From camp barracks to living free in Australia part V

 Part V of the Binkevicius journey to Australia.

August 12, 1949 was the day that everyone in the camp had been anticipating for days. There had been whispers the morning before that we would be going to the port to board the ship, and the excitement was palpable. The ship assigned to us was the Nelly, the second voyage of its kind.  It was known to carry 1,500 passengers, and to us, its size was especially impressive.  We heard it would be called Nelly II for this journey. However, when the day arrived, there was no immediate sign of departure preparations.  It wasn’t until the evening that it became clear we were not leaving that day.

The next morning, we were told we needed to visit the doctor, a standard procedure for all passengers. It was an ordinary medical check-up—an impersonal “naked” examination, performed separately for men and women. Later, we received our travel numbers on a long piece of paper, a document we had to carry with us on the trip. Our family’s numbers were 1023–1026, marking us officially on the list for departure.

Despite the excitement, there was still a sense of uncertainty. The heat in the camp had become unbearable, and we were eager to leave. It was sweltering even at night, with temperatures that left us sticky and uncomfortable. As we looked forward to the journey, it felt like we were leaving behind not only Italy but an uncertain future, the vast unknown ahead of us.

On August 11, however, we had a moment of calm and peace. That morning, we went to confession as a family, seeking God’s blessing for the long journey ahead.  It felt important, like a final reconciliation before we left everything behind.  The priest spoke several languages, including German, so I was able to help my daughter with her confession in her native tongue. We prayed for strength, for the safe passage of our journey, and for the protection of our loved ones.

The night before departure, we packed our things carefully, trying to bring only the essentials. We bought a kilogram of lemons; a remedy we were told would help with seasickness.  Even though we were excited about the adventure, there was also a sense of trepidation. The ship, the sea, the long journey across the world—everything seemed vast and unknown, and we were both eager and frightened at the same time.

We awoke early on August 12, at around 5 a.m. The morning was hectic. We had to return the mattresses, blankets, and dishes provided by the camp.  After a quick coffee, we lined up by 8:30 a.m. in the camp’s courtyard, ready for transport. Our hand luggage was loaded onto trucks and promised to be delivered to the ship, and we were herded into freight cars, about 25 people to a wagon. There was enough room to move, but it still felt like the start of a long and uncomfortable journey. A few families with small children were allowed to board the passenger trains, but we were not among them.

By noon, we had arrived at the port of Naples, but the wait was far from over. We stood on the platform for a while longer, and then it started to rain. My wife remarked that the rain seemed to be accompanying our departure, adding to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. We didn’t have any relatives to see us off, no one to cry or wish us well. It felt as if even the weather was mourning our departure.

As the train made its way into the port area, we could see the ship, Nelly, waiting. Between the brick walls of the port and the towering buildings, we could glimpse the chimneys and the ship’s masts. We all hoped that Nelly would be the grandest, the most beautiful ship in the harbour. Our expectations were high, and we imagined the ship as a majestic symbol of hope and a new life.

Finally, after waiting for nearly an hour, we were directed to the passenger terminal. The weather had turned colder, with a strong wind whipping through the air. The heavy rain, the grey skies, and the mood of uncertainty clouded our spirits. We knew we were about to leave Europe, leaving behind our homeland, our fathers’ graves, and our families. We wondered if we would ever see them again, or if we would find our final resting place in Australia, far from the lands of our ancestors.

The train finally moved towards the open port, and we saw Nelly in all its glory, beautifully lit, ready to carry us across the seas. It was a sight to behold. But as we disembarked onto the platform, we were left shivering in the cold. We had come from hot weather and were lightly dressed, having given our coats and belongings to the transport. The cold was biting, and we stood there, waiting, wondering when we would finally board the ship that would take us on the longest journey of our lives.

After all the waiting and the hustle of boarding, we were finally taken to a large, thankfully warm hall at the port station. The crowd of 1,500 people was massive, and it moved slowly as we shuffled from one table to the next. At each table sat a row of officials who smiled at us, giving us the impression of wishing us a good journey. We were handed our passports, food cards for the ship, and place cards that would tell us where to go on board.

As I looked at the room numbers, it became clear that families wouldn’t stay together in the same section of the ship. Women and men would be placed in separate rooms. It was a sobering thought, but at that point, we were so focused on the journey ahead that we didn’t dwell on it for long.

Once we boarded the ship, the line of passengers stretched out onto the passenger platform. As each person stepped aboard, they had to hand over their freshly received passport to the ship’s officer, another step in the seemingly endless process.

My wife and daughter were assigned beds in room D5, while my son and I found our places in "Compartment" D2. The cabin was basic, but we were too tired to care. We had barely settled when the family split up. The female members of the family were directed to the back of the ship, while my son and I were told to wait in the dining room because the men’s room wasn’t yet cleaned. So, we sat down in the Mess Room, which was busy and chaotic, filled with fellow passengers.

The day had been long, and we were all hungry.  From Aversa to the port, the only food we had received was a half of a white cake and 1 pound of canned liver for twelve people. It had been a meagre meal, and our stomachs were growling in anticipation of what would come next. Some passengers had warned us that the food on Italian ships could be terrible, but we were still hopeful. As we lined up for our first meal, I was cautiously optimistic. What we got, however, surprised us.

The buffet offered a mixture of porridge, half-soup with bacon, boiled ham, pasta, and peas. But the best part? Real bean coffee. It was more than I had expected, and I quickly filled my bowl with pasta, thinking it would be just like a normal meal. I was wrong. The food was greasy, the kind of heavy, fatty fare that I could only take in small amounts. By the time I reached the halfway point, I had to stop. I couldn’t handle any more. My Russian neighbour next to me seemed to enjoy it, though, cleaning up every last piece of bacon.

My son also couldn’t eat it all, and my daughter seemed more interested in the ham than the pasta.  As for my wife, she ate with gusto but couldn’t hide her disgust, shaking her head after each bite.  I felt a bit relieved to know I wasn’t alone in not finishing the meal.

We made our way to room D2 soon after. The room, however, was a disappointment. It was filthy—no one had bothered to clean it. The beds were unmade, and there were no sheets.  But we didn’t give up.  We managed to get sheets, blankets, towels, soap, and toilet paper, just a bit of comfort in the chaos.

We heard from other passengers that the ship was scheduled to leave at 11 p.m., so I went up to the deck and waited. The night air was cool, and I stood there hoping to catch a glimpse of the ship leaving port. But, as the hour approached, the police escorts appeared, telling everyone to go to bed and leave the deck. It was a letdown. I had hoped to watch Europe slip away behind us, but it wasn’t meant to be.

That night, I didn’t sleep well. I kept asking myself, Is the ship sailing? The hum of the engines and the operation of the fans made it hard to tell. I thought I could hear movement, but it was impossible to be sure. Was it the ship leaving, or was I just imagining it?

In the end, I drifted off to sleep, with only uncertainty and the faint sound of the ship’s machinery keeping me company. The next chapter of our journey was about to begin, but it felt like we were still in limbo, caught between the known and the unknown, waiting for the inevitable shift into a new life.

Image is AI generated.