the border crossing was uneventful for our family, others were not as fortunate. We heard that a number of passengers were not allowed to transit through Germany, and were forced to return to Czechoslovakia.
After changing trains in Brussels, we reached Antwerp on schedule, only to be told that our sailing date had been pushed back by a whole week because of some engine troubles on the vessel. This was unfortunate, not because we were reluctant to spend extra time in Antwerp, the center of Flemish culture for hundreds of years, but because father did not have much cash to pay for the unexpected layover (fiscal regulations had allowed only limited funds to be taken out of Czechoslovakia). Nonetheless, we managed to enjoy our extended time in Antwerp, even though we had to spend the week in a small and unassuming hotel, and had our meals at inexpensive restaurants. We saw the Cathedral of Our Lady, with its three monumental altarpieces painted by Peter Paul Rubens, the Grand Square (Grote Market) dominated by the Golden Age Town Hall and the Jewish neighborhood of Jootsewijk that was teeming with black-coated ultra orthodox jewish men.
Language was not much of a problem because many Flemish people understood enough German to communicate with our parents. By the way, three languages are spoken in Belgium; namely French (Walloon), Flemish and, to a much lesser degree, German. The latter is the regional language of a miniscule part of Belgium and does not wield the same influence as the other two languages. Both the Flemish and the French ethnic groups are extremely touchy about their heritage, and neither will tolerate discrimination in any form whatsoever. For instance, when the post office brings out new stamps, it has to make sure that half of each issue is printed with, for instance, “Belgique” on top of the design and “Belgie” underneath, while the other half of the issue has the names reversed the other way around. Both, French and Flemish are the two official languages of Belgium.
At last, our sailing date came, and we took a cab to the harbor and our liner, the SS Leopoldville. That turned out to be one of the most exciting days of my young life.
The date was February 13, 1939.
It was going to take me many years before I would walk once more on the European Continent.
07. Escape to Africa
The Compagnie Maritime Belge, the main link between Belgium and the Colony, owned a number of medium-size vessels, all named after Congolese cities, and collectively known as the “Congo Boats”. It used these ships to provide reliable mail deliveries to the Congo, and maintain a regular passenger service with the colony. By the way, it was only on February 27, 1946, that airmail and regular passenger service were finally set up between Leopoldville and Brussels, on Sabena’s DC-4 airplanes (Sabena was the Belgian National Airline that also flew passengers in the interior of the Congo). The flights took twenty-five hours, twenty-five very long and uncomfortable hours. I know that well, as I was on one of those never-ending flights, and can vividly remember the suffocating desert heat that hit me when I stepped off the plane in Kano, Nigeria. The plane was refueled and cleaned during the Kano stop, while the passengers were given breakfast with some very strong coffee. I could not wait to leave that overheated place. Additional information about this flight will be given in another chapter.
The itinerary for the ocean trip to the Congo called for several ports-of-call. The first one was Lobito in the Portuguese colony of Angola, and then followed by the ports of Banana, Boma and Matadi in the Belgian Congo. Lobito was the jumping-off point for passengers going to Eastern Congo, while Matadi was used for the Western Congo. The trip from Antwerp to Lobito took two weeks. More about this flight later on.
The SS Leopoldville, weighing 11,172 gross ton and stretching 501 feet in length, was all decked-out in multicolored pennants when I first caught a glimpse of her towering mass. She was moored at the traditional berth for the Congo Boats, along the side of one of the Scheldt River quays, in Antwerp’s busy harbor. It was the largest “boat” that I had ever seen (I guess I expected something about the size of the boats plying the rivers and canals of Czechoslovakia). But, as I found later on, this was not merely a big and handsome vessel, it was a valiant one as well. It fought fearlessly throughout the war, up to its ultimate end, when it was sunk in proximity of the French port of Cherbourg. That happened during its 25th crossing of the English Channel, on Christmas Eve 1944, when a German torpedo hit it broadside. Some 700 men, out of the 2000 American troops on board, were lost in this tragic attack.
The embarkation process was lengthy and tiresome. Officials and porters were busy all over the quay, and passengers spent their last moments on land, to huddle together with family and friends that had come to see them off. There was a lot of excitement and exhilaration all over the place, but also sadness and even dread.
I could not help wondering how such mixed feelings could affect almost everyone on the quay. Obviously youth shields from reality.
When the ship’s horn emitted a warning blast, all the stragglers rushed up the gangplank and stepped on board. But none went below decks. We all lined the handrails as the ship moved gently away from the dock, turned into Scheldt’s main shipping channel and started its run toward the ocean.
The River Scheldt (the Escaut in French), which connects Antwerp to the North Sea, some 50 miles downstream, is extremely wide and carries a large volume of maritime traffic. This is the river that made Antwerp the second largest harbor in Europe, and one of the finest ports in the world.
As usual, the channel was very busy and vessels of all types and sizes were on the go all around us. We remained topside for the longest time, and went to our cabin only after we were no longer able to stand on our feet.
Our second-class cabin was of medium size, with two double beds, each with a privacy curtain (in case strangers shared the cabin). The steel ceiling held a fan and the bulkhead had a porthole that let us see the ocean. There were two washbasins, one on each side of the cabin, but shower and toilet facilities were located outside, at the end of the passageway.
The “Salle de Gymnastique” was rather compact, but it did have a couple of stationary bicycles, a rowing machine, weight lifting equipment and a punching ball.
The “Fumoir” (Smoking Lounge) was attractively appointed with lovely stained-glass panels on the walls and ceiling. A portion of the ceiling was built on hinges so it could be cranked open to clear the smoke and allow fresh air into the lounge. It was ingenious and quite effective.The furniture was very comfortable and I watched many exciting card games that went on at all hours of the day and night.
The “Pouponniere” (Nursery-Playroom) had little chairs and tables grouped around a hopscotch game that was painted right on the steel floor. The room contained two large bins full of toys for small kids.
The decks were lined with comfortable folding chairs and some of the areas were set aside for various activities. There was the sports deck, the promenade deck, etc.
Life on board had a good beginning. First and foremost, it meant that I was finally on an ocean liner that was sailing toward that distant and mysterious Africa, the Africa of my dreams. Then, there was that marvelous experience with our first trip to the dining room. The meal consisted of the most tempting and succulent dishes (I have never seen such variety of pastry and ice cream in my whole life), and it became immediately obvious that fine dining was going to be the major activity of our trip. We really enjoyed those first hours on board.
But our feelings of contentment and wellbeing did not last long, and our comfort level started to deteriorate quickly once we reached the huge Western Scheldt Estuary and moved into the rough North Sea. The ship begun to pitch in an imperceptible way at first, but as we sailed on, this became more noticeable and our discomfort became more intrusive. And it did not take long before I started to feel woozy. Unfortunately, things got worst before they got better. As luck would have it, we sailed right into a tenacious storm that dogged us for three full
