(Author: Lionel Slier, Vol. 70, No. 2, Rosh Hashanah 2015)
So, there were these two nice Jewish boys, twentyish, from Johannesburg, floating around Italy in the winter of 1956. In point of fact, they were my friend, Boris, and me. It was cold, really cold, even in Rome, so we decided to go to Israel and live on a kibbutz. That was the idea, anyway. It happened that we passed a travel agency with a notice in the window advertising a Greek liner (If I remember correctly, it was the ss Pireaus) that was leaving in a few days’ time for Haifa from Naples. The trip included a day at the port of Pireaus, with a day tour of Athens.
“Wonderful!” we decided, and stepped inside. A kindly looking man, fifty-something, was behind the counter. In our broken Italian, we explained that we wanted to book on the Greek ship to go to Haifa. The man said nothing for a few moments. Boris’s hands were on the counter; then the man put his two hands over those of Boris, looked him straight in the eye and said to both of us, in English: “Jewish boys go to Israel by Zim boats”. That was it, then. Goodbye Athens and farewell Greece.
A couple of days later, a Sunday, we were in Napoli. A taxi took us to the harbor and dropped us off by the ss Negbah, looking bold with its Star of David fluttering proudly in the grey sky. It made us feel pleased that we had listened to the man in the travel agency. A luxury liner, it was not. A ship it wasn’t either – it was a boat, 9000 tons! It looked small and not particularly inviting. There was quite a lot of movement around the gangway, but we pushed our way up and got to the reception area. There, we were given our cabin number and led, literally, into the bowels of the boat, into what I am sure was originally the cargo section. Subsequently, I learnt that the ss Negbah had been built prior to World War I and later became a cargo (coal?) boat under the Swedish flag, obviously with a different name. The approach of World War II apparently saved the vessel from the salvage yard. I could not ascertain what it had contributed to the war. In 1947, Zim to Negbah. It was used to bring immigrants to Haifa from the despair of war-ravaged Europe and also from North Africa. Lines bought the boat and changed its name to Negbah. It was used to bring immigrants to Haifa from the despair of war-ravaged Europe and also from North Africa.
Zim is a Biblical name meaning ‘a large vessel.’ I cannot verify, this but that is what I was told on the boat and I have lived with that information for 56 years and I do not feel like adjusting it now.1 In our sleeping quarters, there were eighteen bunks, six sections of three bunks high. One had to be a mountaineer to get to the top bunk, and the bottom and middle bunks had the disadvantage of being in the firing line if the occupant of the top bunk was seasick or otherwise discommoded. Some bunks had already been taken and suitcases left on them showed claimants. Boris, being more agile than me, took the top bunk and I had the bottom one, with all its discontents. We asked the crew member who had shown us our cabin where our luggage was to be kept. He shrugged, indicating by sign language that no such luxury as cupboards existed and that our luggage was to be left under the bottom bunk. We then went back up on deck as the time for departure was approaching. There was a great deal of scurrying around and a terrible odor of diesel and smoke was belching from the single chimney stack. Eventually we set off. There was a crowd of Jewish youth on the quayside singing and catching streamers thrown from the boat by a group of Habonim-niks, or similar such people, on board with us. It was very moving to hear the Hebrew songs as we moved slowly away from the dockside. We passed an American aircraft carrier which to us looked as high as the Empire State Building; by comparison, we seemed to be on a rowing boat.
As we hit the open sea, the Negbah lurched forward and there were muffled screams from some of the passengers. Then the boat went up, struggling it seemed, and down, and up, and we knew that this was the kind of movement that we would have to live with for the next five days.
While we were in Italy, Boris and I had been on a starvation diet, mostly spaghetti, as this was about the only item which we could comfortably pronounce to a waiter. On the boat, we had to eat dinner in the second session, which did not help our hunger. Eventually, we did enter the dining room and were given a table together with two Brazilian businessmen. The latter spoke passable English and seemed jovial and friendly enough, although this did not extend to offering us any of the wine they had ordered. There was no menu, so the choice was ‘take what you are given or leave it’.
Many of the passengers were leaving for a new life in Israel from Morocco. There was also a youth group from Argentina, including some girls, extremely pretty in a South American sort of way. We could look and appreciate, but that was about it. After-dinner entertainment was a movie in one of the lounges. It was crowded, but we found seats and the Argentine group came in and sat on the floor in front of us, chatting merrily in Spanish. The film was Take Me Out to the Ball Game, an MGM musical comedy starring Ester Williams and Frank Sinatra; there was more swimming than baseball. The film was shown without subtitles. It was obvious that the Argentinian olim did not understand it at all because whenever a witty remark or a wisecrack was made, there was total silence from their area.
It wasn’t pleasant going onto the deck. The smell of diesel was very strong indeed and the movement of the boat crashing forward into a wave was not very comfortable, nor was the climb back up the wave. This move was constantly there, and not at all to our liking. Some passengers were already standing by the rails, returning their dinner to the depths. I must say that sleep was difficult. The rocking of the boat took one back to our days in the cradle and the loud noise of the engines did not help either.
Breakfast the next morning was on a first-come-first-served basis. Boris and I sat at the same table that we had been given at dinner the previous night. On each of the four setting was a hot cookie. Buttered, these were delicious, truly. We had a mundane breakfast. But while sitting there the two remaining scones looked at us accusingly – or was it invitingly? I looked at Boris. He looked at me. Then, simultaneously and wordlessly, we each took a cookie off the Brazilians’ plates, buttered and devoured them. Then we crept away from the breakfast room, a trifle guiltily, I must admit. Our table companions had not yet come down.
New immigrants on the Negba about to disembark at Haifa (undated photo in the I A Maisels Library, S A Zionist Federation)
Back on deck, the passengers were settling down. There was a weak sun, yet some people were in swimming costumes, even though there was no pool. The Argentinians were in a corner, grouped together, learning Ivrit. We tried to make eye contact but they ignored us, two nerdish dorks from Drom Afrika.
Thus did we all slip into a routine, and it was not all that great – bumpy, noisy, smelly. It was not an option to go and lie down on our beds during the day, as only the old, sick and lame did that. Our daily routine was breakfast (with purloined cookies), lunch, a second session dinner and chatting to the Brazilians, followed by the movie. Again, it was Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and again the Argentinians sat mute right through it. The same movie was shown every night and every night we would see the Argentinians trooping into the cinema. One day, the Brazilians appeared at breakfast a little earlier than usual, but fortunately we had eaten their cookies already.
Finally, on Thursday night, there was an announcement from the captain advising us, in Hebrew and English, that at 5 a.m. the next morning we would be able to see the lights of Haifa and should therefore be on deck at that time to see Eretz Israel. Needless to say, there was a crowd on the deck the next morning and the lights of Haifa and of the Holy Land beyond caused great excitement, particularly amongst the Moroccan olim. The Argentinians were singing. It was quite thrilling and very emotional.
Once we’d had enough of seeing ‘Haifa by Dark’, Boris and I went down to breakfast. To our shock, the two Brazilians were already at the table. There were the usual cookies, but only on Boris’ and my plates. After the ‘Boker Tovs’, one of the Brazilians told us happily, “Look, they gave us a special treat today – a hot cookie for breakfast! It was excellent. It must be because we are landing in Israel”. Boris and I looked at each other. Boris muttered something inaudible, and sat down. “Must be”, I managed to reply.
Lionel Slier is a regular contributor to South African Jewish publications, including Jewish Affairs and the South African Jewish Report.
NOTES
- The author was correctly informed—see Bamidbar/Numbers 24:24: V tzim miyad Kittim (‘But ships [tim] will come from the coast of Kittim….”)
