The Wilhelm Kohler reached the entrance to the Bosphorus late in the afternoon. The Strait of Istanbul, Mustafa Gokoglan knew, was one of the most dangerous waterways in the world. Sixteen headlands had to be negotiated along the seventeen nautical miles, and a surface current ran south from the Black Sea to the Marmara; but because of the different salt concentrations between the two seas, a second, deeper current ran in the opposite direction. Gokoglan alternately puffed on his pipe and sipped from coffee laced with raki, the powerful white spirit the Turks called aslant sutu, lion’s milk.
‘See, Arieclass="underline" a fishing village,’ Rebekkah said, pointing to their first sight of land since they’d left the Danube. The Wilhelm Kohler was less than 300 metres from the shoreline. Small, brightly coloured wooden fishing boats rocked in front of the fish market at Rumeli Kavagi. The rain had eased, and on the ridgeline behind the market, they could see houses beneath the plane trees. Further along, the ridgeline was dominated by a huge castle. The fishing villages on the European side gradually gave way to turreted wooden mansions; while on the Asian shore opposite, one of the former Sultans’ many summer palaces commanded the top of a steep hill.
A thick fog began to roll in from the south. Gokoglan yanked defiantly on the dirty length of rope hanging from the rusted roof of the bridge. Three short bursts of steam issued from the Wilhelm Kohler ’s funnel as the foghorn sounded an eerie warning, one that was immediately absorbed by the mists. In defiance of the speed restrictions, Gokoglan maintained course towards the Kandilli Turn, the notorious Bosphorus promontory that required a forty-five-degree change of course. Any ships heading south were blind to traffic going in the opposite direction. He peered into the gathering darkness, searching for the promontory he’d already passed, and the Wilhelm Kohler crossed into the northbound shipping lane.
Five deep blasts from a ship’s horn, the international distress signal for an imminent collision, reverberated through the fog. A large Russian freighter loomed out of the mists.
Gokoglan swore and wrenched the telegraph to emergency full astern.
In the engine room below Barzani leapt to the reciprocating lever and immediately brought the great engine to a stop in a cloud of hissing steam and protesting pistons. Just as quickly, he applied full throttle in the opposite direction. Whatever the engineer’s views of his stubborn and irascible captain, Barzani was responding to a fundamental law of the sea. Above the thunderous noise in the engine room, the frenzied dinging on the telegraph meant the ship was in danger. Barzani watched the con rods slowly gather speed. On the bridge above Gokoglan frantically spun the Wilhelm Kohler’s wheel to starboard, but as the huge Penn and Company engine reached maximum revolutions, the overheated bearing caps finally reached their limits. The number one bearing-case seized and shattered in an explosion of sparks. Freed of one of its supports, the glistening silver main shaft began to flex violently. Barzani rushed towards the reciprocating lever but he was too late. The shaft snapped just for’ard of the shattered bearing casing. Clear of the load of the propeller, the old engine reached revolutions for which it had never been designed. The little end-bearing in the number one cylinder was the next to fail, driving the con rod through the crown of the massive piston. The number two and three pistons shattered in sympathy and the engine disintegrated in an explosion of metal shrapnel. A lump of red-hot metal decapitated Barzani in a bloodied mist of escaping steam.
The Russian freighter hit the Wilhelm Kohler midway between the bridge and the stern on the starboard side. She sliced into the rusted plates in a grinding, sickening crunch. Rebekkah was knocked unconscious as her head slammed into one of the steel bulkheads. Ariel held his sister’s limp body with one hand and clung desperately to a stanchion with the other.
The Russian captain immediately ordered full astern and ever so slowly, steel grating and screeching against steel, the Russian freighter freed herself from the Wilhelm Kohler’s grasp. Tons of icy water flooded the aft coal bunkers and the Wilhelm Kohler listed alarmingly to starboard, the sea foaming through the connecting bulkhead doors that had been left open.
‘Launch the lifeboat!’ Gokoglan bellowed. One of the deckhands struggled with the ropes on the starboard lifeboat, but to no avail. Mustafa Gokoglan hadn’t conducted a lifeboat drill in years, and the pulleys in the davits were rusted solid. Gokoglan fled the bridge to the fiercely listing deck below.
‘Launch it!’ he roared, swinging on the ropes, but the small wooden boat hung drunkenly from the davits. The Wilhelm Kohler shuddered and rolled past forty-five degrees, throwing Ariel and Rebekkah, along with those children not trapped below decks, into the icy sea.
Ariel spluttered and coughed up sea water as he surfaced a short distance from the stricken coal steamer. ‘Rebekkah! Rebekkah!’ he yelled, frantically searching for his sister in the dark, oily waters.
19
ISTANBUL
A lberto Felici leaned forward in the worn but comfortable armchair in Archbishop Roncalli’s book-lined study in the Vatican Embassy on Olcek Sokak.
‘The Cardinal Secretary of State is sympathetic to the plight of any people who are oppressed, Excellency; but you must realise there are greater issues at play here than the fate of the Jews,’ he insisted.
‘I’d be interested to know what you might consider a greater issue than the lives of children,’ Roncalli replied stonily. ‘Hitler and the Third Reich represent a grave threat to world peace.’
‘That’s not a view shared by Cardinal Pacelli, Excellency. He believes Communism poses a far greater threat to the Holy Church than Hitler. And,’ Felici added pointedly, ‘with the Holy Father now gravely ill, Cardinal Pacelli may well be next to fill the Shoes of the Fisherman.’
‘That will be a matter for the next conclave. It is poor taste, don’t you think, Signor, to be discussing the next Pope before the current one is dead?’ Roncalli’s dislike for the Italian banker-turned-papal envoy grew by the minute. ‘In the meantime Istanbul will remain one of the main escape routes for the Jews. The Nazis have stripped them of everything they have, and I need more funds to help them. But more importantly Rome must understand that the Nazis are committing mass murder. Instead of sending Hitler congratulatory birthday telegrams, Cardinal Pacelli should be urging the Holy Father to condemn this massacre in the strongest possible terms. If the Vatican won’t condemn genocide, what hope do we have?’
‘You don’t seem to understand, Excellency -’ Felici’s protestations were cut off by the strident ringing of the phone on Roncalli’s desk.
‘Angelo Roncalli.’ The archbishop leaned forward into the Bakelite mouthpiece.
‘Angelo, it’s Mordecai Herschel. There’s been a terrible accident in the Bosphorus. The Wilhelm Kohler has been sunk in a collision with a Russian freighter.’
‘Oh, no… the children?’
‘We don’t know yet. I’m on my way to the Kandilli Turn. We may not be able to get the children to Palestine now, but there’s another steamer leaving for Central America tomorrow night. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘I will pray for them,’ Roncalli whispered, and he replaced the receiver. He turned to Felici. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Signor. The Wilhelm Kohler, a ship bringing Jewish children out of Austria, has sunk in the Bosphorus.’
Obersturmbannfuhrer von Hei?en signalled the waiter. ‘Another bottle of Chateau Latour.’
The Pera Palas dining room was one of Istanbul’s finest. A magnificent crystal chandelier, heavy velvet drapes, crisp linen tablecloths and silver cutlery were complemented by a cellar containing some of the world’s finest wines.