He and the sacks were continually tossed from side to side in the hold until he wanted to scream out for help, but it was now dark, and only the stars were above him, as the deckhands had all disappeared below. He doubted if they would even hear his cries.
He had no idea how long the voyage to Egypt would take, and began to wonder if he could survive in that hold during a storm. When the sun came up, he was pleased to be still alive. By nightfall he wanted to die.
He could not be sure how many days had passed when they eventually reached calmer waters, though he was certain he had remained awake for most of them. Were they entering a harbor? There was now almost no movement, and the engine was only just turning over. He assumed the vessel must have come to a halt when he heard the anchor being lowered, even though his stomach was still moving around as if they were in the middle of the ocean.
At least another hour passed before a sailor bent down and removed the bar that kept the cover of the hold in place. Moments later Lubji heard a new set of voices, in a tongue he’d never encountered before. He assumed it must be Egyptian, and was again thankful it wasn’t German. The cover of the hold was finally removed, to reveal two burly men staring down at him.
‘So, what have we got ourselves here?’ said one of them, as Lubji thrust his hands up desperately toward the sky.
‘A German spy, mark my words,’ said his mate, with a gruff laugh. The first one leaned forward, grabbed Lubji’s outstretched arms and yanked him out onto the deck as if he were just another sack of wheat. Lubji sat in front of them, legs outstretched, gulping in the fresh air as he waited to be put in someone else’s jail.
He looked up and blinked at the morning sun. ‘Where am I?’ he asked in Czech. But the dockers showed no sign of understanding him. He tried Hungarian, Russian and, reluctantly, German, but received no response other than shrugs and laughter. Finally they lifted him off the deck and frogmarched him down the gangplank, without making the slightest attempt to converse with him in any language.
Lubji’s feet hardly touched the ground as the two men dragged him off the boat and down to the dockside. They then hurried him off toward a white building at the far end of the wharf. Across the top of the door were printed words that meant nothing to the illegal immigrant: DOCKS POLICE, PORT OF LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.
8
St. Andy
12 September 1945
Dawn of a New Republic
‘Abolish the Honors System’ read the banner headline in the third edition of the St. Andy.
In the editor’s opinion, the honors system was nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of clapped-out politicians to award themselves and their friends titles that they didn’t deserve. ‘Honors are almost always given to the undeserving. This offensive display of self-aggrandisement is just another example of the last remnants of a colonial empire, and ought to be done away with at the first possible opportunity. We should consign this antiquated system to the dustbin of history.’
Several members of his class wrote to the editor, pointing out that his father had accepted a knighthood, and the more historically informed among them went on to add that the last sentence had been plagiarized from a far better cause.
Keith was unable to ascertain the headmaster’s view as expressed at the weekly staff meeting, because Penny no longer spoke to him. Duncan Alexander and others openly referred to him as a traitor to his class. To everyone’s annoyance, Keith gave no sign of caring what they thought.
As the term wore on, he began to wonder if he was more likely to be called up by the army board than to be offered a place at Oxford. Despite these misgivings, he stopped working for the Courier in the afternoons so as to give himself more time to study, redoubling his efforts when his father offered to buy him a sports car if he passed the exams. The thought of both proving the headmaster wrong and owning his own car was irresistible. Miss Steadman, who continued to tutor him through the long dark evenings, seemed to thrive on being expected to double her workload.
By the time Keith returned to St. Andrew’s for his final term, he felt ready to face both the examiners and the headmaster: the appeal for the new pavilion was now only a few hundred pounds short of its target, and Keith decided he would use the final edition of the St. Andy to announce its success. He hoped that this would make it hard for the headmaster to do anything about an article he intended to run in the next edition, calling for the abolition of the Monarchy.
‘Australia doesn’t need a middle-class German family who live over ten thousand miles away to rule over us. Why should we approach the second half of the twentieth century propping up such an elitist system? Let’s be rid of the lot of them,’ trumpeted the editorial, ‘plus the National Anthem, the British flag and the pound. Once the war is over, the time will surely have come for Australia to declare itself a republic.’
Mr. Jessop remained tight-lipped, while the Melbourne Age offered Keith £50 for the article, which he took a considerable time to turn down. Duncan Alexander let it be known that someone close to the headmaster had told him they would be surprised if Townsend managed to survive until the end of term.
During the first few weeks of his final term, Keith continued to spend most of his time preparing for the exams, taking only an occasional break to see Betsy, and the odd Wednesday afternoon off to visit the racecourse while others participated in more energetic pastimes.
Keith wouldn’t have bothered to go racing that particular Wednesday if he hadn’t been given a ‘sure thing’ by one of the lads from a local stable. He checked his finances carefully. He still had a little saved from his holiday job, plus the term’s pocket money. He decided that he would place a bet on the first race only and, having won, would return to school and continue with his revision. On the Wednesday afternoon, he picked up his bicycle from behind the post office and pedaled off to the racecourse, promising Betsy he would drop in to see her before going back to school.
The ‘sure thing’ was called Rum Punch, and was down to run in the two o’clock. His informant had been so confident about her pedigree that Keith placed five pounds on the filly to win at seven to one. Before the barrier had opened, he was already thinking about how he would spend his winnings.
Rum Punch led all the way down the home straight, and although another horse began to make headway on the rails, Keith threw his arms in the air as they flew past the winning post. He headed back toward the bookie to collect his winnings.
‘The result of the first race of the afternoon,’ came an announcement over the loudspeaker, ‘will be delayed for a few minutes, as there is a photo-finish between Rum Punch and Colonus.’ Keith was in no doubt that from where he was standing Rum Punch had won, and couldn’t understand why they had called for a photograph in the first place. Probably, he assumed, to make the officials look as if they were carrying out their duties. He checked his watch and began to think about Betsy.
‘Here is the result of the first race,’ boomed out a voice over the P.A. ‘The winner is number eleven, Colonus, at five to four, by a short head from Rum Punch, at seven to one.’
Keith cursed out loud. If only he had backed Rum Punch both ways, he would still have doubled his money. He tore up his ticket and strode off toward the exit. As he headed for the bicycle shed he glanced at the form card for the next race. Drumstick was among the runners, and well positioned at the start. Keith’s pace slowed. He had won twice in the past backing Drumstick, and felt certain it would be three in a row. His only problem was that he had placed his entire savings on Rum Punch.