ONE
The Zamzam
The long, strident ring of the class bell announced
the end of the first period. Translating Caesar in our Latin II class had
been an unwelcome chore indeed this May morning in 1941. As I rose from my
seat, I gazed out the open window. Almost overnight the stark bareness of
winter had disappeared.
Today the Academy
campus lay shimmering and new clothed in the first magic green of a
Nebraska spring. I wished I were free to go out. If it weren’t for tomorrow’s English composition—and those finals coming up. …
Oh, well, only two more weeks until
the end of school. I put my books away on the shelves reserved for
sophomores and then mounted the worn stairs of Old Main on my way to
chapel service.
As I
reached the top landing, someone called me. I turned to face our
president, Dr. Paul Lindberg.
“Wait a moment, Ingrid,” he said. “There’s
something I must tell you. Come into my office.”
Without a word, I
followed him. Both the tone of his voice and the troubled look on his
kindly face alarmed me. Had something happened to one of my brothers or
sisters? To Mother?
Suddenly, I
remembered a conversation with a friend just a few days earlier.
“What would be
the most terrible thing that could happen to you right now?” she had
asked me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I had replied: “That
something might happen to my father on his trip to Africa.”
That must be it! Father!
Then at the
office door I saw my Uncle Mart. We entered and Dr. Lindberg told me in
quiet, deliberate words: “We’ve just heard on the radio that the Zamzam has
been sunk by a German raider. They’re afraid everyone on board is
lost.”
The Zamzam! That was Daddy’s ship, all right. He had sailed on
it from New York to rake up his post as a missionary in East
Africa. And we had been waiting every day for a cable telling of his safe
arrival in Capetown.
The United States
was not yet in the war. The Zamzam was
a neutral ship, but she did have to sail through blockaded waters.
Father lost?
Somehow in my heart, I felt certain it wasn’t true. I looked at Dr.
Lindberg.
“Are you
sure?”
He nodded. I
could see by his face that he believed it. But I couldn’t—at least not
yet.
He said gently:
“You’re excused, Ingrid, for the rest of the day.” As I went for my
books, I thought of my mother back home on the farm near Springfield,
Missouri. How would she be taking the news? Then I hurried to my
grandmother’s house two blocks away, where I was staying for the school
year.
This would be a
hard blow for her. My father, her oldest son, was not the only one on the Zamzam
who was dear to her. One of her daughters, Mrs. Einar Norberg, who was
returning to Tanzania with her husband and three young children, was also
aboard that ship.
As I walked up
the steps to the small, white frame house, I was conscious of the inviting
porch swing, the lace curtains, the potted plants in every window—the
little details that did so much to make it the kind of house grandmothers
are supposed to live in.
I felt a
tightness in my throat as I opened the front door and stepped into the
hallway onto the braided rug. A rush of memories overwhelmed me.
I was standing on
the very spot where I had said good-bye to my father just three months
earlier.
I found
Grandmother in her bedroom, sitting in her rocking chair close to the
radio. The sunshine was streaming across her prized plants—I can smell
the geraniums still—and lighting up her face.
She was “just
being quiet,” a discipline acquired with difficulty during her
seventy-seven years, for she was an energetic little woman, always busy.
I noticed that
her hair was still black except for some strands of gray above her
temples. She was wearing her favorite lavender dress with an amethyst
necklace. There were no tears in her eyes, and her face was serene.
I put my hand
over hers. She responded in silent understanding. I felt that she, too,
had hope. Expressions of sympathy or comfort were unnecessary.
Her words of
farewell to my father came back to me. With her head barely even with his
shoulders, she had looked up at him and said:
“Ralph,
remember when you left for Africa that first time, more than twenty years
ago? I told you then that it was the happiest day of my life. Today I want
to say the same thing again.”
Now the radio was
telling her that she had lost not only a son but also a daughter, and all
her daughter’s family. Yet she could sit here calm and controlled. How I
admired her!
At that moment I
heard a car stop in front of the house. A man with a camera bag slung over
his shoulder hurried up the steps.
“I’m from the
Herald in Omaha,” he said.
“I’d like to interview Mrs. Hult, please.
I didn’t want
her to be disturbed. But not knowing what else to do, I introduced him to
my grandmother.
“The sinking of
the Zamzam is headline news all
over the nation,” he said to her. “I have here the passenger list. Is
it true that you had both a son and a daughter on board?”
Grandmother
nodded. She motioned him to sit down. Without a tremor, she answered his
questions.
“Why did Ralph
Hult want to go out to Africa when he knew it would be so dangerous?”
the reporter asked.
Grandmother did
not reply immediately. Instead, she got up and went to her desk.
“I have here
his last letter,” she said. “Let me read you a few lines:
‘We are not
going out on an adventure trip. This is a matter of urgent business for
the Kingdom of God. Why should we not be confident? In giving His
disciples the great commission, our Savior assured them, “Behold, I am
with you always.”’
The reporter took
a picture of the two of us sitting beside the radio anxiously waiting for
more news. Then he began packing his bag.
“I’ve got to
hurry if I’m to make the afternoon edition,” he said, looking at his
watch. “I’ve less than an hour to drive those forty miles back to
Omaha.”
After the
reporter left, Grandmother went to get a cup of coffee. I sat looking out
the window lost in reverie. I was still thinking about the questions he
had asked. I doubted that Grandmother had been able to make him understand
why Father had insisted on returning to Africa.
A scene that had
taken place in this very house just a week before flashed into my mind.
Some relatives were visiting with Grandmother. I was doing my homework in
the next room. I paid no attention to the murmur of voices until I heard
the word Zamzam.
“I’ve read no
news of the Zamzam’s arrival
in Capetown,” a man was saying. “Wasn’t it due there April 20?”
“Yes, it
was,” another chimed in.
“Well,
today’s the 10th of May. I take that as a bad sign,” said a third.
“I must say,”
a woman remarked, “I can’t understand what Gertrude was thinking of to
let Ralph go—especially at a time like this. What if something happens
to him? Who’s going to look after her and the ten children?”
“Why, the baby isn’t three yet!” exclaimed
someone else. “Paul is the oldest,
and even he is only a freshman in college!”
“What about
Ralph’s insurance?” a man asked. “How much does he have?”
“It doesn’t
amount to more than a thousand dollars.”
“Why, that
wouldn’t be a drop in the bucket with all those children to be
educated.”
“You can talk
all you want about the needy Africans,” a woman declared indignantly,
“but if you ask me, I think Ralph’s first responsibility is to look
after his own.”
I couldn’t
believe my ears. Is that what my relatives were really thinking? I was
stunned at hearing them criticize Mother for letting Father go—when all
of us had been praying so long for him to get the chance.
A film I had seen
recently, Stanley and Livingstone, was
fresh in my memory. How stirring its closing moments! There, marching
against a map of the Dark Continent, were pictured missionaries and
hundreds of Africans all singing with resounding spirit, “Onward,
Christian Soldiers.” In my mind’s eye I could see my father marching
along with them. “Oh,” I thought, “if only I were older.”
I could not
understand my relatives. Surely God would care for us if anything should happen to Father!
My first impulse
was to rush into the room and cry out at them.
But I
couldn’t—I was speechless. Instead, I ran into the closet under the
stairs. Stumbling over the vacuum cleaner, I sat down abruptly on a pile
of old Life magazines. In great shaking sobs, I cried until the emotion of
my fifteen-year-old heart was spent. Then, to quiet myself, I began to go
over in my mind the last days Father had spent with us before he left to
board the Zamzam in New York.
I remembered
chiefly how happy he had been during that time. And why not? Going again
to Africa was the fulfillment of a dream of fifteen years—fifteen years
during which he worked as an itinerant pastor, as a peddler of books, as a
laborer on a road gang, to feed his family while he waited and hoped.
How much of his
life had been consumed in waiting! From boyhood he had longed to be a
missionary. But he’d had to wait to get his education, wait until the
call came. For a time after his marriage, his dreams began to come true.
They were realized in the six years that he and Mother spent as
missionaries, first in Nigeria, West Africa, and then in Tanzania, East
Africa. These were the years in which brothers Paul and John and I were
born, and our little sister, Ruth, whose grave was there on the slopes of
Mount Kilimanjaro.
Then upon my
parents’ return from furlough, the mission board decided not to continue
the work in French-speaking West Africa which Father had pioneered. There
were too many difficulties, they said. Neither was he called to return to
Tanzania. He was still waiting when, after fifteen years of silence, out
of the blue on a January day of this year, 1941, the letter came.
From the first
paragraphs he learned what he already knew: There was great need in the
mission fields of East Africa, left leaderless because so many European
missionaries had been either interned or deported because of the war. The
letter then went on to inquire in cautious tones whether Ralph Hult, now
fifty-two years old and the father of ten, would consider returning to
Tanzania for the duration of the emergency.
Inwardly, he must
have been tormented. He knew only too well what it would mean if he said
yes: separation, not only from his wife, but from his growing children who
needed a father. Wouldn’t the price of his answering this call be too
great? Yet, how could he stay at home when he had been summoned to help?
At the end of
January, after consulting my mother and searching his soul, he wired his
acceptance. He would be in New York by March 10 and ready to sail soon
thereafter. He applied for his passport. In Springfield he bought khakis
for the tropics, mosquito nets, cooking utensils and medicines, and
painted his initials “R.D.H.” in neat letters on his steel foot
lockers.
In February he
came to Wahoo, Nebraska, to bid us good-bye—his mother, his brothers and
sisters, and me, his oldest daughter.
How I loved him
with the single-heartedness of a young daughter’s devotion! How I
admired him as I saw him walking toward me with his tall, erect figure and
his purposeful stride!
His hair had been
gray as long as I could remember, for he had seen much suffering. The
wrinkles around his kind and gentle eyes made him look as if he were
always smiling. Yet in the determined set of his mouth and chin there was
no compromise. We children had learned early never to toy with his
commands, and we were the happier for it. We never once doubted, when he
was being strict with us, that it was because he loved us.
I was about to say something to my grandmother when
I heard steps on the front porch. Someone entered without knocking. It was
my uncle who stood there, clasping a bouquet of gladiolas. Silently, with
tears in his eyes, he held them out to me.
I welcomed his
embrace of sympathy and loving concern, yet my heart was crying: “Why is
he doing this? This is what people do when a loved one is dead. But my
father is not dead—I know
he’s not. Neither are my aunt and uncle, nor my cousins, nor the other
passengers aboard the Zamzam.
We had to wait
until noon for the next broadcast. The news was the same.
I wondered if my
mother had heard it back home in Missouri. What kind of a day was she
having on the farm? I thought of her, of my brothers and sisters. I could
picture them going about their morning chores. It had been nine months
since I left “the Homestead.” That’s what Father had named the
place—Bethany Homestead. That name suited it better, for it wasn’t
much of a farm—just forty acres of trees and rocks and hills.
A wave of
homesickness came over me.
All of a sudden I
knew what I needed: To see them all, then go to my refuge at Lookout Point
where I’d be hidden from everyone’s view … to
feel the strength of the oak tree behind me, its ragged bark digging into
my back … to drink in the view of the rolling Ozark hills which always
filled me with rejoicing, and strengthened me.
The woods that we
loved to explore would be changing from the first delicate green of spring
to the full, rich green of May. Standing out against the green would be
the soft lavender of the redbud trees, the rosy pink of the wild crabapple
blossoms. All the fruit trees would be in bloom and their fragrance was
something to dream about.
If only I could
walk today over those hills, maybe my world would come straight again. If
only I could talk to Mother, she would help me get my balance. But, of
course! I could talk to her. I
could call her up. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
On the telephone
her voice came through strong and clear. She asked first how Grandmother
was taking the news. Characteristically, Mother’s concern was for
others.
Later when I
returned home from the Academy, she told me what that day had been like:
“I was out hoeing the pea patch before breakfast that Monday morning,”
said Mother. “John and Carl were doing the milking. Eunie had turned on
the radio to listen to the seven-thirty news while she set the table and
cooked the oatmeal. Then I heard
her scream from the back door, ‘Mother! Mother!’ I put down my hoe. I
did not know what to think as I watched her running toward me, her red
braids flying in the wind.
“‘Mother, the
Zamzam is sunk!’ she called
out. ‘Everybody’s drowned! They’re talking about us over the
radio!’ I put my arm around her—she was almost hysterical—and walked
with her slowly back to the house.
“By that time
the five younger children had gathered in the living room. Martha was
weeping, while Carl tried to comfort her and at the same time keep the
tears back from his own eyes.
“Were these
little ones to be left fatherless? No, I couldn’t believe it. I tried to
concentrate on finding out just what it was the news broadcaster had said.
“I called the
radio station first, then the newspaper office. Both confirmed the report.
But they were very kind and promised to keep me informed as each fresh
bulletin came in.
“I sat down at
the table and covered my face with my hands. I wanted to give way to
grief, but I knew I must be strong for the sake of my children. I tried to
console myself. What if the boat had
been sunk? Surely, God had watched over its passengers.
“Then I
gathered the children around the dining room table. Together we read Psalm
124, that one where it says: ‘If it had not been the Lord who was on our
side … then the waters had
overwhelmed us, the stream had gone over our soul … Our help is in the
name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.’
“We prayed
together our family prayer from Psalm 67, asking God’s mercy and
blessing—’That thy way may be known upon earth.’ Then with cheerful
voices we sang our morning hymn. I looked around me. The tears had
stopped. There was firm ground under our feet again.
“It wasn’t
long until the reporters arrived. They wanted a picture of the family, I
could see that this was confusing for the children. They always smile when
a picture is going to be taken—but now there was nothing to smile about.
“The reporter
asked me why my husband had chosen to go at this time. I told him, ‘He
would never have gone if I had not urged him to do so. We both felt there
was an important work to do in Africa. As for his family—we are provided
for.’
“I went on
about my morning work. From the kitchen window I could see Carl—he’s
just had his tenth birthday, you know—trudging up and down the maple
lane. The sight made me wince with pain, for there was something about his
little-boy figure, marching up and down so resolutely, his hands in his
pockets, that reminded me of your father who walked just the same way when
he was in the throes of a decision.
“A little later
Carl came to me, his blue eyes serious with determination. ‘Mother,’
he announced, ‘if it’s true that Daddy was drowned, then I’ve
decided to become a sailor when I grow up.’
“It was a
little while afterward that your call came through.”
The telephone
conversation with Mother made me feel better. I would need the courage and
strength which seemed such a contagious part of her being, for the long
day still lay ahead of me—a day of hoping against hope.
I thought of
Paul, my oldest brother, a freshman at the University of Missouri at
Columbia. What kind of a day was he having? This in turn reminded me of
the summer before when he had been our family chauffeur on a trip to
Michigan. The summer in Michigan! It was really the last happy time when
all of us were together as a family.
Father, who was
serving as interim pastor there, had found a vacant cottage in his parish
and the congregation was furnishing it for us. We could join him! Except
for Paul, whose responsibility as chauffeur weighed heavily on him, we all
looked forward to the exciting adventure. We weren’t in the least
dismayed at the prospect of squeezing eleven of us into a worn-out car and
setting forth on a trip of a thousand miles.
The great moment
arrived. The old 1926 Packard had been greased, tires checked, seating
plan worked out. Paul wrapped the cardboard boxes that contained our
summer wardrobes in an old piece of canvas, which he tied securely on the
right running board, fastening the ends of the rope to the door handles.
We took our
places. Mother had to slip under the steering wheel to get to her seat on
the front right side. Two-year-old David was lifted in through the open
window and put on her lap. Veda, twelve, who had trouble keeping her long
copper-colored braids out of the reach of her brothers, was to sit in the
middle of the front seat. John and I, both in our early teens, would be in
charge of the back-seat passengers—Mary, four, and Gustav, six. Carl,
Martha, and Eunice, the trio in the middle age bracket, were perched
precariously on folding chairs amidships.
Paul checked the
oil once more, closed the engine hood, and took his place behind the
steering wheel. All set? But, no. Where was John?
He came running
up with the road maps and his geography books, for he was to be the guide.
As usual, his shirttail was out and his red hair tousled, but that
didn’t worry him. He put one foot up on the back fender and slipped
adroitly through the open window into the back seat—and we were ready to
go. No need to shut the door as God did with Noah’s ark—it was already
closed.
Paul stepped on
the starter. We were rewarded by the obedient and aristocratic purr of the
Packard. We sang lustily as we rolled down the long maple-bordered lane of
our driveway and headed northeast.
Every time we
came to a stop light, people along the road would stare at us, then start
counting heads. I myself was startled whenever I caught a glimpse of the
car reflected in the store windows.
The long, square,
classic lines of the engine hood would have given an air of quiet dignity
to the old-fashioned black car—except for all the heads. Most of them
were blonds, but there were four redheads, too. And the way the baggage
carrier bulged with the cardboard boxes on the running board! Real
hillbillies—that’s what they’d say when they saw us coming in
Michigan. Being at that stage of adolescence when I was much concerned
about the opinions of others, I said to John:
“What do you
suppose people think of us?” He gave a shrug and a typical John-answer:
“I’m sure I don’t care.”
Two days later
Paul brought our faithful bus to a quiet stop in front of what would be
our summer home.
A tall familiar
figure threw open the front door. Yes, it was our father. He came down the
steps to the car, his face radiant. We knew it was no use rushing to him
until Mother had the first kiss. Then would be our turn, each one, to hear
his word of exclamation or praise as we were enfolded in his arms.
We turned to look
at the house.
A big welcome
sign was on the door. Inside, in the mellow glow of a kerosene lamp, we
spied a long wooden table set for twelve, loaded down with food enough for
twenty.
We rushed to
explore the house. In each room we found new surprises. An old grand piano
in the living room caught our fancy. It was hopelessly out of tune, but
elegant nevertheless.
After supper, as
we joined hands to form our family circle, John remarked: “Do you know
this will be the first night in our lives that all twelve of us have slept
under one roof?”
And so it was,
for our three-room stone cottage in the Ozarks had long ago become too
small. We had had to convert a chicken house into the girls’ dorm and
the old smokehouse into the dorm for the boys.
It had been such
a wonderful summer in Stonington with the quiet waves of Lake Michigan
lapping at the landing pier just a hundred feet in front of our house. We
had spent it—all twelve of us—playing, working, fishing, swimming,
singing together, having a happy time.
Where was Father now? Was he really lost at sea? I
still could not believe it. The latest broadcast had brought us a thin ray
of hope. It suggested that if any passengers had survived, there was a
chance they might have been taken aboard a prison ship. Could this be
true? If so, was he among them? How much longer would we have to endure
the suspense? That day—May 19, 1941—was the longest day I had ever
lived through.
I did not expect
to fall asleep that night with all that was coursing through my mind. But
I must have done so. The next thing I knew the phone was ringing.
I picked up the
receiver and heard the operator say: “Long distance calling.”
An unfamiliar
voice came on: “This is the mission headquarters in Minneapolis. We’ve
just received good news from the United Press! Your father is alive and
safe. So are the Norbergs and all the other missionaries and passengers.
Will you tell your grandmother and mother?”
It was no longer
Black Monday, but Tuesday, the 20th. The sun was shining. Birds were
singing in the maple trees.
The world went
round and round. It was like Easter joy. I called Mother immediately.
“Yes, I
know,” she replied calmly, “Our neighbor spent all night at his
short-wave set. He brought me the good news early this morning. They’re
safe at a German-occupied port.”
More details
trickled out each day in the newspapers and over the radio. But we
weren’t terribly interested. We knew that when Father came home, we’d
be treated to a firsthand account.
It was a month
later that we learned he had left Portugal on the S.S. Excalibur and
would arrive in New York on June 30.
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