The "Raugi" did not sail on Wednesday evening, as her passengers had been anxiously hoping. This 350 ton deadweight capacity steamer was still waiting for cargo that she was expected to carry to a German port when sailing from the port of Tallinn. Those on board were aware of the orders from the German occupation forces that no ship would be allowed to depart without some cargo, and now they were impatient and restless, passing their time by fearfully crouching in the narrow under-deck space or nervously walking around on deck in the open air. There were fewer men than women and children among the 40 odd passengers. By progressive mobilizations the German authorities had combed most of the men-folk into military service.

The potential refugees on board had no inkling of the discussions taking place between Captain Theodor Wompa, the master of the "Raugi", and the commander of the naval unit of the German occupation army in Tallinn; neither did they know that during this time the German commander was being gradually manipulated into any trap possible by the determination, equivocation and cunning of the Estonian shipmaster. Sofar, any cargo offered for the "Raugi" had, disconcertingly for the German commander, been declared by the Captain to be unsuitable for the small steamer and subsequently rejected. These inconsistent developments were taking place during the latter part of September, 1944, while the general retreat of the German army was in progress, and Estonian territory was being surrendered to the invading Russians. The eastern part of the country was already in the hands of the USSR forces and their entry into Tallinn, the capital city of Estonia, was imminent. A large number of the civilian population had already fled westward before the advancing Russians, and their hope now was to find transportation for escaping to Scandinavia, the preferred destination, or to Germany with the retreating troops if no other way was open to them.

However poignantly the Germans had merited dislike and enmity in the minds of Estonians during the occupation of their country by the Teutonic race, they nevertheless were in the eyes of the local population considerably less repulsive than the Russians. No living person in any of the three Baltic states, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, could condone or forget the atrocities of torture, terror and unjustified imprisonment with which the Soviet authorities had treated the native inhabitants during the period of their occupation from June 1940 to August 1941, when they were eventually driven out of the Baltic states by the approaching German front. The reappearance of the Russians was now creating an atmosphere of impending tribulation. Indeed, could anything but desperation and overwhelming fear compel farmers, tradesmen and professional people to willingly abandon their homes and possessions, and flee before the return of the notorious inhuman hordes. These untold thousands were now filling every available berth on whatever kind of floating conveyance was within their reach, taking with them only the most valuable items that could be carried in a suitcase. Already, road and rail transportation was overcrowded by the refugees.

The retreating Germans strongly encouraged the evacuation of civilians before the advancing Russians, but prohibited them under threat of severe penalty to proceed to any neutral country. The numerous small vessels that had already escaped to Sweden, the nearest neutral country, had filtered through the German coast-guard under cover of darkness. It could have been surmised that Captain Wompa also might have been contemplating a flight in the same forbidden direction with the "Raugi", but one would have encountered his most indignant denial had anyone dared to hint to him of such scheming. Everybody on board knew that the shrewd Captain did not have much sway in questions regarding the employment of his little ship, except only in consultation with the Germans. The "Raugi" had been requisitioned by the present occupiers some time ago and all subsequent attempts to have the vessel restored to her original owners had been frustrated by the German military government, although Captain Wompa still remained her master.

Having reasonable assurance that he would not be removed from the vessel, Wompa began to fabricate subterfuges and fictitious grounds in order to evade any commitment that would force him to take the ship to Germany. During these frenetic days of excitement and confusion which had infected almost everybody, the sturdy shipmaster had only one objective uppermost in his mind — to do his utmost to carry his passengers (among whom there were many of his own personal friends) to a Swedish port. Everything would depend on the value of the cargo that was to be loaded into the ship. If it was sufficiently valuable, the ship would be under strict surveillance during the voyage from Tallinn to a German-controlled port; otherwise, less vigilance could be expected from the military. It was towards this focus that he directed his diplomatic handiwork in sanctimoniously cajoling and dealing with the German military transport officers. He shilly-shallied over refusing various shipments under pretext of their measurements not being suitable for the size of the hatches of his ship, or the cargo being much too dangerous for his limited an inadequate firefighting equipment, and other times simply feigning some temporary breakdown of part of his machinery.

One prospective cargo for the "Raugi" was a large consignment of Russians about to be evacuated to Germany. These were civilians, men as well as women, who had been earmarked to be used as forced labour in German factories. While waiting for transport, these miserable creatures were kept in a barbed wire enclosure within the harbour territory. There were no sentries watching over them as the entire harbour district was cordoned off and guarded by soldiers. The "Raugi" had no rational grounds for refusing to carry this cargo, although it was obvious that while the Russians were on board this vessel, the naval escort would hardly let the "Raugi" out of its sight. The shrewd Captain decided to remove this impending danger by one of his devious means. He quietly found a defective section in the fence surrounding the prisoners and stealthily worked a sizable aperture therein. He next advised the prisoners that they could, in the prevailing confusion, slip out of their confinement and make their way to join their own troops who were just outside the city limits and rapidly approaching.

Everything was quiet behind the wire for the rest of the day, but next morning the compound was empty. How many of them had actually managed to cross to no-man's land was not known, but this expected cargo was no more available for the "Raugi".

Two days passed without any activity on board the "Raugi". Ships in port were being feverishly loaded, and several had already sailed out with thousands of troops on board. A few empty merchant men were also brought in for further evacuation. Rumours were spreading of the fighting front being no more than a dozen kilometers from Tallinn, but no reliable information was available. The more adventurous passengers on the "Raugi" sneaked outside the port limits to gather news. They did not venture far from the harbour gate as their ship might have been unexpectedly ordered to depart. Still, some of them had seen the Estonian blue-black-white tricolour replacing the German swastika atop the highest tower of the ancient Toompea castle in Tallinn. It became generally known that the latest Prime Minister before the Soviet occupation in 1940 had newly proclaimed the Independent Republic of Estonia, and had requested all foreign troops to leave the country. Armed clashes were occurring between rapidly formed Estonian freedom fighters and German troops, and rifle shots were frequently heard reverberating in severely bombarded downtown areas. All these events are recorded as having actually taken place, although at that time there was no authentic confirmation.

Then came one of the several air raids. At one o'clock in the afternoon about 20 Soviet bombers flew in waves over the port and seaside sector of the city. Anti-aircraft firing was intense, but the planes were flying low and only one was hit. A large German troop carrier moored alongside the wharf just ahead of the "Raugi" was apparently well armed and put up a fierce barrage — these were probably her guns that clubbed the Russian. Only a single parachute separated itself from the smoking plane that corkscrewed downward. None of the ships in port had been hit by bombs, but a small naval ship outside the harbour had been damaged. Several plumes of smoke were rising in the Merivälja and Kadrioru residential districts. After the raid was over, several ships were ordered to leave the port; among them was one fully crammed with troops.

At the same time some cargo arrived for the "Raugi". First to be brought alongside the vessel were 300 steel drums of gasoline. These were lowered into the cargo hold hastily and carelessly by army personnel. Some drums rolled over the edge of the wharf and plunged into the water; nobody made any effort to save them. Then some wooden cases holding delicate machinery parts were brought alongside and slovenly dropped onto the steel bottom of the cargo hold where they burst wide open with bolts and nuts flying in all directions. Loading also continued after nightfall with a minimum of restricted lights, and ceased only when the next air raid got underway at about nine o'clock.

This was prefaced with a screeching sound alarm, which was quickly drowned out by loud anti-aircraft firing. Within minutes blinding flares kindled in the sky all over the city. These were the hideous 'death candles', the notorious attack flares that were commonly used by the Soviets. Once more, explosions followed each other in quick succession, and flames burst out here and there. Soon the whole city seemed to be dotted with fires, and the sky above turned red. The venerable Doctor Kurlents with his family, and all other passengers on the "Raugi", trembled with fear remembering the drums of gasoline in the open cargo hold. Endeavouring to take shelter under parts of the steel superstructure they envisioned a chance hit of their ship that would almost certainly cause an unpreventable ignition of the inflammable liquid under their feet. Yet, up on the navigation bridge of the vessel Captain T. Wompa stood quietly, like a sentinel, the master of the "Raugi". His stony face, with the resolutely set narrow lips, revealed no fear or anguish. But his watchful eyes followed every movement around him. The tension in his posture displayed a readiness to act instantly, if needed, in the interests of the refugees under his care. Few of them crouching on the deck saw their master above them at his solitary observation post.

Some of the slowly descending flares had faded out, but fresh ones were constantly lit, resulting in an unwavering and eerie illumination over an extensive area, while the darting bombers above the flares were releasing their atrocious loads on selected targets. Then, with a deafening crash, a huge reddish cloud of smoke shot up just beyond the bow of the "Raugi". "A hit! Fire!", shouted the frightened refugees, and several jumped off the ship and started running toward the harbour gate. A heavy object fell into the open hold of the ship with a loud clap. With bated breath they all waited for an explosion to follow, and then relaxed as everything in the hold remained silent. The Captain at his post momentarily evaluated the situation and concluded that his ship was not in any immediate danger. He had seen a bomb fall on a warehouse a few hundred feet away and that also had fortunately not caused a fire. He went down to the lower deck to calm his passengers and together they watched the devastation of their beloved Tallinn. The Captain quietly refrained from disclosing to the passengers that he had seen an unexploded bomb land in the water only some twenty feet from the ship's side. Soon, the 'all-clear' siren sounded and loading was resumed. Only a few more cases were loaded to complete the cargo. Also, a military escort unit of four soldiers under the command of a Lieutenant First Class was stationed on board; this escort was to accompany the vessel until her final destination.

In the early daylight next morning, several ships were being moved outside the harbour to form a convoy in the bay. Similarly, the "Raugi" was making preparations for departure. Just before it was her turn to move from her berth, a military courier on motor-cycle drew up by the ship. Accosting the master, he delivered a peremptory order to delay the departure until a group of one thousand soldiers had been sent on board. The soldiers were to be dispatched from barracks in the suburb of Tallinn some 10 kilometers from the harbour. Captain T. Wompa confirmed his acceptance of the order, and the messenger drove off as speedily as he had arrived. This was the chance the astute Captain had been waiting for, and now he had to act without hesitation; he realized that if such a large number of army personnel were placed on board there would be no chance to slip the convoy and sneak into Swedish territorial waters. The Lieutenant of the escort had already been informed that some orders had been passed on to the Captain, and now he came to eagerly find out what information had been delivered to the ship. By this time Captain Wompa had decided on his strategy and with a cold, uncommunicating look unfalteringly told the officer that the ship had been instructed to sail as quickly as possible.

The Lieutenant was satisfied and, in fact, glad to get out of Tallinn. Like everybody else, he did not enjoy being under the purgatory of almost incessant aerial bombardment and, additionally, in potential danger of being trapped by the enemy in this last outpost of German resistance.

The crew hastily began to secure the hatches and the engineers as impatiently started to raise steam in the boilers. The only problem that still worried the Captain was the fact that several of his passengers had run away from the vessel during the air-raid and had not yet returned. It was not easy for him to overcome the repugnance of leaving them behind. Cold calculation prevailed however, and he decided not to jeopardize chances for the "Raugi" to attempt a dash for the Swedish shore. He delayed departure only so much as to send two of his crew to look for the missing individuals within the harbour compound. When they returned without success, he ordered the mooring ropes to be cast off the pollards on the jetty and started to steam towards the harbour entrance. He had so far not revealed his plans to anyone.

Immediately outside the breakwater was a minefield. With a slow pulsation of her engines the "Raugi" entered the dangerous bay, which otherwise seemed innocuous to the untrained eye. Up on the bridge stood Captain T. Wompa, holding the steering wheel in his steady hands, painstakingly watching the large German troop carrier in whose wake the little "Raugi" was following. The troopship was instructed by signals from shore to keep in the clear part of the channel within the minefield. The precise location of this channel was known only to the military authorities — a secret jealously guarded from civilians. Straying only a few meters off this safe track by either ship would have been lethal to both of them. Even when the ship had passed the most dangerous part of the minefield, the captain maintained a keen lookout forward. His temper rarely ruffled, he dexterously raised the binoculars to his eyes and sedately gave orders to the helmsman at his side. Unerringly directing the movements of his vessel, he had little chance to look behind him to sorrowfully witness the large fires and smoking silhouettes that attested to the dismal devastation of his home town. Dozens of fiercely burning fires had been deliberately set by the Germans in order to intentionally destroy potentially useful structures, such as a factory or a bridge, from falling into the hands of the advancing Soviet army. A tremendous rumble of explosions could be heard emanating from the direction of some ammunition dumps formerly used by the Independent Estonian armed forces; presumably the Germans had also been using these facilities and were now destroying them with what residue they still contained.

A roll-call later showed that 14 persons of the former complement of passengers on the "Raugi" were not on board. Several families had been separated, and the captain was pleaded with to consider returning in order to find the missing members. However much he sympathized with the relatives of the absentees, he could not deny the compelling responsibility of bearing the consequences for such action — he had to reject the appeals. It would have been dangerous to return again into the unfamiliar minefields and, secondly, to face a threatening risk in the form of one thousand anxious German soldiers waiting to be evacuated. This crucial factor, however, was unknown to all but himself.

Next morning, on the 22nd of September, the convoy was already outside the islands that form the northern boundary of the Bay of Tallinn, and was cautiously steaming westward. The weather was clear and a few enemy reconnaissance planes had been seen at high altitudes. Soon a few escadrons of Soviet torpedo-carrying planes flew over the widely spread collection of ships. Torpedos were launched here and there, but with no apparent hit. One of these was noticed streaking at quite a close distance behind the ship's stern; this kind of warfare was not new to Captain Wompa, and he quickly employed evasive manouvering. Each time an approaching plane lined itself up with the moving ship prior to firing the torpedo, the captain gave a sudden sharp alteration of course with the helm. The ship would smartly swing off the anticipated position effectively frustrating the attack. The pilot either held back his firing in the crucial last seconds, or dropped the torpedo widely off target.

The next wave of attacks was more aggressive. This time a large German troop carrier, the "RO-33", was hit by two projectiles almost simultaneously. Her decks were crowded with soldiers, of whom half were thrown into the water with the jolt of the explosion. Within minutes the ship listed over and the remaining people on deck were spilled into the sea. The ship was still slowly moving ahead, leaving behind her a wide area of ruffled waves dotted with struggling troops. Curiously, no attempt was made to rescue those in the water while the convoy was under attack. Actually, there could hardly have been room on other vessels for the several thousand troops from the "RO-33" if all of them had been picked out of the water; all ships sailing from Tallinn had been filled to capacity. It was unknown how many of them even had a life jacket. Captain Wompa had with foresight provided his ship with an adequate number of life jackets for all persons on board.

To evade further attacks, the "Raugi" now separated from the convoy and shaped her course close to the coastlines of the numerous islands on the Estonian side of the Gulf of Finland. The Russian planes would hardly look for her near these coasts, nor would their submarines dare to come into the shallow waters. They followed this course until they had passed the Ristna lighthouse the next afternoon. By this time they had lost all traces of the other ships. The destination of the main convoy was Libau, a German sea-transport assembly station, and the "Raugi" set her course accordingly. As there is no means of verifying in the open sea whether a ship is proceeding on its intended course, and as the lieutenant was very anxious that the "Raugi" was in fact proceeding along its course, he frequently checked the compass by which the small vessel was being steered. He had ascertained from the chart that Libau lay almost due south from their estimated position, and was totally gratified to find this the direction the ship was following. If some of the passengers were hoping that the vessel might attempt to disorient from her prearranged route with an intention to proceed to Sweden, then nobody was discussing it openly; they were aware that such an attempt would be regarded as a seditious act with serious consequences. Throughout their occupation the Germans had shown by their attitude that the people of the Baltic States were considered fully subjugated nations, as in the ancient feudal system. With this supercilious attitude they had forfeited all credibility that they had once enjoyed from the local people, but did not amend their policy.

In spite of the slightly rolling vessel, which was now under the influence of a low swell from the wider part of the Baltic Sea, the passengers became cheerful and almost jubilant. Most of them were fluent in the German language and accosted the escorting soldiers in lively conversation. The topics dwelt mainly on the good luck they all shared in having safely escaped the Russians. The Wehrmacht, the German military might, was locquaciously credited with the foresight of organizing their evacuation, to which the soldiers agreed with flattered acknowledgement. Relations between the soldiers and civilians were definitely improving. There was a notable extent of artfully concealed feigning on the part of the passengers during these chats; nobody wanted to create any suspicion or unfriendliness in the minds of the Germans while they were at sea. Captain Wompa had specifically dissuaded them from upsetting a reasonable harmony on board.

By noon the "Raugi" was overtaken by another German convoy of troopships. The small steamer was immediately requested to join the others, and be under a uniform naval protection. This situation did not fit into the plans that had formed in the scheming mind of Captain Wompa. He promptly asked the engineers to indiscernibly reduce the speed of the vessel, and convincingly advised the convoy commodore that his ship could not enjoy the opportunity on account of her low-powered engines. But, he added, he would make every effort to keep as close to the escort vessels as possible. The Lieutenant had been on the bridge while these signals were exchanged, and now openly approved of the captain's prudent decision. With the speed that the engines of the "Raugi" were now developing, the convoy soon disappeared behind the horizon, and the little steamer was again alone on the wide expanse.

The Lieutenant had been enjoying some exuberant conversation and a mirthful mood with the passengers on deck and was restlessly craving to rejoin the delightful group. Leaving the captain on the bridge he rushed down to where he knew there were several young and attractive women amongst the passangers. When he arrived on the lower deck, he noticed that a makeshift table had been set in an open corner of the cargo hold, as if for some celebration. He also perceived that some dishes of tasty delicatessen and drinking glasses were in readiness on this table. This show strongly indicated that invigorating and intoxicant potations might be in the vicinity to which he certainly was not impartial. With unobtrusive generosity the lieutenant was invited to share a celebration to mark the alleviation of tension under which they had all been suffering while waiting for a safe delivery from the irate Russians. The young Nazi officer was delighted at being shown such sincerity and magnanimously accepted the invitation. All the soldiers on board were treated with the same hospitality, although one of them rejected all gestures of cordiality. No coercion was applied to anyone, nor did the Estonians resent his impolite refusal. The only persuasion that was allowed to be exhibited was that of the magic appearance of bottles.

Meanwhile, the captain was patiently waiting for the sentry on the bridge to join the merry-makers. When the soldier eventually left the wheel-house, the captain quickly manipulated a small bar magnet below the compass bowl on top of the binnacle. Immediately the compass card turned about one hundred degrees to the right. The ship's head accordingly now indicated an easterly course. The helmsman promptly altered the ship's head to the south by the readjusted compass, which had been the original course. Only the captain and the Estonian sailor on the wheel knew that the little "Raugi" was now actually moving towards the archipelago of the rocky coast of Sweden, in the vicinity of Stockholm. The sun, as if in collusion with the conspiracy of Captain Wompa, concealed its face behind a thin cover of nimbus clouds. Only the officers of the ship noticed that the monotonous pulsations of the engines had imperceptibly acquired an accelerated quiver. To the ears of the passengers and the relaxed security guards the aggregate drone of miscellaneous sounds in a moving ship appeared unchanged. The low swell that had hitherto caused a steady rolling had also disappeared as the vessel was now heading directly into the light westerly wind. But that change too, escaped the notice of the lieutenant when he sauntered to the bridge and momentarily peered into the compass. Desirous to disguise his ignorance in the fine art of navigation he approvingly nodded his head and soon left the bridge to rejoin the party in the cargo hold.

The "Raugi" was steaming with her utmost speed towards the Swedish coast while the frolicsome gathering continued below the deck. The soldiers took occasional inspection walks on deck but saw nothing to raise their suspicion. Before daylight the following morning the participants of the merry assembly had lost their impetuosity. By this time the lieutenant had profusely saluted the amicable Estonians who in their turn had copiously praised him as a brave officer. In the delicate 'schnapps' that he had consumed there was also a calculated dose of sleeping fluid that a medical doctor among the refugees had prepared on special request of the captain.

The conspirators were now satisfied with the results of their plot. The watchfulness of the soldiers had been incapacitated by an irresistible sleep that had claimed them all except one on the bridge. He, trying valiantly to keep his eyes open in the early daylight, was disappointed that none of his comrades had come to relieve him, and soon vanished from the wheel-house. All the others had been compassionately assisted to their field-beds; the helpers with provident care had even opened the collar of the lieutenant's uniform and covered him with his own field coat.

By breakfast time the "Raugi" had reached the outer rocks at the approaches to Stockholm. Knowledge that the ship carried no navigational charts for the outer fairways created a dilemma for the otherwise resourceful captain. To wait for a pilot vessel while still outside the Swedish territorial waters would have inappropriately precipitated the unavoidable show-down with the German escort unit on board; the alternative solution would have been to risk entry between the rocks and shallows depending on his memory from previous voyages on the same route. While still debating with himself he saw a small motor schooner attempting entry into the archipelago. This he recognized as another Estonian refugee boat from Tallinn, fully loaded with people. The schooner continued on her way without stopping, and the "Raugi" followed her. Now in broad daylight, both vessels passed between the rocks of Bullerö and Kalken, and were soon reducing speed on their way toward Sand-ham Bay. They were now within the compulsory pilotage area and, to comply with maritime tradition, hoisted a German flag on the foremast — the international signal for calling a pilot.

It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when the first German soldier awoke and came on deck. Only a few passengers were about, and a tense atmosphere prevailed on board. Conversation was held in whispers and there were more men than women in evidence. The ship was waiting for the Swedish pilot and coastguard officers to board her. The weather was calm and both vessels were drifting with stopped engines. The captain had anticipated possible violence and had warned the passengers to keep out of sight, except for some key actors who might be needed. The soldier did not notice that the ship had stopped moving; he was unarmed. While he was watching the German, the captain instructed the youngest of the crew to sneak into the cargo hold where the Germans were accommodated. If the remaining Germans were still asleep, the boy was to collect as many of their rifles as he could carry and bring them on the bridge. The zealous youngster quickly slipped through the hatch into the hold and was soon back with an armful of Wehrmacht semi-automatic firearms which the male passengers immediately grabbed and held. The lone soldier on deck was still straining his sleep-enfeebled eyes and confused mind, trying to adjust to his surroundings. He perceived not that unfriendly men were keenly watching him. The captain, standing against the after bulwark of the bridge, looked down on deck and noticed that one of the rifles was missing. Another wink from his bushy browed eyes told the deck-boy to reenter the cargo hold and bring up the remaining weapon; they all knew how many rifles the Germans had brought on board. The boy quietly slipped away. Nobody moved on deck in the atmosphere of fervent agitation.

Then, the German on deck suddenly noticed a Swedish patrol-boat with a prominent blue-yellow flag encircling the ship. Detecting Captain Wompa gazing down from the bridge, he screamed at him: "Where are we?" The captain calmly told him that the ship was now in Swedish waters and that the German nationals were overpowered and should consider themselves prisoners of the Swedes. He also advised him to refrain from any attempt of resistance. At that very moment the German noticed the dack-boy emerging from the cargo hold with one of their rifles. He frantically lunged at the boy, who promptly dropped the weapon and ran up the ladder to the bridge where he knew the captain would protect him. The soldier barely had time to pick up the dropped rifle when an athletic and well-developed female refugee grasped him from behind and kept him immobilized while her friends wrestled the rifle from him. The commotion had by this time awakened the rest of the escort unit who now rushed on deck, unarmed since they could not find their weapons. The last to emerge from the hatch was the lieutenant. Revolver in hand he stormed to a ladder leading to the navigation bridge. At the foot of the ladder he looked into the steel-hard eyes of the intrepid Captain T. Wompa, whose muscular form, the embodiment of strength and determination, blocked his way. With flaming eyes he looked around and perceived several rifles and hand-guns levelled on him. The only person confronting him without a firearm was the captain. But his eyes assured the German officer that his most invincible adversary was this unarmed seaman. His piercing look robbed the German officer of initiative and daring; prudence counselled the latter that the time had arrived for him to surrender.

At this moment, as if on cue, the Swedish naval craft came alongside the "Raugi" and two officers with armed guards stepped on deck. Now the Germans realized the game was over. The Lieutenant, grumbling with suppressed hatred, handed over his revolver. He and one of his subalterns, the one who had earlier insultingly rejected cordiality from the refugees, were crestfallen and doleful. The others, on the contrary, were visibly relieved; apparently they regarded internment in Sweden preferable to serving on the battle fronts under unrelenting pressure from the enemy. Earlier victories of Nazi Germany had been reverting to unquestionable signs of retrogression. By this time not only had her vast territorial gains become unmanageable, but the limits of endurance of her troops as well as her civilian population had seriously shrunk through imprudent over-exploitation. The people of the Third Reich had lost one of the most valuable ingredients of victorious warfare — confidence in the motive behind their struggle.

While the coast-guard kept the Germans under watch on deck, a small steamer with naval reinforcements came alongside the "Raugi" to take over the internees. The Lieutenant was full of hatred to the point of insanity. Besides suffering from the humility of being interned, his pride was irremediably bruised by the destruction of his dreams of an ultimate victory, which he had always regarded as his birthright. Most of all he could not forgive the affront of being fooled by the cunning of an Estonian shipmaster. On being led away he could not help throwing his last defiance at Captain Wompa: "My first goal after release from this situation will be to shoot you, Captain!" Saying this he even omitted his often flaunted Fascist salute.

The "Raugi" and the small schooner were instructed to remain at anchor until further orders. During the day several small vessels arrived with refugees from coastal localities in Estonia. Some were bare sailing boats without any mechanical propulsive powers, but each one was full of people anxious to escape the avalance of communist forces. There was the little tugboat "Lübeck", almost top-heavy with women and children from the island of Hiiumaa. Two open-deck fishing boats arrived from the island of Pakri. The two-masted schooners "Alotar" and "Vello" had sailed from Tallinn. Numerous others had not risked entering the rocky fairway and had decided to remain outside, waiting for pilots. The variegated fleet of small vessels, half of them not built or provided for crossing the Baltic Sea, formed an unusual display in the spacious roadstead of Sandham.

For most of the refugees the hectic days were now over as they gazed at the tranquil surroundings of grey rocky islands with a few beaches on the right, and a thick forest in the background. In the distance a tall watchtower was discernible behind a massive growth of pine trees. The City of Stockholm was not far away, and when darkness gathered the uprooted people admired the display of twinkling lights — a sight they had not enjoyed for more than three years. While these panoramic vistas stretched before them, they endeavoured, almost with piety, to resurrect peace and composure in their hearts. They ardently hoped that this hospitable country would restore to them the sensations of normal life that they had lately been deprived of. Above all they yearned to forget the loathsome, screeching of air raid warnings and the attacks which often preceded them, that had spread devastation among their sacrificed homes and possessions and had taken the lives of their loved ones. But first they wished to overcome the grim sense of loss gnawing at their souls from having to deliberately leave behind assets collected over a lifetime, and flee to an unknown world.

At midnight the passengers were taken ashore, where they were accommodated in various refugee camps, hastily organized for them by the welcoming Swedes. There, friends and acquaintances congratulated each other on a successful escape. They each related stories of desperate flights, some from approaching Soviet tanks in close pursuit of the retreating Germans, others by stealthily eluding the vigilant German coast-guards. They exchanged information on boats that had been captured at open sea by either of the belligerents, and on the boats that had sailed with fugitives on board, but never reached the Swedish coast. Both of the warring powers were impetuously hostile towards the fleeing Estonians and sank their boats on sight. It was never ascertained how many of these desperate people had sacrificed their lives for the strongest reason — their aspiration for freedom.

The immediate concern of those fortunate ones who had reached Sweden was to learn the language of the amicable country and find work in exile, while waiting for the opportunity to return to their liberated homeland. This return, however, had by painful unfolding not materialized at the time of transcribing this sorrowful saga.

Stephanie Bergman

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