“So you worked for the Germans?”
“Sir, they gave my family food rations, which I needed for my mother. When she died a few months ago, I ran away. I’m trying to get as far from them as possible.”
“Well, we should put a gun in your hand and send you back to get them out of your town.”
“One small gun won’t get that job done,” I said.
The captain pinned his eyes on mine. “You’re right. Now tell me about the fishing boat.”
“A large trawler. I navigated it, helped fix the engines, and did all the docking. I knew every nail and board of that boat.”
“It was your uncle’s boat?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“Martin Van Deerjack.”
“Martin Van Deerjack, huh. And what did this Martin Van Deerjack teach you about cargo ships?”
“I’ve never been on one.”
“So why would you be any use to me?”
I’d thought of that answer. “I’m guessing everyone else knows how dangerous leaving this port would be, which is why you can’t get a crew and why you’re still here. I can crew for you, navigate once we’re out of port and underway, and do whatever you need.”
“Your uncle taught you all that?”
I thought of Lieutenant-Major Erich Oldif and the dents in his head. His clipboard. All that training I’d had at the naval camp. “Yes,” I said.
The captain stepped close enough to smell me. “Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion?” The mustachioed man standing on the gangway bit back a grin when the captain said this.
“Yes,” I said.
“You do? Well, Mr. Jacob Koopman from Delfzijl. You know what I feel like at moments like these?” the captain asked. “I feel like the frog.”
“I just want to work my way out of here, that’s all,” I said.
“Good, because the scorpion goes down too for causing trouble. Isn’t that right, Peter?”
The guard’s mustache rose up like a hair curtain, revealing a crooked grin. “That’s right, sir.”
“Let’s see your papers?” the captain said, and I handed over my own identification for the first time in months.
“Well, Mr. Koopman, I could use you,” the captain said. “But seeing how you already tipped your hand as to wanting to get out of here, and will probably jump ship in the first port you like, I won’t pay you for your work. I’ll see you across the Atlantic, and I won’t have you tossed overboard if you do what’s asked. Can you live with that?”
“I can.”
“Then I’m Captain Fernandes, and this is Peter, my first mate. We have eight other crewmen, and you make our ninth. Peter will show you the ship. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning. I suspect you’ll be staying aboard until then?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good. Welcome to the crew.”
We agreed upon the work I’d do—standing watches, doing engine rounds, and galley duty—and like that, I was to go back to sea. The watery depths were becoming for me the most familiar and terrifying expanse of the earth.
Later that night, Captain Fernandes walked down the dock with a crowd of people. I was on the back deck watching and counted over sixty figures marching behind him. The captain pointed to the corkboard and the people all stuck something to it. Each carried packs on their backs and in their arms as they moved up the gangway. Captain Fernandes led them to the holds where they spread out on the deck.
“You will all stay belowdecks until we’re underway. I’ll let you know when you can wander about the ship.” When Captain Fernandes turned to leave the holds, he saw me standing there. “I didn’t say how much galley work there’d be, now did I?” He smiled at me. “There will be more pots to scrub than maybe you thought.”
Before we launched from the pier, I met the rest of the crew on the bridge.
“We’re taking the northerly route, south of Iceland, rounding southern Greenland, and down to St. John’s, working our way to Halifax, Boston, and New York,” Captain Fernandes said. Then he had me and another one of the crew hoist a white flag with a red cross on it and fly it high so any periscopes could see it. “Give that one a little kiss for me first,” he said as he tossed it to me.
The bow of the tramp ship cut through the early morning fog and the white mist brushed over the decks. Behind us stood the last of Europe, dimly lit by the halation of the shore. The smoke and light above the land looked like a giant, six-fingered hand, waving good-bye.
I remembered a story my father told me years ago, when we were on the Lighthouse Lady on the way to camp. My uncle was at the helm. My father told me how Poseidon sent Thump-Drag inland with the oar over his shoulder to build a church in his honor. I had grown up believing all those stories as gospel truths. That one especially, emphasizing Thump-Drag’s clear knowledge of his purpose. Now, I knew better. Now I could see Thump-Drag tired of his walk, throwing away the oar, and going about his own directionless life. That made sense to me. That was a story I could believe.
By noon that first day at sea, the ship was west of where I had washed ashore several nights before. We went slow to avoid the heeled-over warships that littered the coastline. Some of the downed vessels were held on submerged rocks. The waves traced a white foam outline along their sides. When the sun went down, I twisted all the lightbulbs aboard off or covered them for us to run in the dark. When it was pitch-black, the captain allowed the people in the holds to come up on deck. Peter stayed at the helm and the captain walked among the passengers.
“I need to show you how to use our life rafts,” the captain said. He had me and another crew member demonstrate how they inflated and how to load into them. “If we’re torpedoed, you’ll need to do this, so pay attention.” He spoke in slow, direct terms. Then the other crew member translated what the captain had said into Polish. The people were of every age group. A few children were huddled up against the adults. They all focused on the captain and the large inflatable raft in front of them.
“Who are these people?” I asked the captain later that night in the crew mess room.
“Refugees. Much like yourself, I would guess.” He chewed on a spoonful of stew.
“From where?”
“Poland and Czechoslovakia,” Captain Fernandes said.