you?”
“Easy as pie. I know it’s Spanish.”
“It isn’t Spanish at all. But never mind. It’s good French.”
“Doesn’t sound like the language we have in New Orleans.”
“Quiet, now. You will do what I tell you or land in jail for six months. Don’t answer any questions anybody might ask you. Just play deaf. You will get your ticket all right, and after a certain time you will come to Antwerp. Antwerp is a great port. Hundreds of ships there all the time. They are always badly in need of sailors. You will get a ship before you even have time to ask for it. Here is a mouthful to eat, and also cigarettes. Do not buy anything before you are safe in Antwerp. Understand. Here, take thirty Belgian francs. It will do for all you need.”
He handed me three packages of cigarettes, a few sandwiches wrapped up, and a box of matches.
“Don’t you ever dare return to Holland. You surely will get six months of hard labor, and then afterwards the workhouse for vagrancy. I will see to it that you won’t miss it. Well, shove off, and good luck.”
Good luck! There I was in the middle of the night, left alone in a foreign country. The two cops disappeared.
I strolled along. After a while I stopped to think it over.
Belgium? In Belgium, I had been told by their police, I would get life if they caught me again. On the other hand, in Holland the worst that awaited me was six months, and after that the workhouse for sailors without identification cards. It may be that the workhouse in Holland would be for life. There is no reason why Holland should make it cheaper than her neighbor Belgium does.
After long thinking I made up my mind that, all circumstances considered, Holland was cheaper. Besides, the food was better. Above all, the Dutch speak a human language, most of which I can understand almost as well as the lingo on the road in Pennsylvania. So I went, first, off the direction, and then I turned back into clean Holland. Everything went fine.
So I was on my way to Rotterdam again. I couldn’t go to the depot to take a train. The two cops who had brought me to the border might take the same train back.
I tried hitch-hiking. I don’t know if any American stranded in Europe ever tried the game there. It is different from what it is on the Golden Highway or the Lincoln Highway.
The first idea I got about how it is done was when I met a milk-wagon going to town. It was drawn by two mighty horses of the kind the breweries of St. Louis used to have in the good old days.
“Hop on,” the driver said. “So, you are a sailor? I have an uncle over in America: If you meet him, just tell him that four years ago we lost a cow; she fell in the canal and was drowned. He will remember the cow; she was sort of checkered. Welcome. I hope you have a pleasant trip home.”
Then I met another peasant who had hogs on his wagon.
He gave me a lift and was friendly. It took me all day long to reach Rotterdam, but I saw quite a bit of the country. I told everybody who gave me a ride all about myself and all that had happened. None of them minded. No one said: “What are you doing here in our country? Why haven’t you got any papers? Out with all aliens.”
It was the other way round. I was invited here and I was invited there, to have a bite or a cup of coffee or a shot of gin. I got from this man two cents, from that woman three cents, and from another man one cent to help me along. They were not rich, but plain peasants. But they had a heart, every one of them. They all hated the police, and they cursed whenever I told what they had done to me.
I would give a second tenth of my million to find out who it is, in reality, that makes the laws about passports and immigration. I have not so far found an ordinary human being who would say anything in favor of that kind of messing up of people’s private affairs. It seems to me governments have to mess up things to create new jobs for officials and to produce evidence of their
“Easy as pie. I know it’s Spanish.”
“It isn’t Spanish at all. But never mind. It’s good French.”
“Doesn’t sound like the language we have in New Orleans.”
“Quiet, now. You will do what I tell you or land in jail for six months. Don’t answer any questions anybody might ask you. Just play deaf. You will get your ticket all right, and after a certain time you will come to Antwerp. Antwerp is a great port. Hundreds of ships there all the time. They are always badly in need of sailors. You will get a ship before you even have time to ask for it. Here is a mouthful to eat, and also cigarettes. Do not buy anything before you are safe in Antwerp. Understand. Here, take thirty Belgian francs. It will do for all you need.”
He handed me three packages of cigarettes, a few sandwiches wrapped up, and a box of matches.
“Don’t you ever dare return to Holland. You surely will get six months of hard labor, and then afterwards the workhouse for vagrancy. I will see to it that you won’t miss it. Well, shove off, and good luck.”
Good luck! There I was in the middle of the night, left alone in a foreign country. The two cops disappeared.
I strolled along. After a while I stopped to think it over.
Belgium? In Belgium, I had been told by their police, I would get life if they caught me again. On the other hand, in Holland the worst that awaited me was six months, and after that the workhouse for sailors without identification cards. It may be that the workhouse in Holland would be for life. There is no reason why Holland should make it cheaper than her neighbor Belgium does.
After long thinking I made up my mind that, all circumstances considered, Holland was cheaper. Besides, the food was better. Above all, the Dutch speak a human language, most of which I can understand almost as well as the lingo on the road in Pennsylvania. So I went, first, off the direction, and then I turned back into clean Holland. Everything went fine.
So I was on my way to Rotterdam again. I couldn’t go to the depot to take a train. The two cops who had brought me to the border might take the same train back.
I tried hitch-hiking. I don’t know if any American stranded in Europe ever tried the game there. It is different from what it is on the Golden Highway or the Lincoln Highway.
The first idea I got about how it is done was when I met a milk-wagon going to town. It was drawn by two mighty horses of the kind the breweries of St. Louis used to have in the good old days.
“Hop on,” the driver said. “So, you are a sailor? I have an uncle over in America: If you meet him, just tell him that four years ago we lost a cow; she fell in the canal and was drowned. He will remember the cow; she was sort of checkered. Welcome. I hope you have a pleasant trip home.”
Then I met another peasant who had hogs on his wagon.
He gave me a lift and was friendly. It took me all day long to reach Rotterdam, but I saw quite a bit of the country. I told everybody who gave me a ride all about myself and all that had happened. None of them minded. No one said: “What are you doing here in our country? Why haven’t you got any papers? Out with all aliens.”
It was the other way round. I was invited here and I was invited there, to have a bite or a cup of coffee or a shot of gin. I got from this man two cents, from that woman three cents, and from another man one cent to help me along. They were not rich, but plain peasants. But they had a heart, every one of them. They all hated the police, and they cursed whenever I told what they had done to me.
I would give a second tenth of my million to find out who it is, in reality, that makes the laws about passports and immigration. I have not so far found an ordinary human being who would say anything in favor of that kind of messing up of people’s private affairs. It seems to me governments have to mess up things to create new jobs for officials and to produce evidence of their
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