail.
‘Dear God,’ said Irena, ‘to be so close and then refused. I wonder what they’ve done wrong?’
Everyone was being allowed through – ill or not. ‘Perhaps I should leave Mama’s pillow…’
‘Don’t be silly.’
When it became clear the NKVD were not searching anybody, and the man in front could pass through, he began protesting, ‘Search my bag,’ he cried, ‘go on, search it! Everything I owned, I left behind! For what? For you to pick up later, you swindling bastards! Don’t you think we’ve been through enough?’
We arrived on the wharf at two in the afternoon. ‘Told you no one would search us,’ Irena said, ‘but I’m surprised they’ve allowed so many sick people through. I don’t suppose the Soviets care; we’re taking their diseases with us.’
The excitement and euphoria of arriving at the quayside was contagious. Everyone was glad to see the ships, the surrounding activity – knowing that soon, oh so soon, we would get out of Russia forever. Words could never express the sensation.
A sharp wind blew off the sea and brought with it the smell of oil from the nearby refineries. It settled in my stomach and made me feel queasy. Embarkation was slow, and all the while the greasy, polluted brine slapped against the ship’s hull.
Our transport was a massive Soviet freighter, its sides streaked with far more rust than paint to inspire confidence. Polish troops, their kit strapped to their backs, boarded first. They marched up the gangplank, and one by one disappeared below deck into the innards of the monster. When it was our turn, I held onto Irena’s arm and tried not to look down. There was so much space up here that it was difficult to decide where to sit. The hundreds who had boarded before were as mere ants.
I looked around at the filthy floor where thousands of previous passengers had left their mark. It was awash with the remains of bloodied excrement, and the stench would have been unbearable, had it not been for the westerly wind.
The few quickly rigged toilets hung out over the sea on the other side of the guardrails – planks of wood crudely fettered together to form a box with a hole in the bottom and a ledge on which to stand. They were lashed to the rails with rope.
‘I won’t be risking my life in one of those things,’ Irena said, ‘one slip, and you’d be in the water. Is there anywhere sheltered to sit? The sky threatens rain.’
‘I’ll see if there’s space down here.’ I was already heading for the lower deck, but the guard barred my way. ‘Sorry, military units only.’
‘No luck – troops only.
We headed for the prow. Irena emptied the contents of her drinking water into my pail. ‘We’ll use mine instead of those hanging latrines.’
After a few hours, we were feeling penned in as more and more people kept boarding. They filled the areas where anyone could stretch or sit, turning the deck into a menagerie of noise, and moving arms and legs.
The ship was full, the waves ramming it against the buffers, but still they kept coming. Soon human bodies clogged the decks, the stairs, the hold and gangways. I had to sit with my holdall on my lap to make more space, but still they came.
‘What are they thinking,’ Irena said. ‘What’s wrong with them? Enough!’
I wondered how long it would take to drown. My only option now was to get off this floating catastrophe waiting to happen, but that would mean typhus, twisting bowels, a brief stay in Stalin’s Paradise and then eternal rest.
Nearby, another massive freighter had docked, filled with war supplies from America. As it grew darker, lights glowed along the quayside. Our ship was full, yet a sizeable crowd remained on the wharf.
From down on the docks came the sounds of clanking chains, as our vessel prepared to sail and they hoisted the anchor. I felt it shunt away from the pier and we were on our way.
Realising it was about to leave without them, the crowds below made a desperate surge towards it. Soldiers barred their way. Everyone could hear the commotion; the pitiful cries, the soldiers shouting, ‘Stand back; you’ll be boarding the next ship.’
The noise on board died down, as everyone imagined those poor souls’ plights, how we would feel if it happened to us, and thanked God for our wonderful fortune. The thundering ship’s stack charged the air as the old wreck crawled out into the Caspian Sea and headed off into the night.
We knew the dead wouldn’t hurt us – but we were sitting next to a corpse. At least it wouldn’t shit. By morning many were dead.
Some passengers had grouped nearer the rails for the burials, treading on others to get there. A priest, in his tattered cassock began his liturgy, but the wind meant prayers were almost impossible to follow. When he crossed himself, they did it too. When he paused, they took it as a cue to chant, ‘Amen.’
At each interval, the living let the dead slip from them. Sometimes the passengers heard a splash as each uttered their prayer for their own grave – that it would be on land, on their new soil – their heaven would be on the new earth.
The priest opened his arms so that the sea may receive death more generously. Then he looked upwards at the scudding clouds.
‘Poor souls,’ I murmured, crossed myself, and turned away. I might have been one of those cast overboard; an orphan like me, travelling alone with no relatives to ensure I received a proper burial in Persia – if we ever made it that far.
Irena was off somewhere tending to the sick, and I sat alone all day, not speaking to anyone. She returned once the sun dipped, and I asked her if she still believed in God. Her answer was, ‘Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?’
Night fell again and I, like most others, kept silent watch; my eyes darting from the deck to the sea, listening as it thrashed against the hull. I felt the vessel heave and pitch and hoped the waves wouldn’t swamp it and wash everyone overboard. The sky was a vast orb adorned with stars so distant they added to my fear and isolation. A cough here, a whisper there – everyone was alert to the slightest unusual movement that might herald disaster.