Travel Agency with a Single Tour

Karel Hájek
Photo: Eva Kalinová
Metro, 10 March 1999

• Czech version cestovni_kancelar_s_jedinym_zajezdem
• English version Travel Agency with a Single Tour
• German version Reisebüro mit einem einzigen Reise
• Arab version وكالة سفر برحلة واحدة

Shortly after 15 March 1939, following the occupation of Czechoslovakia by Hitler's army, four enterprising individuals from Bratislava appeared in Prague and opened a travel agency in the luxurious Černá růže arcade. The most intriguing aspect of it was that it organised only one single journey. The four had managed to negotiate with the Prague Gestapo, which authorised 650 people to leave the Protectorate. Arranged, agreed, it probably wasn't for free.

In a few days, the Czech lands were abuzz among those at risk, with talk of the Černá růže transport, and long queues formed outside the Bratislava owners' office. The queue was mainly composed of Jews, who were in the gravest danger, but also included anti-fascists from Germany and Austria, who had already fled from Hitler once, trade union leaders, artists—in short, anyone at risk of ending up in prison or a German concentration camp. I was among the youngest of them. I suspected that war would break out soon, and I wanted to be on the right side of the front. The Černá růže transport was headed for what was then Palestine, under British administration. My heart wasn't set on it, but it was the only escape route and hope.

FROM THE TRAVEL AGENCY'S BROCHURE, we learned after paying the required fee that we should wear lace-up boots for the journey and that a ten-kilogram bag in the form of a backpack was allowed per person. We were also advised to arm ourselves with a first aid kit, Marseille soap (which lathers even in saltwater), and seasickness tablets. Another piece of information revealed that the journey would be simple, quick, and easy. Somewhere in Romania, we would board a ship, sail to the shores of Palestine, disembark, and scatter inland, where it would then be up to us what happened next. Those four Bratislava entrepreneurs certainly made a decent profit from their Černá růže transport idea, but I deliberately don't mention their names; after all, they did more for the 650 fugitives than anyone else.

WE WERE ALL on alert, constantly awaiting the order to depart. Finally! On the night of 30 April 1939, we boarded a special passenger train at Masaryk Station and set off for Vienna. We travelled accompanied by the Gestapo and police. In Vienna, we coincidentally witnessed the May Day celebrations. I had never experienced anything like it. The sky was full of flares, our ears were ringing from the gunfire; it seemed like a rehearsal for war, perhaps to get people used to the racket.

Accompanied by the Gestapo, we boarded two small Yugoslav steamers, Cara Dušan and Kraljevica Marica, at the Vienna Danube port. We set sail, and a few minutes later, we read on the Bratislava shore a large sign: „Pressburg will heim ins Reich - Bratislava wants to return to the Reich,“ and we spat. We slowly began to get to know each other: young and old, believers and non-believers, students, singles, married couples—all fleeing from Nazism to Palestine with the Černá růže, because aside from uncertain Denmark, distant China, and the even more distant Dominican Republic, no country was willing to accept refugees and grant them entry visas. No one wanted to anger Hitler, so no country accepted emigrants.

THE JOURNEY to Sulina in the Danube Delta took only a few days. It was a small, dirty port, and we awaited the ocean liner that would pick us up. One day, something small, ugly, ancient-looking crept up to the pier, bearing the name Frossoula on its bow. It was hard to believe, but it was indeed our ship. A vessel with a displacement of only three thousand tonnes, apparently built in the last century. Now Frossoula belonged to a Greek shipowner of dubious reputation and sailed not under the Greek flag, as would be proper, but under the Panamanian flag. The captain greeted us. He had a single tooth in his gum and a tiny cap, a baseball cap, on his head. We inspected the crew. They were all tattooed from toe to neck and looked like escapees from Sing-Sing. Boarding began. It was a sight to behold as renowned lawyers, yesterday's political and trade union leaders, students, merchants, and people of all nationalities walked into this floating den.

Bow of the Frossoula

WE WERE ALL on board. Those who had paid the higher „fare“ went to the hold, where bunks with mattresses as thin as pancake batter awaited. The majority of us lay on the metal deck plates. We lay side by side, right next to the latrines—dry toilets, flushed with a bucket hanging from a rope overboard. At the stern of the Frossoula, a homosexual canteen operator ran his shop. As long as he had something to sell, he offered various delicacies, even freshly baked bread. Those without money who were young paid with their bodies; otherwise, they got nothing.

Accommodation on the Frossoula next to the latrines

WE SET SAIL from the port and savoured the beauty of the sea and the shining sun. I was still young and repeated what my geography teacher had taught me as we wove our way through the Bosphorus, Dardanelles, and the Marmara Sea into the Mediterranean. We were in good spirits, singing a lot, still not suffering from thirst or hunger.

Our course was set for Palestine, and we were likely very close to its shores. Suddenly, a military patrol boat with a British crew appeared in front of us, and we all rushed to the railings, waving, thinking that friends had come to welcome us. They had. Suddenly, flares—green and red—shot into the sky, and we kept waving and shouting until bang, bang, bang. Shots were fired from the boat. A Czech-made BREN-26 machine gun—produced in England under licence—hit three of our men dead on. The next day, we buried them at sea, leaving six orphans on the deck of the Frossoula.
Such was our approach to the shores of Palestine. Frossoula quickly turned around, fleeing from the three-mile territorial waters, and the British sailors with cigarettes in their mouths returned to their military base, reporting mission accomplished.

I DON'T KNOW where we fled to; we were still at sea, but somewhere else. Days passed with the Frossoula either sailing or not, as fuel was being conserved, and the one-toothed captain waited for another opportunity to unload his troublesome passengers. After two months of drifting, seasickness began to set in. The ship's radio operator occasionally let someone listen to the radio from Prague. It wasn't free. For a few minutes of listening, he demanded a sweater, shirt, or trousers, but mostly money. I gave him the sweater my mother had knitted and listened to the voice from the Protectorate. Some women took to sleeping with the tattooed sailors. The rations of drinking water and food grew smaller, more people fell ill, and rats multiplied. I no longer found the smooth sea surface, the shining sun, and the evening stars appealing. The shore of any land was nowhere in sight. The only change came during storms when Frossoula danced on the waves, creaking and groaning with every bolt, and we only awaited the moment we would sink. But not everyone. During particularly strong storms, Anka, a normally quiet and almost silent teacher, would sit by the smokestack, always waiting for someone to thrill her more than the storm. And someone always did, and when the storm subsided, Anka's face would glow with happiness. Night after night, we sailed with the lights out, supposedly making it harder for coastal patrols to track us. Often, in the darkest of nights, we attempted to land illegally on the shores of Palestine but had no chance. The British drove us away. During the day, they sent a reconnaissance aircraft over us to map our position.

WE HAD BEEN AT SEA for three months now, and despair slapped us in the face. Our supplies of drinking water, food, medicine—everything necessary for life—were running out. We forced the radio operator to call out for help, asking the United Nations in Geneva to arrange for us to dock somewhere, anywhere but Germany. Everywhere, in every country, politicians had hard hearts, deaf ears, and dry eyes. No one answered, no one listened, no one wanted to help 650 people. Our hunger became so intense that we stopped going to the toilet. Around that time, a sailor killed the Frossoula's canteen operator. He had nothing left to sell. Even the Frossoula's captain was feeling unwell; he suddenly made a decision, changed the ship's course, and headed for the Turkish, semi-military port of Mersin. Finally, we saw the shore, people, buildings, but as soon as we dropped anchor, a Turkish military patrol boat appeared. „If you don't leave within half an hour, we'll shoot you,“ the Turkish captain declared. We young people took over the anchor and refused to consider the ultimatum. Soon the Turks returned. They loaded their weapons and clearly meant business. We capitulated and set sail again.

WE CALLED FOR HELP many times, but in vain. There was no longer any drinking water, and we received one ship's biscuit per day. It was so hard it had to be smashed against the iron deck. Only the rats were thriving. The captain took initiative once more, and Frossoula sailed towards the Syrian coast. We dropped anchor in Tripoli. We had a seriously ill woman on board who needed a hospital or a coffin. We anchored and waited to see what would happen next. Suddenly, women from the Arab Red Crescent—a counterpart to the Red Cross—arrived, bringing water, food, and medicine; our seriously ill woman was taken to a hospital. These Arab women had better hearts than all the European politicians combined. But we had to leave Tripoli; they said we'd get help in Beirut. We docked in Beirut, and the French colonial authorities let us disembark, eat, and shower, while Frossoula was fumigated. And then back on board the Frossoula. It was covered with hundreds of dead rats, and we sailed again from somewhere to somewhere.

In Beirut, we're sent back to the Frossoula

OUR SUFFERING finally ended thanks to an alleged Israeli underground organisation. In the Mediterranean, just like the Frossoula, another Greek cargo ship was wandering, also sailing under the Panamanian flag, unknown to the British. And we were to transfer at sea to the Tiger Hill, as the ship was called. We formed landing groups, and one night, when the Frossoula was about 200 metres offshore from the Tiger Hill, we boarded lifeboats and headed for the ship that was supposed to save us. We climbed up the rope ladder lowered from the Tiger Hill to its deck.

The journey from the Frossoula to the Tiger Hill in lifeboats

After nearly four months at sea, we waved goodbye to the departing Frossoula. Two nights later, the Tiger Hill ran aground on the shore of Palestine. We jumped off the tilted ship, swam, waded ashore, and fled inland. The British caught us like cats catching mice and promptly sent us to the British desert concentration camp in Sarafand.

On that same day, however, World War II began. We were only in the camp for a few days before the British released us, and a few days later, a significant number of the men from the Frossoula stood before a military conscription board in Beirut. Among us were the four enterprising Bratislava men from the Černá růže travel agency. We were conscripted and sailed as volunteers of the Czechoslovak foreign army on the luxurious liner Champolion to France.

TODAY, ONLY three of the 650 passengers of the Frossoula are still alive. No one knows what became of the Frossoula, but the luxurious Černá růže arcade still exists.

• Nationality: Panamanian
• Purpose: Transport
• Type: Cargo ship
• Propulsion: Steam
• Date built: 1903
• Is nickname: No

• Tonnage: 1255 GRT
• Dimensions: 67.1 x 10.1 x 6.6 m
• Material: Steel
• Engine: 1x three-cylinder triple expansion engine, single shaft, single screw
• Power: 149 n.h.p.¹⁾
• Yard No.: 144
• Call Sign: HPJP

• Cause of Loss: Air raid
• Date of Loss: 15/07/1940
• Casualties: † max. 33

• Builder: Tyne Iron Shipbuilding Co. Ltd., Willington (N. & S. Shields)
• Engine by: North Eastern Marine Engineers Ltd., Sunderland
• Last Owner: Xylas, Michael M., Piraeus

• SS Frossoula (+1940)
  • Period: 1940 ~ 1940
  • Call Sign: HPJP
  • Previous Owners:
    • Vardavas J.E. & Co
• SS Frossoula
  • Period: 1938 ~ 1940
  • Call Sign: HPJP
• Sicard Louis - Cie Nouvelle de Nav Sicard, Marseille
  • SS Kilbane
    • Period: 1925 ~ 1938
    • Call Sign: FQQR
• Sarner & Cie, Marseille
  • SS General Leman
    • Period: 1923 ~ 1925
• French Government - État Français, Paris
  • SS General Leman
    • Period: 1915 ~ 1923
• Fisher Renwick & Co., Newcastle-Upon-Tyne
  • SS Hussar
    • Period: 1903 ~ 1915
• IMO/Off. No.: 113122
• Crew: 36

• References: Hocking C., Dictionary of Disasters at Sea during the Age of Steam



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