The Cay Read Free Page A

finally ended it by saying, “Phillip, the decision is made. You’ll leave Friday with your mother.”
    So I packed, with her help, and said good-by to Henrik van Boven and the other boys. I told them we’d be gone just a short time; that we were going to visit my grandparents, my mother’s parents, in Norfolk. But I had the feeling that it might be a very long time before I saw Curaçao and my father again.
    Early Friday morning, we boarded the S.S.
Hato
in St. Anna Channel. She was a small Dutch freighter with a high bow and stern, and a bridge house in the middle between two well decks. I had seen her often in St. Anna Bay. Usually, she ran between Willemstad, Aruba, and Panama. Shehad a long stack and always puffed thick, black smoke.
    In our cabin, which was on the starboard side and opened out to the boat deck, my father said, “Well, you can rest easy, Phillip. The Germans would never waste a torpedo on this old tub.” Yet I saw him looking over the lifeboats. Then he inspected the fire hoses on the boat deck. I knew he was worried.
    There were eight other passengers aboard, and they were all saying good-by to their relatives just as we were saying good-by to my father. In the tradition, people brought flowers and wine. It was almost like sailing in the days before the war, they told me.
    Father was smiling and very gay but when the
Hato
’s whistle blasted out three times, meaning it was time to go, he said good-by to us between clenched teeth. I clung to him for a long time. Finally, he said, “Take good care of your mother.”
    I said I would.
    We sailed down St. Anna Bay, and the Queen Emma bridge parted for us. Through watery eyes, I saw the fort and the old buildings of Punda and Otrabanda. Native schooners were beating in from the sea.
    Then my mother pointed. I saw a tall man standing on the wall of Fort Amsterdam, waving at us. I knew it was my father. I’ll never forget that tall, lonely figure standing on the sea wall.
    The S.S.
Hato
took her first bite of open sea and began to pitch gently. We turned toward Panama, as we had to make a call there before proceeding to Miami. Down on the well decks, fore and aft, were four massive pumps that had to be delivered to Colón, the port at the Atlantic entrance to the Panama Canal.
    I stayed out on deck for a long time, sitting by the lifeboat, looking back at Curaçao, feeling lonely and sad.
    Finally my mother said, “Come inside now.”

CHAPTER

Three
    W E WERE TORPEDOED at about three o’clock in the morning on April 6, 1942, two days after leaving Panama.
    I was thrown from the top bunk and suddenly found myself on my hands and knees on the deck. We could hear the ship’s whistle blowing constantly, and there were sounds of metal wrenching and much shouting. The whole ship was shuddering. It felt as though we’d stopped and were dead in the water.
    My mother was very calm, not at all like she wasat home. She talked quietly while she got dressed, telling me to tie my shoes, and be certain to carry my wool sweater, and to put on my leather jacket. Her hands were not shaking.
    She helped me put on my life jacket, then put hers on, saying, “Now, remember everything that we were told about abandoning ship.” The officers had held drills every day.
    As she was speaking, there was another violent explosion. We were thrown against the cabin door, which the steward had warned us not to lock because it might become jammed. We pushed it open and went out to the boat deck, which was already beginning to tilt.
    Everything was bright red, and there were great crackling noises. The entire afterpart of the ship was on fire, and sailors were launching the lifeboat that was on our deck. Steam lines had broken, and the steam was hissing out. Heat from the fire washed over us.
    When the lifeboat had been swung out, the captain came down from the bridge. He was a small, wiry white-haired man and was acting the way I’d been told captains should act. He stood by the