Miljenko Jergovic - The Walnut Mansion

Because of feelings that are awakened in such situations, it was important not to look around oneself too much and to remain indifferent to the misfortunes of people and dogs.

All during the journey to Europe the ocean was unusually calm, and everyone thought that was a good sign. The Atlantic was never so quiet, no matter what the season, and the crew and the passengers believed that the hand of fate was involved. Luck had served them, and the dark clouds over their heads had begun to clear. Maybe it was better that America hadn’t accepted them, they thought, because who would ever go back home from such a distant land? And they would get back home for certain, the next day or in three months. Full and content, they were looking forward to Europe.

In the early evening entertainment was arranged on deck. A small ensemble consisting of a guitar, a violin, and an accordion played circle dances and other dances from various countries. There were polkas and mazurkas. A waltz floated out over the sea. A tango sounded like the sad horn of a dead tugboat; Balkan circle dances rumbled over the wooden deck. The hypnotic rhythms of dervish dances shimmered in the air, when a man became inured to fear and pain and it seemed to him that he was within arm’s reach of God and all he had to do was reach out and accept his embrace. . There were all kinds of music and dances, but no Jewish, Hebrew, Ashkenazi, or Sephardic songs were heard. Only once did they start playing “Der Himl Lacht,” an old Klezmer song, but the audience objected. They didn’t want to hear Jewish songs because they were melancholy, no one could understand them, and it wasn’t good to sing and play something that differed so much from the other songs. They thought they needed to be like other people, and if their people had taken more care about fitting in, they wouldn’t have ended up in a situation where they would soon cease to exist. They said things like that, and only two men knew that the truth was different and didn’t have very much to do with which songs were sung and which ones weren’t.

Ivo knew because he was the only one who wasn’t a Jew. The captain of the ship knew, too, because he knew where they were sailing. But it would have been wrong to spoil those people’s joy and take their hopes away at those moments when it didn’t matter what they believed in. They had no way of influencing their fate or changing what would happen, and it was better, out in the middle of the peaceful Atlantic, in the one place where they could feel like free men, to let them live in the illusion that the war had come to an end and that their future happiness depended only on what songs they would sing.

The day before the Zamzam was to approach the coast of Portugal, Captain Sergey Prokopiev summoned Ivo to the bridge and asked him whether he knew how to command a ship. He was surprised, but it was clear to him what the question meant.

“If something happens to me, you’ll take over the Zamzam, ” Prokopiev said. “The crew already knows.”

He then saw him for the last time. The next morning the captain slipped past the watchful eyes of his spies and disappeared. They looked for him and called out to him as if he were a child and had gotten lost. The confusion lasted an hour, and everyone was on his feet; no one could hear himself think from the noise and disputes. The crew waited for the passengers to calm down a little to tell them that Ivo Delavale was taking over command of the ship. The old captain had left no message or farewell letter behind, nor did anyone know how he’d vanished or where he’d gone.

“Someone should inform the family somehow,” Izak Papo, a ninety-year-old man from Bitola, said anxiously and tugged at the new captain’s sleeve. They didn’t know whether Sergey Prokopiev had any kin, just as they didn’t know anything else about him. Except that he was born in Russia, that his mother’s name was Sarah, and that on winter days she knitted socks without stopping. After she’d knitted socks for everyone in her house, she knitted some for a collie named Ataman. That was the only thing that Sergey Prokopiev had said about himself since he had taken command of the Zamzam a year before in the port of Marseilles. He also said that Ataman hadn’t resisted, as one would expect from an animal, but had worn his red socks whenever cold weather hit or Sarah thought that cold weather had hit. Ataman didn’t want to hurt her no matter how much he thought her care made no sense.

“That dog was smart — it shouldn’t have been called Ataman,” said Sergey Prokopiev.

The night before they were supposed to sail into port was very hard going. It was humid and muggy, as nights are for old men on their deathbeds. No one on the Zamzam got a wink of sleep. They roamed the deck in silence, shadows collided with a muffled sound above the blackness of the sea, and that Atlantic dream of peace faded from every one of their souls. Ivo decided to bypass Leixoes, Porto, and Lisbon and moor out in front of the fishing port of Figuera de Foz. He was counting on the element of surprise: by the time the Portuguese authorities, customs officials, and police assembled, the passengers would disembark from the Zamzam, and then it would be difficult to pack them back onto the ship and deport them. His plan was extremely naïve and people would probably laugh in the face of any captain who came up with something like that, but on a night when a powerful sirocco was blowing and everyone’s head was filled with confusion, no idea was foolish enough to be rejected out of hand. Not long before sunrise Ivo Delavale assembled the Jewish representatives on the bridge, told them that the time of parting was near, and requested that they make a list according to which the people would disembark from the Zamzam.

“When you set foot on Portuguese soil, our journey will be over. From that moment onward every man answers only for himself. I advise you not to tarry in the harbor. Run as fast as your legs can carry you. The farther you get, the fewer the chances that the police will catch you. I hope you’ve kept a few ducats or gold rings. They’ll come in handy. I wish you all luck,” he said, concluding his first and last captain’s address. The people dispersed in silence; the lights of a city twinkled dimly on the horizon.

The disembarkation lasted two full hours. That was how long it took for everyone to be rowed ashore in small fishing boats. Ivo Delavale was the last one to leave the Zamzam, as he thought that custom required it.

He bade a long farewell, not without sorrow, to that strange ship that had sailed under a holy flag and bore the name of a mythic well in the middle of the Arabian desert. When Abraham had driven out Hagar and her son Ishmael, the Zamzam well had kept them from dying of thirst. That name, written in faded letters on the rusty hull of a vessel whose history was unknown to Ivo — in the past it might have been a transport for opium, slaves, or weapons — had really protected those who’d sailed on her. He believed that at the moment when he bade farewell to the Zamzam.

As his boat put ashore, a terrible storm arose suddenly. It happened in thirty seconds. A wind blew up from the ocean; the wooden docks started creaking; the roofs of houses, tarps that had been covering Mediterranean fruit, the black caftans and hats of people who’d hastily fled from their homes all flew into the air. Steel drums full of oil and wooden barrels full of wine flew through the air. Earthenware pots of olive oil flew high above the sea and were then suddenly plunged into its depths. Masts of fishing boats flew through the air, as did the children of fishermen, shouting and howling; stray dogs and a few insufficiently clever cats were also seen flying through the air. A whole world flew up and away in an instant, and there could be no doubt of divine intent. Soldiers who’d waited for the passengers with their rifles at the ready began to cross themselves and then ran off to find shelter, holding their caps down on their heads. The Jews were caught all alone in the middle of the fishing port, in the crashing of masts and tree trunks, live wood and dead wood, and in the horrible droning of a wind that could only be described by someone who’d lived through the meteorology of the Old Testament.