1938 May to October | Suzanne on Tour, Smyrna to Garches

Then – History takes a turn, so does Suzanne

The SS Ussukuma ploughs through the waves of the Canary Islands, the swells just there to reinforce the impression of a race to the stables. It could have been a perfect 10 year anniversary of the First Crossing, but for a year. Anyhow, Tenerife then, Tenerife today, Tenerife tomorrow. The last stop before Europe, now and forever. No trepidation, no anticipation this time. A carefully laid out barrage of letters has taken care of it, everyone given dates and locations: Athens, Smyrna, Troyes, Normandy and Paris. 

Suzanne marches back. A uniform of decency, pragmatism and purpose. In control.

The 3 months will be sliced in roughly equal measures of stays, including the short connecting trips, the lunches and mandatory visits, in boarding houses or a room at the guests’. Each stop, a few days to satisfy and secure a different audience. Each date, a point made. And each time, as special guest, Claude, and the sharing of good news. Yes, joy, happiness, the love of simplicity and simple pleasures, of course, and so glad to see you again. Hope we do that again soon. Until next time. In a few years then? 

They are on holidays, after 6 short months since Claude was born. 

The digs at Bétaré Oya are wrapped up and the bungalow closed for the Summer. They sail on the SS Ussukuma, from the same Woermann Linie they always take, like the Njassa before that. The service is crisp. Crispier even. Different. A tad more Prussian than German. The nonchalant elegance of Wagner replaced by clicked heels and the Radetzky March, brass bands more than orchestra. And everywhere, on everything, that sigil. A swastika, the Indians called it. A rune they claimed. Plastered on the ship’s funnel, waving on the gigantic rear flag, on the cutlery, on the plates, on the menus, and on the lapels of most crew. 

A victory bunting, a celebration, a warning. 

And the crew fell all over themselves to compliment her about Claude: she is the spitting image of the daughter of Goebbels. Or was it Göring? Waiters and officers kept talking about these guys with the reverence of prophets, as if trying to lure François and herself into buying into The Myth. Everything seemed to take on an air of Hansel and Gretel. Even the menus were written in some mock Middle Ages script. What an odd world this was becoming. Still, everything on board had the same dedication, precision, discretion, efficiency as ever. Maybe just slightly soulless. Robotic, as they had called it on the BBC. 

Messiah popped up everywhere nowadays: the Bolshevik in Russia, Stalin, the scruffy Trotsky, Benito the Italian, and that Hitler chap. 

There seemed to be a mould: personality cult, a strange name, all short, all with strange hairdos. What was that all about? The true competition was who would bang the table and scream loudest. Suzanne did not truly care, but they were sailing past Spain, in a civil war, and sailing towards an imploding Europe. She, they, needed to be ready for anything and so kept tabs. Just in case. The French Social Democrats had let the Germans re-militarise the Rhineland, the Spanish Republicans had lost heavily at Teruel, the League of Nations, the Peace movements had disappeared like Esperanto and Volapük. And so the French and the British kept wagging their collective finger, for all the good it made. 

Germany had taken Austria, and was making noises about their Kultur-brothers in of Czechia. Gross Deutschland. The Boches once again. 

And no Clemenceau in sight, just squabbling Social Democrats. Suzanne held her breath to the inevitable, like everyone actually, not that it was truly new. She had seen Soissons in 1918, so remained quietly confident. Be pragmatic. Once Tenerife was done, it was a short sailing to Greece. A bit of sightseeing, the Parthenon of course, and on to Thessalonike, a few days of true holidays. With Claude, obviously. On the Orion. Or as the new paintjob declares in 5 meter high letters: Orion-Holland. The Netherlands are neutral, but it is always worth advertising. 

And then, the first true stop: François’ parents in Smyrna, Izmir as they call it now. 

Like he had been in Lubumbashi, François’s father was the head of electricians for the harbour and tramway power station. He lived on the factory grounds, in a one-room shack next to the sea, with his wife and chickens. At first sight, it looked more like a fishing hut than a house. Suzanne felt magnanimous, so corrects herself. He claims that is all he needs, so there. She will stay with Claude and François at the hotel.  

It is a puzzling stay. 

The collapse in stock markets a few years back has certainly turned François Senior’s fortunes around. He looked dishevelled now. Drained even. Old, certainly. He keeps extolling the area: look, across the window, they are draining and setting the first foundations for the future port of Alsancak, soon a major harbour in the East Mediterranean. Eventually. François senior lives in the Alsancak’taki Tarihi Elektrik Fabrikası Alanı, a major step forward for Izmir, that much is true. Another vision of his former co-investor Turkish modernist, Zia Bey. Back then, in 1923, they had already tried to lure François, letting him drive Bey’s Bugatti sports car. Now though, taking in the dusty tracks, peeling walls and broken windows, the project seemed more distant than ever. How could that have been better than Cameroon? Now, no time for recrimination, everyone knows where they stand in the picture. 

Time for Claude to take centre stage. She crawls around on the veranda, in the silky whisper of the Sea, basking in the dazzling sunshine. Try not to smile at the photo. 

That picture will never leave Suzanne: time suspended, worries forgotten, in the glorious Sun. 

Then, it is a brief, and necessary, and fun, leg of her Summer Tour: France. That is the program for September, that most European of seasons. First, her parents and aunts and grandparents, as joyful and smiling as ever. Click. The cousins in Normandy then, for a quick one in very French open fields. Click again. Put Claude a bit more upfront in her pram. And finally, the last stop, in the next-to-posh Paris suburbs, Garches. And the last click. 

Quick, the boat back to Cameroon in October 1938. 

The Olaf Fostenes, a banana carrier. Norwegian. Strange people these Norwegians, they make Claude wear some rather odd rubber crash helmet. For laughs or earnestly? You can never be sure with these guys. Everyone on board wants to be in the picture with her. Maybe that is better than to look like Göring’s daughter? 

Suzanne on tour. 

Vindication? What?

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You read part 27 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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