LATER We were stopped by a German ship. The crew knew Jeremiah. They see him often and buy fish from him. Today we had nothing to sell. They made several jokes. They looked at our papers but they passed. â
Alles ist in Ordnung
,' they said, and let us go, telling Jeremiah to have some fish for them tomorrow. He grunted. I hate German voices. It is in German that the officer said that they should shoot us. â
ihn erschiessen
,' he said, as though we were animals to be disposed of. I felt wobbly and Jeremiah made me drink some raki, which is disgusting and I am sure it has a lot of alcohol in it. It tastes like aniseed. But it made me feel a little better. Father didn't say a word to the German sailors, luckily. Jeremiah put up all his sails to get us out of the vicinity of the ship. We're going quite fast. Abdul is seasick. I will ask Jeremiah for some more raki for him.
We have landed on an island. I have to take care of Abdul and Father. There is an inn here. Perhaps we can find a room. I am waiting for the innkeeper to come home. He is out with the ewes. It is very nice to stop moving. Jeremiah just allowed us to splash ashore and then set sail without a word. We are a bit wet. And scared. We might be in Greece. I don't know where we are.
LATER It turns out this is not an island, it's another bit of Turkey. The local mayor arrived and demanded our papers. He spoke Turkish. He inspected the papers, holding them upside down so it is clear that he cannot read, but he was pleased by the impressive red seals. He told the innkeeper to lodge us and accepted a few lire as a present. So dinner has been providedâbeans againâand we can sleep here tonight. But where shall we go tomorrow? I know that I ought not to despair but I feel very low.
I have managed to get us another boat. It is going west. If we keep going west we will eventually get out of Turkey. I mentioned Jeremiah and the fishermen laughed and said that he was a bit deranged. Abdul was more friendly today. He was delighted that our papers passed, even though the mayor couldn't read them. It seems that in Turkey most people can't read. The fishermen set out at night so we have to stay here. I wish I had a book. Instead I sat in the inn yard where the women were dyeing nets brown. This makes it harder for the fish to see them, I suppose. The dye smelt awful. I found out that it was urine and boiled onion skins. No wonder it stank. Luckily a boy was weaving baskets and he let me sit down and help. I like weaving baskets. Father wandered out and joined us and he is quite good at baskets, too. We made three before it got too dark to see.
The fisherman took us into a quay in a town. He waved at a big river delta and said that it was the Evros flowing into the sea. That means we have crossed the border. Or it was the border last week. With Thrace you can never tell. When we got ashore we found that there were no officials and we just melted away into the crowd on the quay, mostly fishermen and beggars. I thought I saw Isaiah but there are a lot of old white-bearded men on the street. Real streets, with cobbles. We walked along the front for a while, not knowing where to find shelter. Father was intoning, âFoxes have holes and birds have nests but the son of man hath no place to lay his head.' Then a man came alongside us and said something in a language I do not know. Father replied at once and the manâtall and dark and dressed in a flowing shirt and riding breeches and bootsâdrew us out of the road into a maze of little streets. I was afraid and so was Abdul. He whispered to me that the man was a gypsy and we were about to have our throats cut as it was well known that gypsies could not be trusted. But the man had Father by the hand and I could not see a way of getting away from him. By now, anyway, we were lost.
The man, whose name is Romani, took us to a camp by the sea. There were wagons and horses, and a big fire. There he sat Father down on the sand and gestured to us to sit beside him. Women brought us food; they were the first unveiled women I had seen for ages. Romani made a speech about Father. Old men came and looked at us. They talked together, beards wagging. I ate the food. If they decided to kill us or hand us over to soldiers there was nothing we could do. But somehow I wasn't really afraid any more. You do not generally feed people before killing them. Father talked with the old men. He seems happy to speak any language apart from English. Finally the people reached some sort of agreement. There was a cheer. More food and drink was brought. Now, it seems, we are gypsies. And Father says we are now in Thrace. Which belongs for the moment to Bulgaria. I have no idea what this means. They have given us a tent and we are going to sleep.
So this is a gypsy camp. It looks chaotic but after a while I began to understand that it is actually very ordered. Each family has its own wagon or tent, its own horses which are kept in horse lines. Their own little area. They seem to have a prince or a king. That would be Romani. They speak a strange language which must be ancient because Father knows it. But they also speak Turkish and Greek. They are a musical people. A man is playing a stringed thing a bit like a guitar and singing as I write. It is a sad song. Abdul and I feel a bit useless. We have nothing to do and nowhere to goâand I have no clear idea of where I am. Perhaps I should go for a walk and see if I can find some food. Father seems to be happy where he is, talking to some old men.
LATER Abdul came with me to find a money-changer so that we can pay our way. These people are poor; we cannot expect them to feed us. I don't want to insult them by offering them money but I can buy food and treats. We have papers but they are Turkish. We need to buy Bulgarian papers somewhere. Perhaps Romani might know. Do gypsies have papers? They used to just wander, in Australia. Father and I used to have Australian passports, of course, but they were in my pack and Mehmet the thief stole them.
We found a money-changer at a booth in the market. He spoke Turkish. He was a strange wizened little man. At first he didn't want to talk to us but Abdul said that he was interested in buying some oranges and then the man ushered us in and took my coin. He examined it under a glass, rang it on the counter, and gave us a sheaf of notes and a lot of coins. Then he offered us tea. Clearly it isn't Ramadan here. We drank it. He talked about the army and the massacres which had taken place not far from here. He said that the army had killed women and children. When I asked, âWhich army?' he just shrugged. Abdul and I bought fruit and raki in the market and went back to the camp. Prices are very high, though that may be because we are foreigners. On the other hand everyone in this place looks like foreigners to me.
Spent the day lazing around the camp. Some women were making baskets so I joined in. I am getting good at baskets. So is Father. The women giggled when Father sat down with them but otherwise the talk is all of war and destruction. The Turkish army drove the Bulgarians out of Thrace, then the Balkan army drove the Turks out of Thrace. There are people on the road all over the country, being shoved here and there by soldiers. It isn't right. The gypsy women just said that this was the way of the world and everyone hates gypsies so they just had to get on with it. They said that in the beginning the gypsies came from a hot country in the desert and built a great city for a king. But they were cheated of their fee and they went away, vowing never to sleep under a roof again, and they never have. That seems like a long time to hold a grudge. They spoke in Turkish and Greek and the strange language which Father knows. Apparently it is Sanscrit. Father told me in Latin. I picked up a few words. It's not like Turkish or Greek. They taught me a phrase to use if any gypsy tries to oppress me.
Frare Romanischel
: I am a brother of the Romanies. I said it several times so I will remember it. And now I have written it down.
Last night the camp was raided by soldiers in an unfamiliar uniform. They must be Bulgarians. They were rough and rude. They dragged us all out onto the green and ransacked the caravans and tents. I don't know what they were looking for. Abdul and I slipped away into the nearby hovels and shacks on the seafront. I climbed onto a roof so that I could see what happened. Several gypsy boys were slapped and yelled at. Father was sitting quietly on the grass and they yelled at him, too. He just smiled sweetly and blessed them. That took them aback. They stared and kicked caravans and people for a while and then they went away. One of the horses kicked back. I can understand that. Today Romani ordered the camp to pack and depart before dawn and now we are on the road. I am writing this tucked into the corner of a horse-drawn carriage. Father is sleeping next to me. Were those soldiers looking for us? Abdul thinks they were and so does Romani. I can't imagine why. We aren't important. An Australian man of peace and his son. And a Turk, of course. What is this thing about oranges? We are travelling along the seafront. Somewhere there must be a boat which will take us out of this. I will pray.
We camped last night in a field in the middle of nowhere. I haven't seen another person apart from a few goat herds. Amazing how quickly a gypsy camp can settle and be comfortable, and how fast it can pack up and go. One moment there's nothing there, the next there are tents and horses and caravans and fires and children playing and the smell of cooking food. And music. Father preaches every night. The old gypsies listen to him very respectfully. I have no idea if they are Christians. But Father is always worth listening to, even if he is speaking in an unknown language. These gypsies mend pots and people from the farms come in with their skillets to have them fixed. Also they make baskets to sell. Then there is the old woman Mother Miriam, who reads palms and tells fortunes with a pack of strange cards. In Australia this is a fairground amusement and not taken very seriously. Here it is another thing. She is treated with very great respect. I asked her what would become of Father and me. She examined my hand for a while. Then she dropped it and asked me to draw a card. I did. It had swords on it. She snapped, âAll right in the end but a long journey from war to peace.' She seemed cross and would not accept any money. Abdul and I are helping with the horses. He has gone into the nearest village to pray. I am sitting on a caravan step, writing. It is warm but not too hot. I am beginning to feel safe again. This is not a good thing. Something bad always happens when I feel safe. I will not be safe until I am on an Australian ship. Or perhaps not until I am sitting on the beach at Apollo Bay again. It seems so far away that I feel like I might have imagined it.
Abdul came back and told us that there were soldiers in the village. He was out of breath and frightened. But so far no one has come. We are moving again tomorrow. They seem to have a circuit. Tasi, a girl who talks to me, said that there are berries and wild food to be harvested and the journey takes the gypsies to wherever the berries and so on are best. This seems sensible. Though, like the rest of this country, gypsies seem to live on rice and beans and bread. And cheese. Tasi said that Mother Miriam had seen chicken in her future. She hopes it might be soon. Tasi says that dreadful things have happened inland. Villages sacked and burnt. People killed in horrible ways. No one left alive. That is what happens when several armies range back and forth across a country. Poor Thrace. Tasi said that gypsies stay alive by moving fast away from any trouble. I hope we have not brought trouble upon them. The camp is nervous. But it's dinnertime. I'm starving.
Yesterday we went through a place which chilled my heart. They call them ghost villages. No one there. All the people sent away. Straying goats. Lost dogs which immediately started a fight with our dogs and then fell in behind the caravans. Gypsies always have a lot of dogs. One was a lapdog. Someone must have loved and indulged him. He still had a collar on. His silky coat was matted and his ears were torn. He ran straight to Father and licked his feet. Father picked him up and stroked him and carried him away with us. He's sitting in Father's lap as I write. Father calls him Sirius. He is sharing Father's cheese and bread. We mustered the goats and a few sheep and took them with us. But Romani would not let anyone enter the empty houses to glean for lost possessions. He said he would expel anyone who stole from the dead. He thinks all these people are dead. I suppose they are. That village was the saddest thing I ever saw. War is one thing; soldiers expect to be killed. But these people were just going on with their ordinary lives when they were snatched out of it. To heaven, Father says. I hope he is right. But through a window I saw a doll some little girl had set on her bed. It is still waiting for her to return. The sight made Abdul cry, too. We have made camp in another wasteland. I have to go and carry water for the cooks.
Another ghost village. Horrible. In this one we found a couple of straying donkeys and a horse and then Tasi heard a cry and went into a house and came out with a baby. She said it had been hidden in a basket under a table. It was thirsty and cried feebly. Romani yelled at Tasi for going into the house. She yelled right back at him that it was a baby and she could not leave it. Romani glared fearfully. Then he summoned a woman whose baby had died. He put the child in its basket into her arms. Tonight when we camped he called up the woman and she brought the baby. Romani put a pinch of salt on a knife and touched the baby's lips with it. The camp all cried, Welcome! Now the baby is a gypsy, like us. So are the livestock, I suppose. They follow us willingly. And Sirius sleeps next to Father, unwilling to let him out of his sight. He somehow lost one owner, he does not mean to lose another. He is a sweet little dog. And he is good for Father. Father talks to him in English. He does not talk to me at all.
No more ghost villages, thank God. From whom all blessings flow. A salt-seller spoke to me. I have a message to deliver to someoneâit is all very vague. I am to say that oranges cost 20,000 lire if someone asks me about the price of oranges in Edirne. I can't imagine that anyone would bother asking me about the price of oranges in the ordinary way. I believe that I am in some sort of spying ring and that the old man Isaiah is part of it. And so is Abdul. I asked him but he won't tell me anything. But I promised that I would deliver this message and I will if I can. There is an intact village here. The gypsies have gone into town to ask about pots to mend and to sell baskets. I want to buy some pomegranates. Father loves them.