Rachel Biale

Lost and Found begins on the deck of the Atlantic, a rickety boat with over 1,500 Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi-occupied Europe for Palestine. Among them are my parents and the protagonists of this historical novel, which is based on a true story.

Part I: Chapter 1: October 1940

Gertie awoke in the dark. In the faint light of the lone weak bulb at the far end, the slender phosphorescent hands of her watch showed 4:20. A long wait until dawn. When her eyes adjusted she made out the outlines of mounds everywhere—people sleeping two and three to a bunk. She could certainly smell them. Taking only small sips of air did nothing to hold back the stench. People sweated so much in the hot, dank space, the fetid odor permeated every thimbleful of air.

How long had they already been on the Atlantic? Ten, twelve days? Remember the first days on board? You thought you’d never adjust. First the heat, blasting into the hold under the deck as if there were no walls separating them from the furnaces. Then the dense burnt-coal air; how could anyone breathe? By now she actually longed for that sickly sweet smell; it was more agreeable than this reek of humans.

Can you blame them? Bathing in seawater only once a week, the salty brine did little to clean you and less to diminish the odor of bodies soiled by diarrhea and vomit. It left your skin with a lacey crust of salt. Don’t, she ordered herself, folding her fingers into fists to stifle the urge to scratch. Think about those who couldn’t resist: their skin flared red and bled. Infections were rampant and medications scarce; the most effective ones, Gentian Violet and Sulfa, critically low. She’d kept close watch over her Emil and cut his fingernails nearly to the quick, so he wouldn’t break his velvety skin when he scratched. But can you make a four-year old remember not to scratch? Better not to bathe him at all, she’d decided.

 Gertie lifted her head to look at the lump that was Emil and Alfred, nestled into one another a handbreadth away. She was lucky, in her unluckiness—she was so big, she had a bunk all to herself. Though the bunk was less than two feet wide, she had learned how to accommodate her belly by lying on her side with her legs arrow-straight. Alfred and Emil shared their bed with their two suitcases and rucksacks. Alfred contorted his tall frame in the shape of a half-opened folding chair. He was pencil-thin, so there was enough room for Emil to squeeze himself into the triangle Alfred made with his bent knees. He’s kind of a giraffe, Alfred is, Gertie chuckled, and Emil—a bear cub. And me, a hippo, my huge belly nearly scraping the floor. Quite the menagerie.

Gertie’s eyes trace Alfred’s rectangular face. So gaunt! She shakes her head. His dark hair is thinning on top. Already? He’s not even thirty two. The worrying or the physical exertion? She rests her eyes longingly on the small cleft in his chin. It’s just a lentil-size indentation, but it makes a perfect nest for her pinky. She liked to rest it there after they made love. And his unusually long earlobes: strange, even ugly to most people, certainly to women. Did women look at him that way? Even here on the boat—when he was up on the deck and she trapped down here?  

Whatever those earlobes were to other women, she loved them. She used to kiss each one and talk to it on nights they were amorous. A stirring in her pelvis seemed to come from hundreds of miles across the sea. She sighed. Will that ever come back? She closed her eyes to savor the sensation, but it left her and now all she felt was pressure in her bladder. Ach, she was going to have to go to the bathroom; not yet, but soon. At least at this hour there was no line.

Even without a line, going to the toilet was an ordeal. She was so heavy in her pregnancy that her belly swayed with its own rhythm. Standing and walking, she had to cradle her belly in her hands to keep it moving with the rest of her body.

“I look ridiculous,” she’d complained to Bronia early in the journey. “Look at me!  A bulging-bellied chimp with long arms hanging to the floor.”

“Oh, Gertie, what do you care? It’s too dark and crowded down here for anyone to notice you anyway.”

“On that point, you are right. And there are other advantages; no one sees my matted hair, either.” Gertie touched her hair, so thick with sea salt it stood on her head like a haphazard pile of twigs. When she closed her eyes she could still see the soft swells of her blond mane; how it had made three graceful waves from the part at the top of her head to just above her shoulders.

“Ach,” Gertie said, “what I would give for a hot shower, shampoo, and a clean towel.”

“Would you settle for a mirror?” Bronia asked and fumbled among her things.

“A mirror?” Gertie touched her fingertips to her cheeks. “How long since you’ve seen rouge?” she whispered to them. “And you two, lipstick?” she ran her finger along her thin, elegantly etched lips.

“And to think, Bronia, how much time I spent every morning back home, fixing myself up.”

“I’ll bet. . .”

“Well, I had a reputation to maintain! And now look at me.”

“I’m looking. I don’t see…”

“You don’t? Skin chafed by sea salt, lips cracked and peeling, eyebrows grown wild. It’s a patch of weeds up there!”

“You are still beautiful, Gertie.”

“Danke. You’re lying, but you’re a good friend.”

* * *

Gertie glanced at her watch: 4:28. In the soothing silence around her all she heard were occasional snores and the faint lapping of the waves against the side of the boat. Of course, there was also the constant rumble of the turbines, but she had learned to tune that out. Try to hold it a bit longer, so Alfred can sleep a little more.

She closed her eyes, hoping to doze, but instead her mind took itself to the steps ahead of her. Three times a day she had to get herself up to the deck to the so-called toilets. At least there was one benefit to the water and food rationing, she told herself. She remembered the last month of pregnancy with Emil only vaguely, too far away in so many ways from her present reality, but she was sure the bathroom trips were much more frequent.

She had come to loathe the Toilettereise—the voyage to the toilet. First she’d try to make herself a little more presentable, smoothing her hair with dampened palms or hiding it with a scarf, then pulling on her oversized blouse to cover her belly. It was as if she were inside a moving tent. Lucky that Mama had insisted on the blouse. Once dressed, she snaked her way between people and luggage, careful not to step on a hand or foot. Every horizontal surface was occupied, from the upper deck to the lower hold, their “cave.” And the stairs were getting harder and harder. She had to rest every other rung. If no one was watching, she went up by hauling her behind up from step to step. It was actually faster, and she felt safer staying low to the ground.

Once she got up on deck people let her go to the front of the line, and she thanked them warmly. The toilets, a long plank with holes cantilevered over the edge of the boat, had sheets of rough fabric marking individual stalls, providing minimal privacy.

Just thinking about the revolting stench of toilets made the urge subside. Who knew your body would do that of its own accord? She lifted her belly to relieve the pressure on her bladder. No hope of sleep now, though. Worries chased one another as marbles roll through a narrow chute. Food and water severely rationed, medical supplies dwindling, typhus and dysentery rampant. Thank God they got typhus vaccinations back in Vienna, despite the unpleasant side effects. But dysentery you couldn’t inoculate against. She could catch it from anyone—Alfred, Emil, her friends. How much longer before they get there? What if it’s more than a week? Or two? An icy chill shot through her despite the heat.