five seas, three continents, one spirit

…a cherished delivery from the shade of the bazaar…

Nikolai Nikolayevich Zibarov - 1899

Constantinople, Turkey

            The thrashing of waves that greeted us at the straits into this great city abruptly gave way to calmer waters. The beauty of the white houses and tiled roofs was impressive. Nestled amongst the rolling hills of its buildings, minarets rose to the sky, despite the blistering heat of the Mediterranean sun. There was a mystical quality that welcomed us as we slumbered into port. Everybody was anxious to walk on solid ground after the tossing and rolling which the Black Sea doled out for us.

            The port of Constantinople, busy with history as it is, was calm, steamy and hot. The city was seemingly asleep, yet alive, slumbering like a dream, buoyant at the heart of the Ottoman Empire. The very same Empire that many of our brethren, as conscripts of yet another Empire, the Russian one, had fought against. These two dueling empires, both of which emerged as contenders to the lost yolk of power which had resulted from the demise of a more ancient one, the mighty Byzantine Empire. The Byzantine Empire which rose from the destruction of the Roman Empire, had embraced Christianity under the leadership of Constantine, forging the lock and holding the key to the endless Eurasian landmass. Now it was to yet another one, the American Empire that our ship was headed.

            There were over 2000 souls on board the SS Huron as it yawned in the mid-morning sun. No one was allowed to step ashore, as the authorities were worried that the typhoid fever might be spread by the passengers and heighten the epidemic for the local citizens. People were already weary of the seas, yet the journey wasn't even one fifth complete. It was crowded and the stagnant status of our lot made the heat more unbearable.

            Just out of sight from the starboard deck of our ship was the Yeni Cami Bazaar. We could hear the melodic calls from the vendors and the bustle of shoppers acquiring their wares from the merchants. The sounds of the market teased all of us who were stuck on the ship. Babushkas[1] sought shade where they could find it. Young children occupied themselves as best they could, but there was a nervous anxiety among the crowd. Where were we going, would we arrive safe, how was this steel ship able to remain afloat? Pessimistic rumours spread like unwanted disease, infecting our minds, discouraging our hearts, leading us to question our direction. Some wished to return to the Georgian shores from where we originated.

            My brothers were doing their best to find amusement. Alyosha was constantly trying to gain a new perspective along the side of the ship. Simeon was idle, stooped against the ventilation tube, picking lint from his clothes. Grisha was trying to be of use, peeling potatoes and helping the babas to fetch water. There was little water to be found. It was an ominous concern. Negotiations were underway for a small party to go ashore to purchase food and water.

            Everybody did whatever they could to avoid thinking about the voyage before us. Surely, we would not make it. Who could survive a month at sea? Why had we forsaken our motherland, we would have been better off in exile, allowed to perish on the land that gave birth to us. Some people cried to themselves, most did their best to avoid displaying fear, but it was palpable, there was barely a lifted lip or a twinkling eye among us. Doom was a contagion, hanging from the warm still air that surrounded us.

            Some people were sea sick and others began to clutch at their abdomens, vomiting with the ominous symptoms of typhoid, desperately in need of medical attention. Already, since we left the Port of Batumi one child had been born at sea. What a tragic soul, with no country to call her own. Her identity lost to the perils of transit.

            The crowd on the upper deck was impossibly crammed. People found space wherever they could to escape the sweltering heat below deck. The iron sides of the ship were like a caldron in the late morning sun. I slowly plotted my way along the deck, careful not to step on anyone. All of a sudden there was a growing murmur amongst those on deck. People began to stand and crowd the starboard side of the ship. I tried to squeeze my way through but there were simply too many people and I was too small.

            People amongst the crowd could be heard, ‘Are they ours, who might they be?’

            Then someone cried out, ‘Nikolai Savelyevich!’

            My heart jumped up into my throat, I could not breathe. Could it be…? I tried harder to push through the adults. I had to use considerable force to jam myself under the arms of two large men. Finally, I managed to push my head through to the railing and have a look. I saw several shadows approaching us on a small rowboat. I strained my eyes and squinted tight to offset the glaring sun shooting off the water.

            The crowd piped up. More cries of, ‘Zibarov!’

            ‘Zibarov came for us. Zibarov is here!’ Began to ring out again and again.

            Then I saw a shadow raise his hand and waive to the crowd. My eyes filled with tears and joy filled my soul. I knew that outstretched wave. I collapsed. Everything after that was a strange memory, slowed down and opaque.

             I remember it took so very long to finally sit with father. He was so popular and everybody wanted to greet him with the traditional salutations. Finally, around dinner we sat with him. My brothers and mama and I. We asked him about his trip from London to Constantinople. Earlier in the year he had been designated as an official courier for the Tolstoyans to correspond between them and the Quakers in London. He carried with him the deeds for our transport and some of the money needed for the arrivals of the first ships of our people to Canada.

            We asked about Paris and Munich and Belgrade, where were these places he had passed through. How lucky he was to find us. He was a man without a land to call home. Russia had renounced his passport and he would have been stranded without a country had he missed our departure. He went from being landless to having sea legs all in one afternoon.

            In the coming days we left Constantinople. The voyage across the Mediterranean was somewhat calmer. The sun was less pressing upon us. Unfortunately, the typhoid had begun to spread amongst some and the ship’s doctor was busy treating the ill. Gibraltar was a sight to behold, massive gates of rock opened onto the might of the Atlantic Ocean. We made a required call on the Port of Tangiers. Our captain went ashore to tend to some sort of official business. People began to feel more at ease, the cooler air had brought comfort and the calmer Mediterranean allowed people some rest.

            It had been seven days since we left Constantinople when we finally entered the Celtic Sea, soon to arrive at the port of Liverpool. Here papa, Mr. Rieben and Mr. Plotnikov disembarked to purchase food and medicines for the trip across the Atlantic Ocean, I was not allowed to go with them. I remember seeing endless sacks of potatoes and barrels of water loaded into the ship’s holds below.

It was under a dark sky that we left the shores of Europe destined for the Americas. The voyage across the North Atlantic was rough and frightful. Many of us thought that we were doomed to a watery ossuary. People everywhere were sea sick and also hungry. There was a burden on the minds of the adults, they were convinced we had made a grave mistake and were being punished by God. Finally, the tumult ended and we entered the calmer waters of the Sea of Labrador. Rumour had begun to spread that within a day we would reach the Port of Halifax and begin our new life in Canada. I remember seeing the ragged coast line, it looked inhospitable. It did not look like the type of land where cows could graze, but were there any Tatars in America?

[1] The Russian word for grandmothers is babushkas. Short form is babas.