A sensation of nausea made me uncover my head. Everyone was indisposed. Some already felt very sick.
“Jaco,” a woman called softly. And then afterward louder, “Jaco!”
“What is it?” grumbled her husband.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Ay,” moaned the woman writhing, with her head outside the bunk and her opened mouth turned downwards.
She was pale, her face contorted.
Her husband supported her head and tried to encourage her.
“Calm down . . . calm down . . . this will pass.”
“Jaco,” she exclaimed, twitching all over with her hand on her belly. But she couldn’t finish.
A gush of nauseating liquid spread out over the floor. Then came another one. And then another. The woman sat up colorless with her eyes watering from the convulsions, almost breathless. Sticky threads of vomit trickled from her mouth. She cleaned herself and took a little of the water that her husband brought her. Then she leaned back on the pillow, moaning.
Other passengers also felt their stomachs turn. Those that were in the dining hall, playing cards, abandoned their games and wobbled back to the sleeping quarters, supporting themselves on the bunk railings.
In a corner of the hall, a boy vomited from an upper bunk, pouring out thick disgusting streams.
The atmosphere in the dormitory was no longer fit to breathe. A rancid smell filled the air.
Armed with brooms and dumping out buckets of water, sailors cleaned the room while joking with the travelers.
Papa soon managed to get us out of the hold and found us spots on the ship’s deck.
The free fresh sea air revived us immediately. And we got through the night more or less all right. But at daybreak, the seamen came to wash the deck obliging us to go down into the hold, and they repeated this every morning. Even so, we preferred sleeping under open skies. Only on rainy nights did we stay below.
The first days of the trip, although quite revolting, passed quickly. But the following ones were harder to get through. They were long and very boring. Always the same seascape. Above, sky and water. And below in the hold, people vomiting. With the passing of time, however, the passengers became more and more used to the tossing sea and managed to lighten the voyage with some distractions.
One of the men’s favorite amusements and one that was also enjoyed a lot by the women and children consisted of having a man stand facing the wall, with his back to the others. He covered his eyes with one of his hands and put the other hand palm up on his behind which faced his fellow passengers who were arranged in a semi-circle. One of them slapped his hand. Then the victim had to immediately turn around and identify the perpetrator. If he made a mistake, he had to stand facing the wall again and receive further slaps until he guessed correctly. And once the identity of the slapper was discovered, he took his victim’s place.
Those with less expertise received many blows, immensely delighting the spectators.
Sometimes a sailor, who was feared for his robust constitution, participated in this game. He didn’t manage to hit more than once because he was immediately identified by the weight of his wrist. But even this one slap was felt for quite a long time because he used his strength to strike with an excessive force that outraged our fellow passengers.
When my father, whose physical vigor was also respected, found out about these complaints against the sailor, he took advantage of a turn that placed him behind the seaman and gave him such a thunderous blow that this playful game nearly degenerated into a fight.
Other passengers immediately intervened, and Papa and the sailor were reconciled. From that day on, the sailor comported himself with greater moderation whenever he joined the game.
This and other distractions eased the passage of our days. But the nights were always very long and very sad. They seemed interminable. The roar of the sea brought us dark thoughts that took away our sleep. Anguished, we awaited the morning’s dawn, counting the minutes. And time drained away with the unbearable slow motion of true torture.
The women spent their days complaining of the food and the swaying sea. Many damned the hour they had abandoned the tranquility of their homes in search of a better future. One went on and on, nagging her husband so he would persuade the captain to halt the steamship for a few moments.
“Tell him to stop,” she begged, “I can’t stand the throws of this rough sea any longer.”
“Don’t you see that it is impossible for him to do that?” her husband reasoned in a soft voice, to make her understand the absurdity of her request.
“Why impossible?” she retorted heatedly. “What’s impossible is for me to continue this damn voyage. I can’t eat or sleep. I’m wasting away, more each day. I don’t think I’ll arrive at the first port alive. Why this hurry? Go and tell this bandit to stop, if only for a half hour.”
It goes without saying that her husband didn’t comply with her request and so his wife continued to implore him with the most whopping damnations, as the language of the Jews is very rich.
And like this many days went by.
One morning all the passengers flocked to the deck and anxiously scanned the wide, empty horizon. They had been informed the night before that on this day they would arrive in Portugal.
The waters had been growing calmer since the previous evening. Cheerful flocks of sea gulls were circling overhead. They had come to announce that land was near. All of a sudden, an enthusiastic cry shook the air.
“Land . . . land,” shouted a man with his hand pointing at the horizon.
All stretched their eyes towards the direction he indicated.
Far off, very far off, a dark spot almost invisibly began to appear on the clear blue expanse.
Greater delight, for sure, not even Columbus’ mates had felt when four hundred years before they had sighted the New World.
The facial expressions that had been extinguished by long nights of seasickness and wakefulness revived themselves as if by a miracle, radiating intense happiness. The women cried with joy, embracing their husbands. The oldest among us put their hands together and prayed. Everyone shared the excitement.
Slow, slowly the dark spot was growing and taking on contours. And shortly afterward standing out sharply against the dimmed blue of the sky, appeared the angular lines of a gigantic urban silhouette.
It was Lisbon.
From the tops of the narrow towers of Belem, the bells sent us festive fraternal greetings from the old and historic Lusitanian capital. And after a short stay in Portuguese waters, we continued.
From Lisbon to Brazil, the voyage was much smoother and more interesting.
From time to time islands lost in the ocean’s vastness emerged from the waters like verdant nests. With pity, we looked on the isolated and limited
