The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  “How about school meals?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Kitty replied. “All the children stay for meals.” She mentioned the number of kopeks they paid each day, and it worked out to about one shilling per meal.

  “For this,” Kitty went on, “they get a glass of tea, bread and sausage.”

  This did not sound as substantial as the food in English schools.

  A volley of Russian from the deputy director was translated as an attack on the private school system in Britain. In the course of my reply I mentioned that the private schools were called public schools, which made them all look blank. The big man kept hammering home his point that only the children of the rich got a proper education in Britain, but when I pointed out that through university grants everybody in our country could receive a full education no matter what their financial position, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. I don’t think he believed me.

  However, the party was really going with a bang, with lots of laughter, banter and give-and-take. It was a pity in one way that the children were away, but on the other hand I should never have had this priceless opportunity of a long discussion with all the teachers.

  I was enjoying it so much that I could have stayed all day, but I saw the captain glancing anxiously at his watch and knew he was worried about getting back to the ship. Poor chap, he must be praying that he never has to sail with another veterinary attendant like me.

  We took our leave in the friendliest spirit, with laughter and handshakes all round. Little Kitty was particularly nice.

  “Oh, I am so thrilled. I will always remember meeting a real live Englishman,” she said as we parted.

  The deputy director also revealed an unexpected vein of massive charm as he led us out formally to the main door. His powerful features relaxed into a pleasant smile as he shook hands, bowed and waved us off down the street

  As we left the school, I saw some of the children coming back. They were all boys about twelve years old, and many had a greenish, military-style uniform and peaked cap. I saw one with a stripe on his arm. Whether this was a school uniform or whether they were members of a cadet corps, I do not know.

  Back at the ship, trouble awaited me. A woman—who, I was told, was a farm commissar—had been asking to see me.

  She was huge, well over six feet and broad in proportion, and as she towered over me, two hard eyes in a rough-hewn countenance regarded me coldly from under a black beret. She obviously meant business.

  She spoke no English but came to the point straightaway.

  “Ah-ha, ah-ha, ah-ha!” The other Russians had simulated the sheep’s cough very closely, but this, rumbling from deep in her mighty rib-cage, was the best effort yet.

  I tried my shrug and vacant smile, but they didn’t work with this one. She seized my arm in steel claws and propelled me effortlessly towards the hold.

  Down there among the sheep, she pointed an accusing finger at the Lincolns and went through the coughing routine again and again, while I replied with a series of reassuring grins that became more and more exhausting.

  She produced a thermometer, and I wondered if she were a vet. If so, I greatly preferred her chubby little colleague of the morning. She needed no assistance to hold the sheep but jammed a great knee against each animal, trapping them against the wall as though they were puppy dogs. All the readings were normal, and she grew more and more impatient.

  As she charged around the pens, she made frequent contact with me. I am a fairly solidly built man of around five feet ten, but she never even noticed as I bounced off her, and the thought occurred to me that if we both donned boxing gloves and got into a ring together, I would be lucky to last a three-minute round.

  Finally she produced a tiny Russian-English dictionary and tried me out with various incomprehensible words. The nearest she came to the root of the matter was “broncheetees,” but by then she had lapsed into a discontented muttering. I had the feeling that she was no longer aware of my presence, so I took my opportunity and made a bolt for my cabin.

  I was almost there when Nielsen’s head poked out from his cooking cell.

  “You miss your lunch, Mr. Herriot. You have tough time, you look tired. Wait there.” He held up a hand. “I make you something.”

  I stood in the doorway as he laid out a slice of rye bread and began to chop onto it tiny pieces of raw steak. He slashed away like lightning, his huge knife glinting with expert movements. Then he began to whittle away at a raw onion till the meat was covered with the fragments, then followed this by cracking an egg onto the top of the pile. He finished by dusting the whole mound with salt and black pepper before holding the final result proudly in my direction.

  “Beef tartare!” His voice had a triumphant ring. “You eat, Mr. Herriot. You feel better!”

  I shrank back a pace. How could I possibly eat this concoction? Raw meat, uncooked egg—it was unthinkable. I was desperately scouring my mind for some excuse to decline when I looked up again at Nielsen’s beaming face. He was my friend, this unsung genius of the galley, and he was trying to succour me in my time of need. I would undoubtedly be ill later, but I couldn’t say no.

  It took courage, but I thanked him, seized the heaped slice of bread and bit resolutely into it. I thought if I held my breath throughout I wouldn’t taste anything, but there was too much of it, and as I exhaled I got the full flavour. It was delicious.

  The cook’s expression became more and more ecstatic as he saw the growing wonder in my face. Then, as I chewed steadily, he must have noticed a fleeting doubt, a moment of disbelief in my eyes because he rested a hand anxiously on my shoulder.

  “A leetle more pepper, maybe?”

  I swallowed and regarded him for a moment. “Well … yes, possibly … just a touch.”

  He plied the grater, and as I started again on the delicacy, he began to pour me a glass of lager, his face a picture of delight.

  I was sorry when I came to the end of the beef tartare, but the strong Carlsberg was just right to wash it down. Nielsen’s taste was impeccable, as always.

  It was dark—about 8 P.M.—when the Ubbergen moved out. Our ship took its place, and the discharging of the cargo commenced. Wagons drew up on the railway lines alongside the ship, a great crane lowered a gangway and my poor little sheep were driven up the ramps.

  I had literally lived with them for six days, and even though I knew that as pedigree breeding animals they would get the best of treatment, it tugged at my heart to see them go. Those beautiful Romney Marsh with their teddy bear heads trotting under the glaring lights and disappearing into the black interiors of the wagons—I didn’t like it at all. They had come from the green fields of Kent, and as the doors closed behind them, I wondered where they were going.

  A throng of black-capped Russian workers swarmed on the quayside, wheeling the wagons from the darkness into the light thrown by the cranes. They all looked frail, dark and washed-out in contrast with the strapping Danes on the ship. My faithful helper, Raun, was in the thick of the action, all six feet four of him, his mop of golden hair flapping as he ushered the animals along the ramp.

  Another striking figure was Jumbo, the youngest seaman on the ship. Apparently the youngest member of the crew is always called Jumbo, pronounced “Yoombo,” and this chap is just about the bonniest lad I have ever seen. Seventeen years old, immensely tall and with massive shoulders, yet he has an angelic face, with large blue eyes and thick yellow hair growing down over his ears.

  His job was the unloading of the surplus fodder, and I marvelled at the effortless way he roped and hoisted the heavy bags and bales onto the hook which swung down again and again from the crane on the quay. I cannot help thinking of the Vikings when I see these men. If they are typical, the Danes are a wonderful people.

  Finally, at about midnight, the last sheep had trotted from sight and the last bale of hay and bag of nuts had been lifted out. The man in charge of the Russian workers waved up at me as I looked down from the rail of