it was too windy on deck, she would explore the gangways in cabin class, stopping at the music room or at the door to the smoking room, browsing through the books in the library. At the bar she would order a cup of tea and some fruitcake, savouring the pleasure of drinking out of china and using real silverware. Afterwards she would luxuriate in a plush sofa to read or embroider. Not once did she think about her family who had stayed behind in Kazimierz, the neighbourhood in Kraków where she grew up. She was not prone to nostalgia, at least not yet.
Fortunately she did not suffer from the seasickness that had consigned so many of her fellow passengers to their berths. In her thirst for discovery, she would even go down into steerage, evading the watchful eyes of the grumpy stewards who forbade passengers from going from one class to another. The sight of these scores of immigrants was wrenching: men and women all crowded together on the deck, lying next to each other moaning or shouting, vomiting their guts up on the floor. The stench of fuel, greasy food and unwashed bodies made her ill. She would hurry away again, fearful she might forfeit her spot on the upper deck were she to be discovered down below, as if she might somehow be forced to stay down there as punishment for trespassing. But that was the reaction of a poor person, and in a shot she was angry with herself for having felt that way.
One morning, leaning against the railing, with a parasol to protect her delicate skin (the sun, woman’s mortal enemy!) she looked out, fascinated by the port of Bombay where the steamer had just docked. In the foreign crowd swarming on the quay below her she saw poverty, even more stark there in the harsh sunlight than in the hardships of a Polish winter. She avoided looking at the crippled beggars, the coolies dressed in their cotton loincloths, the ragged children running after the Europeans; instead her gaze lingered on the Indian women in their brightly coloured saris, or the English ladies buttoned up to their chins despite the heat as they scolded the porters struggling with their luggage.
Before Bombay, the ship had stopped at Naples, Alexandria, Aden, and Port Said. On each occasion, Helena would study the crowds of people, then allow herself a short stroll along the port, weaving unsteadily as if she were still on board the rocking ship. Surrounded by itinerant pedlars, she stopped eagerly to rummage through their trinkets. With a serious expression and a frown on her brow, as if her entire life depended on it, she haggled with ease, counting on her fingers to make herself understood, then, at a price she had set herself, she bought glass jewellery, betel, pigments, ointments and powder, musk, amber, essences, tea, sequins and a few lengths of shimmering fabric.
Everywhere she went she would look at the women, fascinated by their exotic, changing beauty. The blonde, pale Italians of Liguria; the plump Neapolitans; the Egyptians and Yemenites, who were invisible save for eyes that burned beneath the veil; the Ethiopians with their fine features; the Asians with their gentle faces. All of them – old, young, ugly and even the little girls clinging to their mothers – had their own particular charm, a way about them, with kohl-rimmed eyes, sparkling teeth that made their olive skin darker still, heavy jewellery around their necks, arms or ankles, bright clothing, and perfume so rich and pungent it made her head spin.
Helena was more used to the fogs of Eastern Europe, and would shield her eyes. There was too much light, too much noise, too much of a crowd and too many dazzling colours; and yet she was absorbing it all, avidly, to keep for later.
*
Helena had a long line of admirers on board. Two young Italians, to begin with, who didn’t understand a word of either Polish or Yiddish, and who invited her to dance every night with an ingenious display of mime. Her scant knowledge of German helped to establish closer ties. Then there was the Englishman with the moustache who spoke as if he had a red-hot potato in his mouth. Whenever he turned to Helena, his ruddy face seemed to catch fire. ‘Oh, Miss Helena, you’re so pretty.’
Miss Helena wasn’t a real beauty, but her charm had an immediate effect. Her tiny size made her look like a little girl wearing heels that were too high. But her legs were slim, her bust shapely, and her figure had not yet filled out with age. She wore her black hair in a chignon low on her neck, pulled back from her ears and brow. Her features were regular, with high cheekbones, straight lips and skin so pale it was translucent. The first thing you noticed about her was her large, widespread eyes, with their velvety darkness, at times pensive, at times enquiring. ‘A gaze of precision and observation, the kind of look you can tell excels at counting, examining files and numbers, studying formulas, or dreaming endlessly about beautiful things.’1 At times, too, they could shoot daggers. Her seven sisters nicknamed her ‘the Eagle’.2
From the start, she intrigued her admirers. She was a young woman travelling alone, and seemingly not at all frightened: this was virtually unheard of at the time. Only loose women dared to travel without chaperones. But her silence and restraint, along with a certain hardness in her eyes, soon made them realise she wasn’t that kind of woman.
And while Helena enjoyed having a good time, she quickly set her limits. Her shyness kept her from going too far. Besides, what would her mother think? The strict principles of Gitel Rubinstein, known as Gitte, her prudishness and sense of virtue, were too well embedded in Helena. ‘Every kiss seemed immoral to me, and the mysteries of sex remained … mysteries.’3 It would take time for her to let her guard down. She received no fewer than three marriage proposals in the course of the journey, and three times she turned her suitors down with a smile, as if each proposal was some boyish prank. She did not envisage a future tied to a man.
Every evening, after a few polkas in the ballroom, the young men gathered around her. The fifty or so passengers in cabin class had very quickly become acquainted. Shipboard romances blossomed. Attachments formed, seemingly indestructible, then dissolved when the journey ended. The men on board were brokers, explorers, gold prospectors, French officers, British diplomats, missionaries; the women were mistresses, dowagers, the wives of high-ranking officials. There was even a theatre troupe on tour. Helena befriended two Englishwomen who, like her, were on their way to Australia. The first, Lady Susanna, was travelling with her husband, the aide-de-camp to Lord Lamington, Governor of Queensland. The other, Helen MacDonald, lived in Melbourne and was about to be married. Before leaving the ship, Helena wrote down their addresses. She already had a knack for networking.
In the cabin class salon, the heat was stifling despite the ceiling fans. Helena sipped an iced tea to cool down. Her gaze glided over the wood panelling, the rosewood tables, the silverware and china dinner services, the crystal chandeliers, the tall sparkling mirror reflecting her face. All this refinement enchanted her. Then she went to join the little groups who were chattering gaily. Her hawk-like eyes recorded every detail – the clothes the women were wearing, their deportment, their hairstyles, the way they held their fans, the way they laughed or remained silent.
During the day she watched them play tennis or whist, and tried to memorise the rules. She knew so little about this world where everything seemed easy that she took in every detail and stored it all up for future use. She was completely ignorant when it came to social codes, manners, and even the art of conversation, which explained her stubborn silence. Another reason was – and always would be, no matter what she did – the fear of being judged because of her background. Even if she learned as she went along – and she was a quick learner – there would always be gaps she could not fill. Neither her fortune, nor her good taste, nor the lies she told to embellish her life would ever fill those gaps.
In the course of her very long life she would make other journeys from one continent to another. The sun would never set on her empire – the empire of beauty. But this first voyage was a seminal one and would leave its imprint: a taste for adventure, luxury, and beauty. To get what she wanted, Helena was prepared to work relentlessly; she had been brought up the hard way and was not afraid of work. And although she didn’t yet
