We had to wait three days for our ship, the Proteus. But there were Jews in Genoa, Jews willing to feed us noodles in strange green sauces and put us to sleep in their attics.
Walking at last to the harbor, I took my parents’ hands, remembering how they used to swing me between them when I was small. Ein, zwei, drei! And up I would sail, my feet reaching for the sky. I wished I were small again. I wished their arms were strong enough to hold me up.
When we emerged from the warren of little streets into open air and were confronted with the harbor, with the water itself, I ran forward, searching the horizon. But nothing was there. Just a flat, misty grey that stretched on forever, interrupted by the silhouettes of hundreds and thousands of boats of every conceivable shape and size. It was impossible to get a sense of the size of the ocean itself. I looked along the edge of the city, listening to the water flop against the concrete, searching for the sandy beaches I had read so much about, but they did not exist. The harbor was cluttered with buildings, noisy, and populated mostly by shouting men. The line of palm trees along the shore awed me with their exotic height, their feather-duster tops.
When I looked back up at the city behind us, I saw that it was surrounded by the greenest of mountains, a series of gentle peaks that held all of the city and port in their embrace. The appearance of those mountains lifted me as my parents arms once had, gave me hope for a peaceful life.
White-haired men sat out on the decks of small boats, their bare feet dangling over the water. I wondered where all of the boats were going, where they had all come from. It comforted me to know that we were not the only people on the move. That there were families taking to the sea even when they didn’t have to go.
Beyond the seawalls, ocean stretched in every direction, rippling eternally outward. I had thought the sea would be blue or green or even teal, but it was a dull slate-grey. As if even it were weary. “Why can’t you see what’s on the other side from here?” I asked my parents. “Why can’t we see Bolivia?”
“It’s not on the coast, Orly. Also, it’s a very big sea,” my father answered, gazing out at the horizon. “A very, very big sea.”
I followed his gaze. “Will Willi find us there, Vati?”
He glanced at my mother and back to me. “I hope he will.”
“If not,” my mother said, “we will return for him.”
My father fell silent and the three of us stood there for a long moment, faces to the wind.
Now, we walked all the way down to the Stazione Marittima, across from the beautiful Miramare Hotel. Long before we reached the ship, we could see it looming over the harbor, shrinking every other vessel in its vicinity. Its bulk dwarfed even the hills around us, its profile rising above them. It looked too big for the port, too big to be anywhere except in the middle of the ocean. The name Proteus was scrawled across its side. My father said he thought Proteus was the name of a sea god who could change shape at will. “Like the sea itself.” I thought that was a good omen. That the god of the sea would be looking after us, keeping us safe. Conveniently, I forgot how temperamental the gods could be.
As we stood below the Proteus waiting to board, I felt a tightness in my lungs. It was cold by the water and the winds whipped my braids across my face. This monstrously oversized boat was going to take us away, to a place that was nothing more to me than an unanswered question. I watched my mother check her coat pockets for our tickets three times as we stood waiting to board, watched my father fold his arms around his viola case as though it were an infant needing to be soothed. I touched the packet of letters I had been writing to Anneliese on scraps of discarded newspaper and carton since we left home, tucked deep into my pocket.
* * *
• • •
LIKE ALICE IN WONDERLAND, I grew smaller and smaller. I felt myself dwindling to a speck, a bit of dirt being brushed off the sleeves of Europe. As if the sound of my mother’s voice, my father’s viola, had not made it more beautiful. As if we were the ones who had brought fear and hatred to the Continent.
“Orlanthe?” My mother looked back abruptly, as if she had lost track of me. “Come, Liebchen.” I caught her arm, pressing it tightly against me as we stepped forward.
* * *
• • •
I HAD NEVER been on a ship. I had hardly traveled anywhere except to Graz and the Austrian countryside. Standing on the deck of the Proteus felt like a metaphor for everything. For the rocking of my world, the sway of solidity under me, the sickening churn of my insides. I probably didn’t know the word “metaphor” back then, but I knew the feeling. “We are going to be safe,” I reminded myself. “This ship will take us somewhere we will be safe.”
My parents had told me that going on the ship would be an adventure. That’s what my mother always told me anytime I faced something unpleasant or difficult. “Think of it as an adventure,” she would say on trips to the dentist or on an exhaustingly long walk.
I didn’t particularly feel the need for adventure. I had had no dearth of adventure. Yet I was still young, still resilient, and I still believed in the power of my parents to save me.
* * *
• • •
WE DIDN’T HAVE any possessions to store in our dormitory room, and so the three of us stood leaning against the rails, looking back on land. With a roar, the engines shuddered to life beneath our feet and the whistle blew low and long. The few who had lingered on board to bid farewell to loved ones hurried tearfully back down the gangplank, clutching their hats to their heads against the wind. As we moved off our moorings into the water, I half expected to see battalions of brown-shirted men rushing to the seafront to stop us. Or to hear the crack of gunfire. But all I saw were a few handkerchiefs in the waving crowds, the jumble of pastel buildings, and a light mist covering our wake.
My fingers on the metal bars grew cold in the wind. My mother’s arms encircled me from behind, her long, thin fingers next to mine on the railings. A crush of passengers filled the deck around us, but I felt protected in my mother’s embrace. I felt her inhalation, her chest pressing against my back even through our worn wool coats, too warm for an Italian April. Then her voice at my ear, softly at first, her breath stirring my hair so it tickled. Like a lullaby. Leb’ wohl mein Leben. Farewell my life. My Austria, my Europe, my land. Mein Sohn. Somewhere behind us was my brother. I knew she was thinking of Willi. She sang as though she were putting our old life to sleep until a distant day when it would be safe for it to awaken. Her voice grew stronger as we moved around the seawalls and oceanward, but the rumble of the ship was so loud I don’t think anyone but me could hear her. Her voice soared upward and outward, alone in the air, and I could feel her heart go with it.
Twenty-five
Several lifetimes passed before we landed in Arica, Chile. Friendships were formed on board and lost in new ports. Books were devoured and traded away. I practiced my breaststroke when the pool wasn’t too full. We borrowed a Spanish textbook to teach ourselves a few words. The waiters, evidently not intimidated by our numbers, told us they pitied the country that would take us in.