Pursuit (26 page)

“Yes, I call it saving you. The British would have made you tell all you knew about this ship and the people on it.”

“I would have told them!”

“I know. And I had to save you from doing that, too.” Brodsky reached into a pocket, bringing out a small cardboard folder. “Anyway, at least you have some papers, now. It's a passport. A legitimate Venezuelan passport made out for Benjamin Grossman, citizen of Caracas. They handed them out in Genoa to everyone; Ben-Levi had spares, he just finished yours. They'll want it back once you're settled in Palestine, for others who will want to try and get in, but in the meantime you finally have papers.”

“You know what you can do with your shitty papers!”

Brodsky shrugged and got to his feet as Pincus returned.

“He'll live,” he said dryly. “Whatever his temperature is, his temper is right back to normal.”

It was two o'clock in the afternoon of their third day at sea, forty-two hours since they had hurriedly cast off from the Nervi port and chugged their way out of the small harbor. In that time they had sighted only an occasional fishing vessel similar to their own, but they were all aware there was a good chance the British might eventually notice the failure of the
Naomi
to return to port, in which case word would undoubtedly go out and sea patrols would be looking for them. Although they did not know it, they had much to thank the old lady at the safe-house for; the British had already discounted the
Naomi
as the ship they were searching for. That small fishing trawler could never hold hundreds of people; that they were sure of. If they searched for the
Naomi
, it would be for humanitarian reasons, only.

There was a conference called in the small deckhouse, attended by Wolf, Davi Ben-Levi, Brodsky, and the ship's captain, an Italian Jew named Bernardo Cellotti, who had been interned in Dachau and who was the only one familiar with ships as well as with Italian waters. Cellotti had been studying the charts and listening to the weather reports on the ship's radio. Now he pointed to the chart.

“We're here. We've been lucky so far, staying as far from the shore as we have. Now we have to go in, between Stromboli and the toe of Italy. We also have to put in someplace for fuel and water. Our best bet would be either Reggio or Messina. Or better yet, Catania, farther south.”

Brodsky frowned.

“You mean, go through the Messina Straits? I thought the plan originally was to refuel at Palermo and then go around Sicily. I know it's longer, but the straits? They're always rough, aren't they?”

“They're rough,” Cellotti admitted. “They're also unpredictable. They're the original Scilla and Charybdis that Homer speaks of in the
Odyssey
. The rock and the whirlpool. And the weather could also be better. But still, going through the straits will save us over four hundred miles. That's forty hours or more in this vessel, almost as much as we've sailed since Nervi. And the straits are only twenty miles of bad water at the most.”

“Like the captain said to reassure the old lady in the storm,” Wolf said, “‘We're only a half mile from land, lady—straight down!'”

“Will this so-called ship take it?” Brodsky asked.

Cellotti shrugged. “I think so. It's a better vessel than it looks. If it makes anyone feel better, the chances are the British patrols won't be expecting a boat like the
Naomi
to even try the straits, certainly not in bad weather.”

There were several minutes of silence. Then Wolf piped up.

“Well? I vote we try the straits. If we can save forty hours, I'm willing to take the chance. Besides, regardless of what Cellotti says, I'm not sure this tub could last an extra forty hours, even in a calm sea.”

“We have over two hundred people on board, many of them women and children,” Brodsky said slowly. “We'd be risking their lives, too. Maybe we ought to put it to all of them.”

“Then we'd be risking a panic,” Ben-Levi said firmly. “No. It's our decision.”

“And with two hundred Jews, we'd get four hundred opinions,” Wolf said positively. “We're supposed to be a committee; let's act like a committee. I vote in favor of trying the straits.”

“I also,” Cellotti said.

“I think it's worth the risk,” Ben-Levi said.

They looked at Brodsky. He shrugged. “I suppose so.” He changed the subject. “By the way, how is the engine running?”

Cellotti reached over and rapped on wood. “Thank God, so far so good.”

“And how is our temperamental Ben Grossman?”

“He just sits on deck during the day and then goes down to his bunk at night, not talking to anyone. And not offering to help in anything, either. He just sits and stares.”

“Well,” Wolf said, “I just hope he's seeing the other side of the straits.”

They passed between San Vincenzo, on the island of Stromboli, and Tropea, on the mainland, just as the sun was setting, with the faint lights pinpointing the heights of Calabria flickering uncertainly in the growing dusk. Wolf was in the deckhouse with Cellotti, spelling him at the wheel while the Italian studied the charts for the area. On deck, Ben-Levi and Brodsky had organized the men in the party putting up safety lines, carrying everything portable down to the cabin below, which was already crowded almost beyond endurance. The portholes had been left open to the last minute; people tried to crowd as close to them as possible, hoping for a breath of air.

Below Tropea they saw the lights of Nicotera and Rosarno on their left, sharper now as they came closer to the shore and as the darkness increased. A breeze had suddenly sprung up, gaining in strength as they approached the straits; clouds cut off the little moon there was. There was the smell of rain in the increasing wind. Then the lights of Gioia Tauro could be seen farther along the beach, and a final cluster of lights beyond.

“Palmi,” Cellotti said, and took the wheel from Wolf, gripping it tightly. “We're almost there. Get everyone below. Anyone on deck in about ten minutes could be lost. Make sure the companionway is battened down, or someone could drown down below. Portholes to be closed and locked; no fires under any condition. The children should be tied in their bunks, if possible.”

“And anyone wants to pray, no objection—right?” Wolf said, and went out to carry out the orders.

Ben-Levi came into the deckhouse, looking worried. The entrance to the straits could be seen now, marked by the light on the Punta del Faro, the extreme northern tip of the Sicilian coast. The wind had increased in velocity, rushing through the canyon of the straits, making conversation difficult in the small deckhouse. A light rain had begun to fall, glazing over the windows before the steersman's wheel. Cellotti looked over his shoulder as he handled the wheel.

“Everything all right below?”

“So far. I hope they stay that way.”

“We all hope.”

“Bernardo—”

Cellotti looked at him. “Yes?”

“Maybe we ought to turn back. At least wait until the weather improves …”

“Too late now,” Cellotti said, and gripped the wheel with all his strength. Above them the rock of Scilla loomed, even blacker than the night, and then the ship leaped as it struck the whirlpool. The nose dipped and came up, shuddering, streaming water across the deck, sweeping up over the wheelhouse, making visibility impossible. The ship bucked violently, tearing the wheel from Cellotti's grip, spinning wildly. He tried to brake it, reaching for the spokes only to have his arms and hands beaten aside cruelly, battered. There was a sickening pause as the ship foundered, its screw out of the water; then Cellotti had the wheel again and was fighting it back into position. Ben-Levi came to his help; slowly the ship responded to its rudder. Water poured over the bucking ship, trying to press it under the crushing waves, washing down in torrents over the glass of the windows. With a curse Cellotti looked around for a prod and, finding none, reached across the wheel and punched his fist through the glass.

Ben-Levi stared at him as if he had gone mad.
“What are you doing?”

Cellotti withdrew a bleeding fist, screaming above the shriek of the wind and the crashing of the waters.
“I've got to see something or we'll be on the rocks!”

The water poured in. Cellotti stood there, his feet braced, soaked to the skin, shutting his eyes tightly whenever he saw the sea sweep over the bow and up to the deckhouse, opening them instantly once the water had drenched him and sucked back, to stare anxiously for some light, some marker, some rearing buoy, anything that would give him some idea of his position in the churning channel. Ben-Levi put his mouth close to Cellotti's ear, shouting.

“We ought to radio for help!”

“No good! No time!”

Behind them, miraculously, the diesel engine maintained its steady growl, sturdily pushing and pulling the pistons, moving the ship's screw, revolving the generator, pumping electricity into the storage batteries, its sound lost in the greater volume of the storm.

Below, all was shambles. The first shattering blow the ship had taken flung everything loose across the crowded cabin, piling debris against the bodies of those who had thought themselves secure. People were torn from stanchions, dragged free from their grips on the fixed tables and chairs. The small room stank with the smell of vomit; the screaming of the wind was matched by the moans and cries of terror of the people in the airless cabin. The hatch covering the companionway had come loose and each lurch of the bucking ship sent a flood of water rushing down the narrow steps; in the bilges the pumps worked valiantly, but each new torrent added water in the cabin, increasing the almost animal fear of those trapped there.

The small unlit stove broke loose from its moorings and skidded across the cabin deck like a battering ram, to crush the tables and benches fixed to the floor planks. Brodsky attempted to grab the stove, but it took him with it as if it had a life of its own, smashing him against the ship's planking, then retreating in a spray of water for another ramming attempt on the ship's side.

In his bunk Grossman held on tightly, knowing his suspicions had more than been fulfilled. The idiots were going to sink the ship! He braced himself as best he could against the tier above him, wedging his pillow and blanket about his head to protect it from being smashed in the constant shaking of the tortured ship. He knew it was pointless; they had to sink. Damn,
damn!
He had warned them about this bastard ship, hadn't he? God, how could this be happening to him? After all his planning, after all his suffering, was this to be the end? Drowning with a bunch of stinking Jews? They, at least, had little to live for; they were lucky to have made it this far. Most of them should have died in the gas chambers, or in the ghettos. And even now, what could they look forward to? A life of back-breaking toil in a wilderness, slaves to their own idiotic ideals, digging their holes and planting their barren crops with a shovel in one hand and a gun in the other! But he had everything to live for! Money! Freedom! Future! The patent unfairness of it all brought tears of frustration to his eyes.

The ship lurched dangerously, corkscrewing in the convoluted waters, digging its nose into the ocean as if seeking to hide under the tormented surface and find some degree of calm and peace at last; only to change its mind and ram itself upward as if in panic, fighting for air. Children were screaming now in total terror, hysterical. Grossman buried his head in his cocoon of blankets, and waited for the rush of water that would end it once and for all, and then felt himself being shaken roughly. He peered out of his nest to find Brodsky, white-faced, yelling over the roar of the sea.

“Ben! Get down! We need help!”

“Help? You brought this on yourself, on all of us!”

“The stove loosened some of the side planking! We need to brace it before it lets go and we all drown! Come on!”

“You're wasting your time,” Grossman said, and as he said it he knew that it was so, that they were all really going to drown, and that it really made little difference. One could struggle so long, endure just so much, and then one had to concede. “You know we're all going to drown, don't you?”

But Brodsky was through arguing. He reached in and dragged Grossman bodily from his cocoon, propelling him ruthlessly to the end of the small cabin, gripping his arm painfully. Men had managed to comer the plunging stove and had lashed it into obedience against a stanchion, where it fought its bounds with each pitch of the ship. Other men were trying their best to maintain their balance as they pressed a plank against the side of the ship where water was beginning to trickle from between two fitted planks. Max added his strength to the weight of the others, motioning for Grossman to join in. The ship rolled beneath the straining men; they slid and fell into the water washing around them, and then struggled upward to press on the plank again.

Grossman raised his voice.

“Idiots! That's not the way! All of you together don't weigh as much as the pressure from the sea, for God's sake! You have to use leverage!”

He jerked a flashlight from Brodsky's belt and flashed it over the deck above, fighting for balance as he did so. There! There was a crossbeam he could use. If only he had a jack of some sort, but of course a shit ship like this wouldn't have anything that useful! He found himself grinning as he contemplated the problem. Drown! Not likely! One man using proper leverage could do the work of hundreds, of thousands. Good old Archimedes! Give me a place to stand, he said, and I will move the world.…

“Here,” Grossman said roughly, “give me that plank! Find me a couple more. And get some blankets.”

Men stared at him a moment and then hurried to carry out his orders. Grossman stuffed the blankets against the seeping spot, placed a plank over the blankets, took the second plank offered, and angled it against the upright board, tilting it against the crossbrace. He then took a third timber offered him and wedged it to act as a pry.