The World of Garlic

June 1936

The jolting movement of the train woke us up. I thought the train had broken down because we were stopped in the middle of nowhere. I saw no town, only an old gray wooden building and some squalid huts nearby. When Mutsch peered out she pulled a face. “We’re in the wilderness! Will we be able to get food here?” she wondered.

We got off the train. It was good to be walking on solid ground. The police and railway employees ushered us onto a narrow dirt road that led in the direction of the nondescript building.

On the inside of this unimpressive structure was a large elegant dining room. It reminded me of the Adlon, the fancy hotel in Berlin that my parents had taken me to a few times.

Sparkling chandeliers lit up the room and the burgundy-red drapes were drawn tight to shut out the sun. White damask cloths covered tables set with crystal glasses and gold-banded white plates each bearing a royal crown and an initial R. Ornate silver cutlery was etched with the same pattern. I was amazed to see the Russian influence on this place because there had been no sign of it at the past few railway stops.

“Look, Lorechen,” Paps joked, “R for Rothschild!”

A bearded waiter came to our table. He was elegantly dressed in a tuxedo, his hair matted with pomade. He must have overheard Paps’ remark. “The initial,” he said in French, “stands for Romanoff.”

“He looks like a Russian prince,” I whispered.

The waiter’s eyes met mine. “Many of my friends and my entire family have fled the Imperial Court just ahead of the Russian army, bringing only the possessions we could carry. Our pursuers relented at the Manchurian border.”

His story sounded a lot like ours.

He went on. “We settled in Mukden, earning a living selling furs and jewels. Then my family and I came here to open this restaurant.”

“Here?” asked Mutsch. “This seems so out of the way.”

He continued to study my face.

Without looking to Mutsch he answered her. “It’s not so far. We grow our own vegetables even though it’s difficult with the weather and the less than ideal soil. We receive supplies and welcome diners that come by train. Overnight guests are accommodated upstairs.” Then he withdrew a small pad and pencil from his jacket pocket. “May I take your order?”

Paps was intrigued. “Before you do, please tell us more about you.”

The waiter blushed. “We were afraid of the army. Our flight was on horseback across the steppes. We endured the terribly cold winters when the snow blows across the barren land piling up in huge drifts. We’ve managed to avoid marauding bandits, most often the Mongols, who steal whatever they can. Sometimes they abduct people, even children.”

I gasped.

“But,” he said, “we’ve finally come to terms with them because we can offer them some business. They trade meat from their herds for other kinds of much needed supplies. They also bring news of Russia.”

We ordered. There was caviar for Mutsch. We were served fresh fruits and vegetables, goat cheese with thick slabs of black bread, pastries and strong tea. The silver samovar set in the centre of the room was almost as tall as me. The meal was delicious.

When we finished, our waiter told us to exit the room, form a line outside, and only then return to the train. “You will not venture off the road. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course,” Paps said.

I asked Mutsch, “How can they live here? It must be boring and isolated.”

“Just imagine,” she said, “having lived among the rich of the Russian royal court and now to be living here. What a contrast! I don’t know how they manage but I admire them for having made the best of a terrible situation.”

We walked down the centre of the road to the train.

“This doesn’t look very inviting, does it?” Paps asked.

The dusty rutted road disappeared into the gray world of the steppes. On either side sat meagre huts fabricated from scrap metal, flattened tin cans, rotted wooden boards, and cardboard boxes some still bearing the names of the items and manufacturers of the products they had once contained. Corrugated tin, rusted and bent, covered the roofs. There were no windows. Sacking hung over the doorways. Nothing softened the terrible drabness. There were no trees, no flowers, no grass, and no colour. The shacks looked inhospitable and utterly bleak.

We came to our railcar and returned to our seats. Before long we were on our way toward the Korean border.

“At our next stop,” Paps said, “the authorities will review our documents before we’re allowed to cross the border into Korea.”

“It’ll be the same then as so many times before?” Mutsch asked.

Paps cleared his throat. “Japanese, Chinese, and Korean personnel will verify who we are and where we’re going. The examination may take time. There may even be a Russian presence or, for that matter, the Japanese and each may demand our papers.”

“But we’re in China. Why would they all be here?”

Just then we heard the screech of metal against metal. Paps looked out and saw we were approaching a station.

“Quickly,” Paps said to me, “gather your rucksack and make sure you’ve got all your belongings.”

When the train stopped Paps told us again we’d need to bring our things. “Compartment cars, a dining car, and a club car will be added to our train in preparation for the long route from here to Pusan at the southern tip of South Korea.”

“We’ll have a nice compartment again?” I asked.

“Yes, Lorechen, we’ll be as comfortable as before.” Katya and Frau Beck flashed before my eyes. I missed both of them so much.

We exited the train. We heard the clamour of languages, the vowel-rich, sing-song music of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese, the barking of Russian and German, then English, French, and countless others.

Meanwhile, Paps had his ears perked, listening to passengers travelling the same way we were. Soon, he led us to where four policemen were shouting orders in Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Russian, and French. Everyone opened their travel documents and presented them when bidden. After a long look at our papers one of the policemen pointed and said we could go, “Vous pouvez aller au train.”

Paps whispered, “Let’s go right away.” We sifted through the crowd. Before us was an observation car. A policeman checked our papers again and then signalled to enter. “Go!” Paps said, “we’ll find our sleeper once we’re aboard.” Mutsch and I exhaled in unison and then hopped onto the train.

The car was decorated with plush upholstered swivel seats, low wooden tables, soft reading lamps, and expansive tinted-glass windows. I had an unobstructed view on both sides. On one side I saw a river splitting the city into two. From the other I saw lush rice paddies and farm animals. Nearby, fruit trees and mulberry bushes dotted the hills. The sky was a clear and beautiful soft blue with just a few scattered clouds.

There were several passengers in the club car, some reading books while others had their faces buried in newspapers. Children stared ahead blankly.

I heard a soft clicking sound. I looked back to see an elderly Asian man kneading his fingers, his fist closed, as if he were squeezing a lump of clay rhythmically. The sound intrigued me.

Suddenly a wooden bead rolled under my feet. Mutsch scooped it up. She handed it back to the man who smiled and then said something to her in Korean. Mutsch smiled back. The man had been rolling two beads together in his hand. I asked Mutsch, “What of that?” She brushed my brow. “It may have some religious significance or perhaps it just relaxes him.”

Later, Paps asked if we were ready to go for supper. Mutsch and I said yes. “Before we do,” he said, motioning to the bed, “we’ll sit to say prayers. It’s Friday so we should.”

Mutsch was quick to add, “But let’s whisper.”

As we held hands Paps thanked God for our safety and the gift of family. He asked for continued fortune so that we would arrive in Japan in good health. “Freedom from oppression,” he said, “is something we will never take for granted.” Mutsch prayed for the well-being of our relatives. We had no knowledge of them but we did know that there was continued uncertainty and increasing upheaval in Europe. She wished everyone good health and sanctuary from the evils of bigotry.

“And you?” Paps asked me.

I cleared my throat. “I thank God for my parents without whom I’d be lost or perhaps even dead. I pledge my love and good wishes for my relatives and everyone who has helped us: Gerta, Herr Bayern, Herr Langer, Herr Zurinoff, and especially Katya and Frau Beck. Finally, I thank the Lord for watching over us as we continue on to Japan to begin our new life.”

Paps ended our service. “Blessed be all who have crossed our paths, those of good will as well as the wicked. God will continue to favour the former and He must help the latter to see the error of their ways and to repent for their own sake and for the sake of mankind.”

The first stop in Korea was Sinuiju. As soon as we arrived the odour of garlic permeated the air and invaded our railcar. On the platform adults and children were chewing cloves of it as we would chew gum! At first, the scent was delightfully pungent but soon it became overpowering to the point of bringing tears to my eyes.

“What an odour!” Paps said pinching his nose.

My nose ran. “Yes, it’s so peppery and so spicy.”

“I’m hungry,” Mutsch said.

After more passengers boarded, we went to the dining car.

“Is there caviar on the menu?” Mutsch wanted to know.

Ever since we left Berlin I had the strangest sense of time and distance. When we began our trip in Merano, Italy, Japan seemed to be on the other side of the world, so far away that we might never reach it. The days were long, our progress insufferably slow, and the train rails stretching into the distance appeared as if they would never end. For so long our voyage took us simply to another station along the route. After we crossed the border into Korea from China, I welcomed the feeling that soon we might arrive at our destination. That our journey might someday come to an end.

It took perhaps twelve hours to transect Korea. I busied myself writing in my journal. I cherished my memories of Katya and her thoughtfulness. I fondled the bracelet given to me by Frau Beck, always recalling her kindness. I used my coloured pencils and drawing pad to illustrate the sights I had seen. Names and places found their way into my drawings. I packed and unpacked my rucksack a dozen times to be sure I would be ready when we detrained in Pusan where we would take a ferry to Japan. Each time I did so I thought of Gerta, remembering her love and devotion to my family.

During those twelve hours, my parents and I discussed tasks to be completed, accounted for our belongings, travel documents, and Japanese visas, and made lists of what each of us would do when we arrived in Kobe.

“I’ll make sure we’re settled in our new living quarters and then I’ll go to the office and begin my work there.” Paps said. “I will leave the domestic tasks and organization to you and Lorechen,” he told Mutsch.

“Through all our trials,” Paps reflected, “we’ve been blessed with good fortune.”

Our train arrived at Pusan. Soon we would take our last steps away from oppression, away from the epidemic we saw sweeping toward our little place in Berlin and across all of Europe. We were eagerly anticipating freedom in Japan.

On our way from Sunuiju to Pusan, we had stopped in Seoul. I have a picture in my mind of a river traversed by several bridges, winding its way through that city. Paps told me that once the train departed we would be three hundred kilometres away from the port city of Pusan. “Once there,” he said jokingly, “we’ll board a ferry and we’ll be only a hop, skip, and a jump away from Japan.”

I was so excited! The only time I had been on a boat of any consequence was when I was nine or ten years old. We had cruised to Norderney, one of the Frisian Islands. We vacationed there for parts of three consecutive summers and during one of our stays the wonderful fresh air had cleared me of a bout of bronchitis just as the doctor had said it would.

I have vivid memories of that trip. In particular I remember how one afternoon as we lounged near the water’s edge the life guards came running toward us. “Tidal wave approaching! Clear the beaches immediately!” they shouted.

“What’s a tidal wave?” I asked, having never heard the word before.

We raced toward a cement bridge high above the boardwalk upon which the incoming tide crashed against its pilings. A strong wind sprang up, driving dark clouds ahead of it. Suddenly, someone screamed while pointing into the distance. A single wave rose high into the air, paused, and then with a tremendous roar raced toward us. It crashed furiously across the dunes, ripped apart a section of the boardwalk, and tossed vendors’ stands and debris against the pilings.

I shrieked. “Will it wash us out to sea?”

“No, Lorechen,” Paps said, “a tidal wave is only one wave.”

Surveying the broken remains of the boardwalk and the hideously strewn carpet of personal items and downed branches, he gasped, “Look how much damage it’s caused! All we can hope is that no one has been swept away.”

Ingelore and her mother and father sailing on the North Sea to Norderney (East Frisian Islands), 1935.

We heard someone say that fifty years had passed since the last tidal wave had been seen in the North Sea.

Now, halfway across the world and several years later we were in pursuit of the land’s end, where we would board a different boat of consequence to ferry across the Sea of Japan to the island of Honshu and then travel to our new home in Kobe.

We disembarked that morning in Pusan and trudged through the crowds, making haste to enter the station house. We needed to find the ferry terminal. Father thought it would be no more than a kilometre and so, carrying everything we owned in two small valises and one rucksack, we walked from the station. Once outside we felt the strong gusts and heard the angry howling of the wind swirling about. We pushed against its force making slow progress. Soon we located the ferry station.

To our great disappointment there was a typhoon alert in effect.

“How will we get to Japan?” I asked.

Paps looked exhausted. “We must wait and see,” is all he could say.