Nine Summers Page 18

  The elderly man with a heavy black moustache looked puzzled. ‘Diesel oil?’ he repeated, ‘but we always use ordinary oil, we don’t keep diesel oil.’ Undeterred, Felix continued down the list. The fellow shook his head and looked sadder with each item. But as we were about to leave, he beamed when a thought suddenly occurred to him: ‘We’ve just got in some WD-40.’

  ‘Thanks, we have plenty of WD-40.’ Now Felix shook his head and looked sad.

  Loud music added to the frenetic atmosphere on the marina. Attendants were busy with yachts and tourists, but the mood was different from Italy and France.

  ‘There is little joie de vivre here,’ Felix commented to our neighbour on the Austrian boat. ‘Joie de vivre?’ she replied. ‘Not among the locals. They’re pretty cranky.’

  We were sipping coffee. Suddenly Felix jumped ashore and ran after a young man, shouting, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing!’ He made to grab the fellow, who shot off. I’d never seen Felix so angry. ‘The bastard pulled our plug out of the power point and threw it into the water!’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A marina attendant.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I guess that’s what the yachties in Sicily had warned us about.’

  The Germans on our other side saw the performance and shook their heads.

  ‘They’re more tense than usual this year. We’ve been coming here year after year, and it’s never been like this…come over, have a drink.’

  ‘Thank you, I need one after that. But I’ll have to dry the plug first or connect another one.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ I said, as we stepped into their cockpit, ‘in France and Italy most attendants look happy. Here, everyone looks so angry.’

  ‘The political situation is bad — hard to get jobs, inflation. Visitors complain because they can’t get what they want, but the locals need tourism to boost their economy. It’s frustrating for everyone.’

  Two women lugging bags of fruit and vegetables stepped on board. ‘Where did you get all this?’ I asked. ‘When I went into the supermarket it was empty. All I saw was a dozen eggs on one shelf, wilted vegetables on another, and a few tins.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve learnt to shop when the farmers come to town and set up stalls. That’s the only way to find anything fresh. We bring tins and non-perishable food from home. As for meat, you buy what you can get before 11. By 11.30 it’s all gone.’

  ‘This morning, I saw meat suspended on hooks or on blocks of wood with no ice in this temperature. The butcher was hacking away with an axe!’ I said.

  Walter and Inge were lawyers from Cologne. They kept their boat in Dubrovnik and spent summer vacations along the Dalmatian coast. From them, we learnt where to find fresh fruit and vegetables, which restaurants served reasonable food, and which bays and inlets were good for shelter.

  But Yugoslavia was not Walter and Inge’s main concern. They returned time and again to the problems of East Germany and the consequences of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

  ‘It’s all exciting, but we expect huge problems, psychological and economic. We’re well off in West Germany. The East Germans resent the conditions under which they lived, and are likely to continue to live for a long time. They’re so far behind us. We’ll have to get used to their resentment, it’s inevitable.’

  Inge and Walter sailed south the following day, and we continued north into a bay on the island of Mljet, where the sky glowed at night, and gypsy music drifted in from the shore. We found Korcula the most interesting of the islands, perhaps because it had so many traces of its golden age when it was part of the Venetian Empire. We tied up at the marina, not far from where Venetian galleys once rode at anchor and Christianity faced Ottoman Islam.

  In Split, on the mainland, we made the mistake of walking into a restaurant in Diocletian’s Palace one evening. It was eerily dark and, apart from five men heavily into vodka at one table, the place was empty. It was the first time we’d felt unsafe. They were angry, thumping the table as they watched Milosovic address a crowd on television. Sensing that something serious was brewing, we kept our eyes well down on our plates, ate as fast as we could and fled Split the following morning. We decided the islands were more to our liking.

  When we rowed ashore in a bay outside Rab late one afternoon, we noticed a young man sitting on a rock. He was stooped, gazing into the distance. His fair hair hung over one side of his forehead, and his face looked gentle. I thought he was fishing until I noticed him suck hard on a cigarette.

  ‘Strange to be so tense in such a peaceful setting,’ Felix said as we rowed past him. We tied up to a tree and walked along the beach towards him.

  The young man turned, gave us a melancholy smile, and said, ‘Are you from that Australian boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His English was hesitant. ‘We had an Australian boat staying on the marina for the whole winter last year.’

  ‘Actually, we intended to leave our boat in Umag this winter, but we’ve decided to leave it in Italy, in Lignano instead.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘Why do you say that? Do you mind if we join you?’

  ‘Please,’ he motioned for us to sit. ‘Anyone can see what’s going to happen.’ Then, as if speaking to himself, he added, ‘I’d leave too if I could.’

  ‘Are you from here? From Rab?’

  ‘No, I work here. Only for the summer. I’m from Zagreb. At university. I’m a history student.’

  ‘So you’ll go back at the end of the holidays.’

  He gave an ironic chuckle, ‘God only knows. I was born in Zagreb. I grew up there. My mother is Croat. My father was Bosnian. Moslem. He died two years ago. We were Yugoslavs, didn’t worry about religion. My grandfather fought with Tito. Tito kept us together. In the city we didn’t care where people came from. We were all mixed, all Yugoslavs. Now things will fall apart. Nationalism. Serbs against Croats, Muslims against Christians. Milosovic wants a Greater Serbia, to avenge a battle they lost 600 years ago!’

  Overwhelmed with emotion, he kept talking to himself as much as to us. ‘In the old countries in Europe it doesn’t take much to whip up hatreds. I know all about it. I study history.’ He sucked on the remains of his cigarette butt, tossed it into the water, then lit another. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I suppose because you are strangers, and I can practise my English,’ he laughed. ‘You know, one has to be careful who one talks to here.’ He was silent for a while, then stopped musing and changed the subject.

  ‘Umag is a good marina, but you’re right not to leave the boat along the Yugoslav coast, it won’t be safe.’

  ‘When we were in Split,’ Felix started, ‘we noticed a lot of tension in the air. People seemed depressed and angry.’

  ‘Yes, we are depressed and angry and poor. But we have our pride. We see tourists. They are wealthy, have a good life. Sometimes they treat us badly. But we need them, and we’re jealous. Our money is worthless. Yes, we’re worried and tense. We have no jobs, except summer tourism. Yugoslavia is breaking up, each ethnic group is against the other. When the Berlin Wall collapsed, East Germans were freed. They can now go to West Germany. They moved from communism to democracy. With us, it’s different. We are moving from communism to nationalism.

  ‘I would like to go to a new country. Like America or Australia or Canada. These are places where you can get away from the ethnic problems we have here. But we can’t go anywhere, can’t get visas. And we’ll have war, fight each other.’

  He dragged long and hard on his cigarette. Then, as if aroused from a restless sleep, he shook his head and got up abruptly. ‘Yes, this is a beautiful country…for tourists.’ And with that he threw his cigarette into the water, and walked away.

  Dear Kids,

  The coastline, the islands, inlets and bays in Yugoslavia are a sailor’s paradise.

  In Dubrovnik we walked into a street off the main drag and saw an old
synagogue which dates back to the time of the Spanish Inquisition, when Jews sought a haven here. They were restricted to one street, until they were liberated by Napoleon. Of the 75 000 Jews in Yugoslavia before World War II, some 60 000 were killed. A cousin of my mother, her husband and two teenage boys lived in a place called Murska Sobota. I stayed with them for a week in 1937. The husband and boys were shot, and she jumped off the train that was transporting her to…?

  Life for the locals is so tough that as tourists we feel ill at ease, even guilty. So much so, we’ll be glad to get to Italy.

  We’re suffering from travel indigestion, but a few days in a quiet bay and we’re eager to go on. Dad’s main problem is that when he’s tired, he tends to lose his balance. I have a new problem. When I bump against anything hard or sharp, flaps of skin flake off my forearm (the result of all the steroid ointment I’ve been using for my rashes). Dad has become an expert plastic surgeon, doing skin grafts on the run. Fortunately, we came well equipped from Italy. I’m learning not to throw my arms around, which is very difficult. How else can I communicate?

  As we move closer to Trieste, I am more apprehensive. Memories of 60 years ago. I have started dreaming about that lifetime away. When we get to Trieste we plan to pick up the car from Florence, park it next to Galatea, and spend a leisurely ‘remembrance of things past’. I’m angst-ridden and curious.

  Hope you’re all well,

  Lots of love from the roving gypsies

  ****

  For me, sailing north towards Trieste at the northern tip of the Adriatic evoked a more complex emotion from that of the ordinary yachties’ delight in cruising the Adriatic coast. It rekindled childhood memories that had lain dormant for decades. After my mother’s death, I was sent to live in Trieste with distant relatives I’d only met once in my life. Felix felt my apprehension. I didn’t need to tell him.

  My heart beat faster as an offshore breeze fluttered our sails and we drifted north along the Istrian coast. The only sounds were of people calling out on the shore and the sea slapping against our hull. Bright beach umbrellas and deckchairs dotted the coastline. Crowds lazed on the sand. I tasted a familiar scent of high summer as tears rolled down my cheeks and my finger traced place names on our map — Pula, Rovinj, Piran, Koper, Opatija, Rijeka. But the names that rang in my ears were Italian — Pola, Rovigno, Pirano, Capodistria, Abbazia, Fiume. How long was it since I’d learnt to swim in these waters, holidayed in Abbazia, crossed the bridge at Fiume into Yugoslavia to visit friends in Susak? Almost 55 years?

  Intense nostalgia, not homesickness, overwhelmed me as we neared Trieste. I felt the apprehension that had gripped me the first time I approached this coast in 1936. I recalled standing on tiptoes and levering myself onto the ship’s handrails to get my first glimpse of Trieste and the turrets of Miramare, a fairytale castle on the promontory. I watched the ship near the quay, where an excited crowd stood and waved.

  ****

  As I looked up at Galatea’s billowing sails, the pain of long ago welled inside me. I recalled my father’s hand holding mine as we climbed the ship’s gangplank in Haifa harbour. I heard sounds of excitement, and smelt the ship’s paint.

  It was eight days after my mother’s funeral, and I assumed my father had taken me to see a big ship and farewell the distant aunt whom I’d met only once. ‘You have to call her “Tante”,’ he told me. But nobody had told me that I’d be leaving Haifa. Or that I might never see my family, my friends or my home again. That I would now live in Italy.

  As my father and Tante chatted, I moved away to watch children play deck quoits. I took no notice when my father gave me a hug and a kiss. I was more interested in the children’s games. Minutes later, I noticed the ship move from the wharf. Wild panic gripped me. I looked frantically for my father but he was gone. In a mad frenzy I screamed, ‘Aba! Aba! Dad! Dad! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!’

  Tante gripped my hand, ‘Let’s go down to the cabin,’ she said in German.

  ‘I don’t want to! I don’t want to!’ I shouted in Hebrew as I threw myself onto the deck, thrashing my arms and legs in a frenzy.

  Two sailors tackled me and lifted me off the deck. Like a trapped animal, I clung to handrails leading down to the cabins. One grabbed me around the waist while the other struggled to prize open my grip on the rails. As he loosened one finger, I clamped down another. I kicked as they dragged me down, step by step. All around, men, women and children watched me battle the sailors. They dragged me howling along the corridor and thrust me onto a top bunk. Tante followed them and climbed the ladder to reach me. I pushed her. She fell back onto the floor. I erupted into uncontrollable laughter.

  ‘You’re a wild animal!’ she screamed.

  For the duration of the five-day voyage, the only words I said were ‘Ani lo rotza! I don’t want to!’ I refused to go to the dining room. Much of the time I was nauseated.

  But each morning and afternoon, when trolleys appeared laden with cakes, biscuits and drinks, I stuffed myself until I vomited. I’d never seen cakes smothered in chocolate and whipped cream before. People stared. I didn’t speak to anyone. No one spoke to me. The ship stopped twice, in Cyprus and in Bari, but we stayed on board.

  By the time we reached Trieste, five days later, I was exhausted and tamed. As our ship, the Galileo, tied up to the quay, I saw in the crowd on shore a man who was a head taller than anyone, waving a white handkerchief.

  ‘Look, that’s Onkel!’ Tante said pointing to him. ‘He’s as tall as a giraffe,’ I thought, and craned my neck to see his face. Noise, commotion and the pungent smell of people packed against the rails made me feel sick. Seconds after the gangway was lowered, I tried to race down and escape. But Tante caught me and dragged me back. She held my wrist so tight I thought she’d broken it. My heart pounded as she dragged me kicking to Onkel. His face beamed kindness but I didn’t let him touch me. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. Onkel, I learnt years later, was a cousin of my grandmother.

  Tante and Onkel spoke German. Although I didn’t speak it, I gathered Tante was telling him what a terrible time she’d had with me. I was glad. I wanted to punish her for taking me.

  A man collected our suitcases. I thought he belonged to their family, but was later told that he was the ‘chauffeur’. I didn’t know what that meant. I looked out of the car window as we drove to my new home. My head spun, I was carsick. They stopped, let me out, told me to take deep breaths, and waited.

  A tram came towards us. I’d never seen one before. It wasn’t like a bus or a cart and donkey I was used to. The houses we passed were larger and more ornate than any I’d ever seen. They weren’t white. They were painted in pastel shades of ochre, yellow and pink. I looked for Arabs but saw none. No donkeys either. The policemen didn’t look like British police. Flags flew on the top of buildings. Red, white and green with a square pattern in the middle.

  ‘Here we are!’ Tante said as we approached a large green metal gate and a high brick wall covered in creepers and white flowers. As I stepped out of the car, a sweet scent enfolded me. Onkel rang a bell, the gate buzzed open and I saw a three-storey house.

  ‘Buongiorno, signora, buongiorno, Rina!’ A young woman with a friendly face and curly brown hair, in a black dress and white apron, came to meet us. How did she know my name? Who was she?

  ‘Buongiorno, Berta,’ Tante replied. Berta gave me a brief hug before I could stop her. I let her hold my hand and we entered a hushed garden. I’d never seen a garden like this before. A large, round stone table stood in one corner under a pergola covered in leaves and green fruit. Flowerbeds in jigsaw patterns and bright colours filled the side garden. A tiny bird with a black head and red chest skipped from branch to branch in a fruit tree. A yellow butterfly fluttered past my face.

  Berta’s hand was soft and gentle. She chatted in Italian, and must have thought I’d understand. I looked to the left and right as we passed through a large entrance hall, past rooms with ornate furniture, chandeliers an
d cabinets with porcelain figurines. Berta led me upstairs into a smaller room, put down my case and said, ‘Questa è tua stanza.’ Maybe this meant that this was where I’d sleep. There was a big divan, a large desk and chair, and a tall cupboard with glass cabinets on either side. They were empty. I was puzzled. I’d never had a room of my own or a cupboard to myself, or even slept alone in a room. I walked over to the window and looked down. A huge tree reached my window and shaded the side garden.

  ‘Vieni,’ Berta said, and taking my hand once more, she led me downstairs to the kitchen. A large white bowl with the remains of melted chocolate stood on the table. She stuck a finger into it, licked it, then passed it to me. I took the bowl and licked the rest. Dear Berta knew better than anyone how to handle me. Whenever I was in trouble, I ran to her for consolation. When we left Trieste almost three years later, I knew I’d never see her again.

  ****

  Fifty-five years later, as Galatea drifted closer to the Trieste Yacht Club marina, my heartbeat quickened and my throat was dry. My memory of that first night many years ago was so vivid — how I folded my clothes onto a chair, then stood it against the open door to make sure I had light from the corridor, and heard the sound of voices from downstairs. I remembered crawling into bed and feeling its softness, so different from the narrow bed I’d been used to, and how I lay on my back, and followed the beams of the lighthouse as they crossed my face at regular intervals. Then fear gripped me. Fear that I’d forget my home. I remembered praying for the first time, and realising that I knew no prayers, but hoped God would still listen to me and make sure I didn’t forget the people I loved. Like an incantation, I recited their names, starting with my mother and father and brother and grandmother and my aunts and my friends — Rutti, Carmela, Nechama, Yael, Sarale, Miriam…When I’d exhausted the list, I pulled the sheet over my face and cried myself to sleep. And that was the ritual I followed every night.