From camp barracks to living free in Australia part VI

 Part VI of the Binkevicius journey to Australia on the ship, Nelly.

August 14th – The Long Wait

I woke up early again, just before 5 a.m., and went on deck to check on our progress. The ship was still anchored in Naples, and the view of the city’s grandeur made it clear—we were still very much in Europe. It turned out that the departure had been delayed because the captain had persuaded a mother to stay behind in Naples with her sick, bleeding child, a heartbreaking situation that pushed our departure back further.

Despite the delay, we finally reunited with my wife and daughter after an hour. They had been pleased with their accommodations, and we were all glad to be together again. The excitement of setting off on the journey ahead started to take over, so we headed to breakfast. The pilot boats and smaller vessels were busy around the ship, making it clear that our departure was imminent.

Breakfast was surprisingly hearty—eggs, cheese, butter, marmalade, coffee, and milk. We ate our fill before climbing up onto the deck. By the time we stepped outside, Nelly had finally set sail. We were well beyond the Italian coast by then, heading into the vast Mediterranean. The day was bright, and the sea was calm. There were so many new things to take in—the ship, the endless horizon, the excitement of moving toward a new life. I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter as we sailed on.

It was nice to see some familiar faces on board, like Mr. Pov. Luknas and his “lady of the heart.” They were traveling with us and, as we soon learned, would be married in Australia. We passed between the island of Capri and the mainland, and as the ship turned left to sail along the coast, the reality of what we were doing—what we were leaving behind—started to sink in.

As we sailed further, I couldn't help but notice how many of the other passengers were already showing signs of seasickness. Even in the calm conditions, some were struggling. I heard the snap of cameras as people tried to capture the moment, but one careless passenger lost his camera overboard, and another dropped his green glasses into the Tyrrhenian Sea. We all laughed, but I think we were all secretly relieved it wasn’t us.

As evening fell, we passed the famous volcano of Stromboli, which erupted twice in a dramatic display of power, sending a mushroom cloud into the air as if to bid us farewell. The sight of it was both thrilling and terrifying. By nightfall, we entered the Strait of Messina. From the deck, we could see a cluster of lights shining from a distance, perhaps 10 kilometers away, the only sign of life in the dark stretch of water.

August 15th – The Restless Sea

That night, the ship rocked more than I had expected. Around 3:30 a.m., I woke up to a big sway, and several neighbors of mine did too. At first, we thought it might be a storm, but there was no storm, only a larger set of waves as we sailed deeper into the Mediterranean. The sea was much more restless, and as the day wore on, the waves only grew more turbulent.

The Mediterranean can be unpredictable, especially closer to Crete. The sea was treacherous, and many passengers, including my son and I, started feeling unwell. We felt a little queasy at first, but thankfully, it passed. We heard that the ship, Nelly, was limping along due to only two of its four engines working. Some sailors claimed that three engines were working, but no one was quite sure. Regardless, we noticed that other ships were overtaking us, and we couldn’t keep up with them. We were slowing down, and it was frustrating.

The food situation continued to be... well, excessive. The ship's kitchen was serving us lavish meals—too lavish, in fact. There was so much food that much of it was left uneaten and tossed overboard. Watching so much waste happen right in front of me was hard to stomach. It seemed criminal to see so much food thrown away when so many people around the world were starving. It was especially painful to think of those we had left behind in the camps in Germany, Lithuania, or even Siberia, who were struggling to survive. How I wished I could share this excess with them.

In the midst of all this, tragedy struck. A child died on board, and we had a corpse with us now. The mother’s decision to come on the ship with her sick child seemed like an ill-fated one, and it cost the child’s life. A "script" card was issued to each passenger for purchases at the ship's store—my daughter received $1.50, and the rest of us $4.50. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all some kind of punishment, a reminder that after so many years of starvation, we were now being “rewarded” with too much.

August 16th – The Child’s Funeral

That evening, the sea grew even rougher, and we were rocked by high waves. We were all doing well, but many others were bedridden, unable to keep any food down. I thought it was a strange, harsh reminder of the journey we were on—the constant turmoil, both outside and inside us.

In the afternoon, we had to witness a child’s funeral. The child’s body, wrapped in a Panamanian flag, was lowered into the sea after a short Orthodox service. The ship's engines were stopped during the ceremony, and the ship rocked violently in the waves, making the entire event feel even more surreal. The captain and officers participated in the service, dressed in sombre clothes. The rough sea made the funeral seem like a part of some larger, cosmic event, as though nature itself was marking the occasion.

Some of the sailors laughed and joked about the “fresh wind,” while the passengers, sombre and quiet, watched as a pod of dolphins appeared beside the ship. It was a strange contrast—the beauty of the dolphins, the death of the child, and the tumultuous sea.

August 17th – Slowing Down

The next day, the sea had calmed slightly. Nelly was sailing much slower now, her speed reduced from 18 miles per hour to only 10-12. We had made 280 miles on the first day, but only 230 on the second day. Despite the slower pace, the passengers seemed to be in good spirits, many of them gathering on deck.

In the evening, a group of Lithuanians—about a hundred of us—gathered together and sang Lithuanian songs under the dark sky. As our voices filled the air, it felt like a moment of connection to the past, to the people and the homeland we had left behind. We were scattered across the Mediterranean, but for that brief moment, we were all united.

The weather was getting warmer and more humid as we sailed on, a reminder that we were leaving Europe behind and heading toward a new world. The uncertainty of the journey still loomed, but there was a sense of anticipation building. What would Australia be like? Would we find a new home there, or would we face more hardship?

August 18 – Approaching Port Said

By the morning of August 18, we still couldn’t see land, but there were signs that it was near. A single seagull soared past us, and we could spot the sails of small boats on the horizon. This meant land was close. Onboard, more air conditioners were put into operation to cool the ship, a sign that we were nearing warmer climates.

We had already watched two films on the ship: “Australia Today” and “The Show.” Both films were filled with vibrant images of fruit and food displays—something we had become used to seeing after the plentiful meals on board. These visual representations of a peaceful, abundant life in Australia were not surprising anymore. After a year of starvation and scarcity, seeing so much food felt almost overwhelming, but we had quickly adapted. The films weren’t boring, but they did leave us wondering about the reality of what we were about to encounter. Would Australia be as glorious as the films showed? What awaited us beyond the horizon?

After breakfast, we saw the first signs of land—Port Said appeared on the horizon. The city seemed to float on water, its brick buildings lined up along the low-lying shore. A pilot boat arrived alongside us, and soon the Arabs took over the steering of the ship as we entered the shallow waters. The silt from the sea bed stirred up beneath us, making the water appear murky and dark. A motorboat carrying police officers came to check the ship’s documents, but everything seemed to be in order.

As we sailed past the beach and a prominent monument, we entered the harbor. The scene was busy and colorful, filled with ships from all over the world, and the port was lively with activity. British soldiers waved at us from a military ship as we passed by, and the area felt charged with energy. Small boats filled with Arabs surrounded us, offering all sorts of goods—leather products, carpets, and various trinkets. The prices, especially for foreign currency like dollars, were incredibly cheap compared to Germany. It felt like a bazaar on water.

Most of the Arabs were friendly and polite, but there were exceptions. One fellow traveller, Mr. White, was conned when he tried to buy shoes for his wife. He paid the Arab $10 through a basket on a string, but the Arab returned only $4, pocketing the extra $2. Another traveller, a Pole, was swindled when an Arab sold him a handbag for $3 and then disappeared with both the money and the bag. These incidents were a reminder that, despite the warmth of the people, there was a shadow of opportunism lurking in the harbor.

As the day turned to evening, the view of Port Said from the ship was magnificent, especially with the city lights sparkling across the water. The jazz band on board, which had been improving with every passing day, played music that lifted the spirits of the passengers. Suddenly, a large luxury ship with a glowing dance hall sailed past us, its lights dazzling in the night. Passengers on our ship started shouting, “Umtauschen!” or “Change ships!” in jest, but we all knew it was a fantasy—this was our ship, and we had to make do with what we had.

The Morning of August 19 – Sailing Through the Suez Canal

The next morning, when we woke up, we found ourselves at the 62nd kilometer of the Suez Canal, surrounded by other ships. The ships were moving slowly to avoid causing any accidents or washing up on the banks. We sailed through a narrow channel, passing British military camps and bases along the coastline. British military planes flew overhead, a constant reminder that this was a highly sensitive international zone.

As we moved further through the canal, we passed a camp where a group of camels was grazing. One of our Russian fellow travelers shouted to his wife to see them—apparently, she was a fan of smoking "Camel" cigarettes. The sight of those animals, used as symbols of the desert and the Middle East, was both surreal and fascinating. The entire journey seemed to be a collection of odd, unique experiences that would stay with us for years.

At some point, we entered the largest lake in the canal, which resembled a vast sea. Here, the ships stopped for a while to allow the passage of ships sailing in the opposite direction. It was a strange sight—18 ships gathered in one spot, all of them waiting for clearance to continue. The sun blazed down on us, and we had to shield ourselves from its intensity with hats and sunglasses. The heat was oppressive, but it was also the first real taste of what awaited us in Australia—a land of sun, deserts, and open space.

Despite the physical discomfort, we tried to keep ourselves occupied. On deck, a group of passengers attended English lessons conducted by Mr. Petrauskas, a young man who would later be ordained as a priest in Australia. Rimas, one of the other passengers, contributed to the lessons as well. We were all distracted by the surroundings, the waiting, the heat. Fatigue began to settle in, and the excitement from earlier began to wear off.

We had been on this ship for a while now, and the journey was beginning to feel like an endless passage. But at the same time, we were getting closer—closer to that unknown land of Australia that loomed in all our minds.

August 20 – Struggling in the Red Sea

We entered the Gulf of Suez, and at first, our ship, the Nelly, was making good speed. But it wasn’t long before things took a turn. After a few hours, the ship stopped. The engines cut off, and we found ourselves stranded in complete darkness. The lights went out, and the air conditioning, which had already been a luxury in the heat, stopped working too. The cabins quickly became as hot as an oven, and the air felt thick with the weight of the stifling heat.

Large waves pushed us toward the distant shore. It was a chaotic situation—panicked passengers, a ship stuck in the dark, and a crew trying to fix whatever had gone wrong. This tense and uncomfortable period lasted from 9 to 11 PM. During that time, all we could do was sit and sweat, trying to stay calm while the ship seemed helpless in the vast expanse of water.

Then, suddenly, the engines started back up, and the ship began to move again, slowly at first, but then at a normal speed. The sighs of relief from the passengers were almost audible as the Nelly regained its motion.

August 21 – Surrounded by Water

On the 20th, we left the last landmass behind, and by the next day, we found ourselves completely surrounded by water. There was no sign of land in any direction. The real journey was now underway, the full isolation of the sea setting in.

That day, we had a test alarm. A "manoeuvre" was carried out to show everyone how to react in case of an emergency. The ship was now only moving at 11 miles per hour, and people were starting to joke about it, calling the Nelly an "old woman"—no longer the sprightly vessel it once was.

The heat was unbearable. We passed the Two Brothers—two small islands in the middle of the Red Sea. It felt like we were passing through a furnace. The sea was growing hotter, the air thick with humidity, and everyone was drenched in sweat.

Flying fish darted past us, looking like flashes of silver in the sun, and we joked about them being flying herrings. To combat the oppressive heat, we were given more salted food, which we had learned was a way to replenish what we were losing in sweat. But this only made many of us feel more frustrated and impatient with the situation.

August 22 – No Escape from the Heat

The next night, the heat became unbearable. My sheets and pillows were soaked through by morning, and it was clear that many others were suffering too. People avoided going to the dining hall, where the heat was suffocating. Instead, many of us spent time on deck, hoping to catch a breath of cooler air. But there was little to be found. The ocean around us was calm, but the heat remained unrelenting.

Dolphins appeared in the distance, performing acrobatics in the water. We watched, fascinated by their grace, but even the sight of dolphins couldn’t relieve the exhaustion. Everyone seemed to be growing tired of the Red Sea, longing for it to be over. We were stuck between two hot deserts—trapped in a literal and figurative oven.

Some passengers, desperate for any relief, took to sleeping on the deck. The evening air wasn’t much cooler, but it was a break from the oppressive heat below. It became a strange sort of community ritual—people bringing their mattresses and blankets up to the deck, searching for whatever coolness they could find. A few even climbed into the lifeboats to try and get some sleep, while others scrambled onto the roof above the deck, trying to escape the heat below.

August 23 – Strained Atmosphere

The captain wasn’t pleased with the situation. He ordered all the ship’s property to be taken back inside. The passengers were being too unruly, and the sight of people crowding the deck and climbing into strange places must have seemed like disorder. But when the police (some of whom were spies from the International Refugee Organization) came to move people back inside, a confrontation nearly broke out. The police gave up after a brief standoff, realizing that the passengers were too restless to be controlled.

As the night wore on, the situation continued to worsen. More people fell ill, some from fever, others from the heat. The ship’s hospital became a haven for the sick, with even Lithuanian Mr. Točka helping out. The dining room, once a place for socializing and eating, had become a literal hot oven. Many passengers avoided it altogether.

Twice, the Nelly had to stop for about half an hour—once for an 83-year-old woman who had fallen seriously ill and passed away. The ship stopped again for her funeral, a sombre event that added to the tension on board.

August 24 – A Dangerous Turn

By August 24, the ship finally seemed to regain some of its former strength. The engines appeared to be working again, and the Nelly was able to move faster. But the relief was short-lived. As the ship’s speed increased, we began to notice sparks flying from the chimneys, signs of burning oil. A fire risk loomed over us, and the ship’s firefighters had to act quickly, using water jets to extinguish the flames before they could spread. Fortunately, the danger passed, but it was a reminder that our journey was far from smooth sailing.

That evening, the ship's officers gathered the passengers to give a warning. There had been rising tensions between different national groups on board. The Poles and Ukrainians, in particular, had been clashing, and the officers cautioned against further animosity. It was a reminder that the stress of the journey was starting to unravel the civility of the passengers.

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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.

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Australian Lithuanians - Litho's

If Lithuanian Jews are called Litvaks and Lithuanian Americans are known as Lugans, what are Australian Lithuanians known as?  Australians shorten everything so its no surprise that Lithuanian become Litho's.  While on the outside we look like any other Australian there are some things that make us different.  Here are a few.

 

A new breed

I loved Lithuania long before I ever set foot on her shores.  It is the land of my grandparents, the place where they were born, grew as a child and left as young adults.  The country that was always their home, their mother tongue, their history.  A land that they never returned to, to live, but was always dear to them.  

I have just returned from a visit to Lithuania where I spend a month travelling around the country, catching up with old friends and meeting new relatives.  I grew up in Australia and was always a little sad that our family was so small.  I was still better off than most as my paternal grandfather has his siblings here, but it still added up to a small group that could all sit around one large dinner table.  This year I met my parents cousins for the first time, and am amazed at how my family has suddenly expanded.  I wish my parents had this extended family growing up, they missed out on so many family gatherings, gossip and squabbles. For me, finding family overseas has given me deeper roots to the country that has played such a big part in my life.   I returned home clutching a precious photograph of my maternal great grandparents, which I never had seen, and a photograph of my grandparents wedding, we have one photo but had never seen this one.  I now have images of my grandfather as a young man and images of him mourning the loss of his father at his funeral.   My new found family took us to visit the graves of my maternal great grandparents and extended family, I had no one to visit in cemeteries in Adelaide. 

My roots grow deep and strong in Lithuania, but new sprouts are growing and expanding in Australia.  While Lithuanian blood may flow through my veins, I realise that growing up in a different country makes me not Lithuanian.  I speak an accented, grammatically poor, old fashioned version of the language, I am unaware of the slang, local jokes, have no idea of music, films and tv from years ago.  Nor do I have the experience of growing up in an occupied country under a regime that was enforced upon you. I am a new breed, a 'litho', an Australian born of Lithuanian decent. I will always belong in two places.