Escape to Africa. Henri Diamant
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personal luggage. After all, it was not as if we were leaving for good. A couple of years, at most, and we should be back home, reunited once more with those cherished possessions.
However, things did not work out as planned. To father’s dismay, the family passports were lost during visa processing at the Romanian Embassy and, by the time new ones were issued, the Romanian position had been given to some one else. Of course, this was really a blessing in disguise because Romania eventually became as unsafe as any other country in Europe.
The very next opening that materialized was the one in the Congo, and that was how we landed in Elisabethville, the major town in Congo’s southeastern province of Katanga. Father’s assignment was to open the second Kotva branch in the colony. The first one, in the capital city of Leopoldville, was performing beyond all expectations, and the company wanted to cash in on that success.
Our new travel documents were issued during the month of December 1938, in a passport office right in downtown Zlin, By the way, this clearly shows the clout that Bata wielded with the Czech authorities. Think of it, in order to accommodate the company, the government maintained a passport office in Zlin, a private company town.
Father spent a couple of weeks in Zlin, for final briefings and for some general information about the Congo. However, once we reached our destination, it became obvious that the personnel in the export department had absolutely no clue about that particular area of the world. For instance, when father expressed his concerns about starting a brand new Kotva office in a strange country with a foreign language, he was told that there was nothing to worry about. To start with, the retail manager in Elizabethville had already been instructed to rent a good suite of offices for Kotva, and a suitable home for the family. Second, problems related to actual business could be worked out during frequent visits to Leopoldville. All father had to do was hop on the train once he closed the office on Friday evening, get all the advice he needed during an overnight stay in Leopoldville, and be home by opening time on Monday morning. Little did they know that there was no direct train connection between Elizabethville and Leopoldville, and that the round-trip journey would have taken father several weeks to accomplish. It is a rail and river route, where trains are used only to get around the non-navigable portions of the Congo River. Most of the trip is spent on paddle-wheel boats that sail cautiously over the ever-changing navigation channels during daylight hours, and drop anchor near riverbanks the minute it gets dark. This trek stretches for some 1500 miles.
By the way, in accordance with Congolese regulations, the company had to give father a three-year contract, so he could become eligible for work and residency permits in the colony. Another part of these rules required that, at the end of the three years, employees were given six-months of paid leave in a temperate-climate region (usually the employees’ country of origin), before resuming work in the tropics. This was deemed essential for the continued good health of employees and their dependents.
The immigration rules also required that we submit to thorough physical examinations, and be immunized against various tropical diseases. All of this took place over several days in the outpatient section of Zlin’s large hospital, and so we stayed at the company’s hotel for the duration of the procedures. It was not a lavish hotel, but it was thoroughly modern and exceptionally well run. It was regularly overrun with businessmen from all over the world.
In any event, we finally left on the first leg of our long journey at the end of January, 1939. We took the train from Prague to Antwerp, by way of Brussels. I remember Uncle Arnold standing on the quay and waving goodbye as we pulled out of Prague’s railroad terminal. Little did I realize at the time that it would be another thirteen years before I would see him again, this time in the USA, at the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean. It was when Harry and I flew from the Congo to the States, early in 1952, to visit our relatives and to see for ourselves what that famous country was all about.
It was during that trip that I became totally captivated with the States, and decided right then and there that I would return, for good, the minute I could make it happen.
Anyway, after the train emerged from Prague’s cavernous depot and we eventually tired of gaping out of the window, we stowed our luggage in the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable for the long journey. Harry and I played a board game while our parents remained unusually quiet, or so I thought, as the train rolled toward our first stop, the German border. They were evidently sad at leaving, but they must have been relieved that we were finally getting out of harm’s way.
Some time later, the train stopped across the border, right inside German territory, the country ruled by Hitler and his Nazi hordes. And yet, I do not remember experiencing any particular bouts of foreboding at the time, not even after what I saw next. The compartment door opened abruptly and a huge man, he must have been well over six feet tall, stepped boldly inside and instantly gave that hideous Nazi hand salute. He was dressed in an impeccable uniform, complete with the ugly swastika armband on his left sleeve and a side arm at his belt. Nonetheless, he was quite civil and actually processed our travel documents with professional courtesy. When he was done, he gave another Nazi hand salute, and firmly closed the compartment door on his way out. But, while the border crossing was uneventful for our family, others were not as fortunate. We heard that a number of passengers were not allowed to transit through Germany, and were forced to return to Czechoslovakia.
After changing trains in Brussels, we reached Antwerp on schedule, only to be told that our sailing date had been pushed back by a whole week because of some engine troubles on the vessel. This was unfortunate, not because we were reluctant to spend extra time in Antwerp, the center of Flemish culture for hundreds of years, but because father did not have much cash to pay for the unexpected layover (fiscal regulations had allowed only limited funds to be taken out of Czechoslovakia). Nonetheless, we managed to enjoy our extended time in Antwerp, even though we had to spend the week in a small and unassuming hotel, and had our meals at inexpensive restaurants. We saw the Cathedral of Our Lady, with its three monumental altarpieces painted by Peter Paul Rubens, the Grand Square (Grote Market) dominated by the Golden Age Town Hall and the Jewish neighborhood of Jootsewijk that was teeming with black-coated ultra orthodox jewish men.
Language was not much of a problem because many Flemish people understood enough German to communicate with our parents. By the way, three languages are spoken in Belgium; namely French (Walloon), Flemish and, to a much lesser degree, German. The latter is the regional language of a miniscule part of Belgium and does not wield the same influence as the other two languages. Both the Flemish and the French ethnic groups are extremely touchy about their heritage, and neither will tolerate discrimination in any form whatsoever. For instance, when the post office brings out new stamps, it has to make sure that half of each issue is printed with, for instance, “Belgique” on top of the design and “Belgie” underneath, while the other half of the issue has the names reversed the other way around. Both, French and Flemish are the two official languages of Belgium.
At last, our sailing date came, and we took a cab to the harbor and our liner, the SS Leopoldville. That turned out to be one of the most exciting days of my young life.
The date was February 13, 1939.
It was going to take me many years before I would walk once more on the European Continent.
07. Escape to Africa
The Compagnie Maritime Belge, the main link between Belgium and the Colony, owned a number of medium-size vessels, all named after Congolese cities, and collectively known as the “Congo Boats”. It used these ships to provide reliable mail deliveries to the Congo, and maintain a regular passenger service with the colony. By the way, it was only on February 27, 1946, that airmail and regular passenger service were finally set up between Leopoldville and Brussels, on Sabena’s DC-4 airplanes (Sabena was the Belgian National Airline that also flew passengers in the interior of the Congo). The flights took twenty-five hours, twenty-five very long and uncomfortable hours. I know that well, as I was on one of those never-ending flights, and can vividly remember the suffocating desert heat that hit me when I stepped off the plane in Kano, Nigeria. The plane was refueled and cleaned during the Kano stop, while the passengers were given breakfast with some very strong coffee. I could not wait to leave that overheated place. Additional information about this flight will