A koterman is a fairy, a sort of leprechaun, that is associated with ships and inhabits them. It is assumed to be male because in the days when this omnipotent, ubiquitous yet elusive genie was detected in ships, there were no females encroaching upon the profession of seamen on the high seas. This likeable creature is invariably good-natured and beneficial to seamen and he usually prefers to watch over the wellbeing of the ship as a whole instead of over individual sailors. But on very rare occasions, the koterman's powers are believed to have been attached to a particular sea-dog. The koterman is never visible to a mortal — instead he makes his presence known by other methods, usually a sound, always mysterious and unexplainable, like the sound of a falling object where there is no object to fall or the groaning of ship's timbers on a dead calm sea. And he shows his salutory action in such an imperceptible manner that it is revealed only by an ultimately successful solution, such as resolving a tricky problem or avoiding a disaster, thereby proving that his influence positively has been at work.

I was once involved in a situation from which the koterman extricated me. It could have been fatal, but I had a strong, mysterious, foreboding feeling which made me leave the danger area. The circumstances which lead to this inexplicable event began at Kuressaare, the provincial centre of the island of Saaremaa, in Estonia.

By the summer of 1941, the people of the Republic of Estonia had already endured a year under the occupying forces of the Soviet Union. I was, at the time, a professional seaman and possessed a diploma that qualified me to serve as master of ships within the reach of the Baltic Sea which, in western Europe, was classed as the short sea trading area. With the Soviet occupiers, came their lifestyle and work ethics which they gradually had introduced into our daily activities. Their newly imposed regulations restricted me from looking for and securing employment on a ship on my own initiative — by the occupier's reasoning, a good and loyal citizen was not expected to show an entrepreneurial attitude, but proved his best behaviour by implicit obedience and submission to their centralized administration. All individual initiative was deeply mistrusted.

Since I was unemployed at the time, I looked for a position at the personnel office of the local Shipping Administration. I had visited the office several times in past weeks and each time had been told that nothing was available for me. Then one day, the superintendent of personnel instructed me to take the position of master on a short sea trader, the motorship "Oskar". Gathering up all my courage and audacity, I tried to refuse this dubious assignment. Although I was qualified, I was not prepared to accept this responsible position, basing my argument on a recently introduced ruling that all correspondence on board a ship must be conducted in the Russian language, of which I had only a smattering of knowledge. A master had, even in the short sea trade, not only correspondence to look after, but also the need to fully understand freight documents and other instructions. Since I had no fondness towards neither the slavic language nor way of life, I regretfully refused the job on the basis that I could not satisfactorily carry out the duties of a shipmaster with my linguistic inadequacy. My arguments were, intrinsically, only excuses for evading the responsibilities that would be attached to this position — it was already known that by the new standards of conduct, a person in a managerial position would be exposed to numerous pitfalls into which an innocent person may be thrown by his less scrupulous colleagues or even by his superiors in their efforts to disguise some of their own failings and errors. The wisest policy in those days was to maintain the least conspicuous profile.

The war raged on in western Europe and nobody knew what effect this would have on our beleaguered country. So I agreed to join the "Oskar", but only as the Mate, the navigating officer, if such a position was still vacant. I was assured that it was vacant, but the superintendent accepted my offer only on the condition that I would find, from amongst my acquaintances, a suitable man to fill the position of Master for the ship. He seemed to be aware of the fact that several of my colleagues had been keeping out of sight of the new administrators and had never registered their availability for sea service. Now I was given the choice of quickly locating a master for the "Oskar" or making myself available for that same position, as the ship was scheduled to sail from the coast of Saaremaa in two days.

I left the personnel office with a troubled mind and much apprehension. Unless I found a schoolmate who was unemployed and willing to accept the job, I would eventually be forced to take the disagreeable position myself. Walking aimlessly through a park surrounding the ruins of an ancient castle, I searched my memory for the names and personalities of my colleagues. As I sat down on a bench under the ageless trees around the castle and looked for clues that would give me an inspiration, my eyes rested on the overwhelmingly green environment. My lips involuntarily muttered the word "green" and then it flashed across my mind — Grunthal, Captain Grunthal — translated from German, the green valley.

I had met Captain Grunthal a few times in the past and knew that this popular seaman was unemployed at the time. He, too, was keeping a low profile in the existing political atmosphere. Like most Estonians, he was also hoping for a solution, any solution, that would help us to shake off the oppression of the hated slavic occupiers.

Since there was no time to think of another acceptable candidate, I set out to find Captain Grunthal, my potential saviour. As Kuressaare was a small town with only a few thousand inhabitants, I knew that it would not be difficult to locate this wellknown man, even if he had moved from his earlier address in the suburbs. Luckily, he had not and I found him at home. The motor-schooner "Oskar" was known to be a nice well-designed vessel and I soon managed to convince the captain that, under the circumstances, it would be prudent if we sailed together. He particularly liked the idea of me sailing as the Mate on his ship.

The same afternoon, we went together to the personnel office and advised the superintendent of our mutual agreement. He was visibly relieved at having so successfully solved the problem of manning the "Oskar", but he could not tell us where the ship was to proceed to. He probably himself did not know the destination as under the new, reorganized Shipping Administration, departments worked in isolation from each other, with instructions coming from the centralized transportation establishment, presumably located in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, though not inconceivably even from Moscow. So now, the personnel superintendent had done his duty and procured the required seamen and he was content, having no further interest in what happened to the ship once he placed the men on board. The only duty that he still had to perform was to take us to Jaagurahu anchorage, on the northern coast of the island of Saaremaa, where the "Oskar" was lying.

The next afternoon, Captain Grunthal and I were safely on the jetty at Jaaguharu. The schooner was anchored about half of a kilometer from shore and we had to shout and wave our arms to alert the crew on board — we needed a boat to get to the vessel. The crew quickly spotted us and soon a jolly-boat was on its way to take us on board.

Upon arrival, we stepped on the deck of a well painted ship. The crew, under a well experienced boatswain, had diligently maintained the schooner in spic-and-span condition. But there were no officers on board. Inexplicably, we had not been advised that our predecessors had left the vessel without waiting to hand over the command in the traditional manner. The only person who could have enlightened us about this neglect was the personnel superintendent who, by this time, was already halfway back to Kuressaare, having left us as soon as we had boarded the jolly-boat. We inspected the navigational equipment and found that all the instruments were missing — there were no binoculars, no radio receiver and nothing of the usual large supply of nautical charts. Even the ship's logbook — the official diary — could not be found.

Although we had been rushed on board for an apparently imminent departure, days came and went with no instructions nor any contact with the authorities. Whereas prior to the Soviet occupation, independent shipowners seldom left their vessels standing idle, nor did masters and officers remain inactive, under the reorganized administration, all accepted economic and commercial considerations were left unobserved, due to either red tape or simple negligence. We spent leisurely days waiting for orders that were to come from some distant and vaguely understood commissars or functionaries. And it would have been considered highly suspicious if the master had made inquiries at the local Shipping Administration about preparations for sailing. About a week after our arrival, a motorboat came alongside the "Oskar" and four obviously high ranking officers came on board. Each of them had a handful of white braids on their coatsleeves.

We soon learnt that the purpose of their visit was to issue orders for the ship to sail to Leningrad, departing from our anchorage on the following morning. Captain Grunthal, in fluent Russian, acknowledged the orders and politely requested that the ship be supplied with fuel oil, fresh water, provisions for the voyage and also that the missing instruments and charts be returned. He estimated the quantity of supplies to be for a voyage of five days maximum duration. The white-braided officers were generous in their promises to send all the requested items on board at the first opportunity the next morning. They readily understood that the ship could not sail without fuel oil, nor could the crew proceed on a voyage without an adequate supply of food and drinking water.

A pleasant exitement spread over the crew in anticipation of some activity: when idle, a seaman invariably feels, albeit without reason, a subconscious guilt and culpability. Therefore, the disappointment felt the next morning was understandable, when there was no sign of the promised supplies or missing instruments arriving. Only our daily groceries from the local general store arrived, as these had been arranged, by the shipping administration, to be sent on board on a regular basis while the vessel stayed at anchor. As we could not sail without the necessary supplies, we calmly remained at anchor. This could not have gone unnoticed by the white-braided officers, as the "Oskar" was the only ship at the Jaaguharu roadstead. Yet, they ignored the fact, without advising the vessel of any change of orders or of an intervening delay. We, on our part, simply complied with the prevailing survivalist philosophy of strict obedience to the occupying authorities.

As it was already the end of June, the war between the Soviet Union and Germany could have interfered with our sailing instructions, with respect to the scheduled voyage to Leningrad, but on the other hand, no alternative voyage was offered. Weeks of beautiful summer weather passed without any hint of the "Oskar" being required to contribute in any way to the war effort. While fierce fighting took place on the front, the rear was almost paralysed by confusion and indecision. The Captain went once every-two weeks to the shipping administration at Kuressaare to fetch our wages and every day, we took delivery of our provisions that the local stores provided. The personnel and accounting departments of the shipping administration did not concern themselves with the ship's employment. As long as we were listed as members of the crew, we were entitled to receive our fortnightly pay and regular subsistence.

In the beginning of August, a general mobilisation was declared, which considerably lessened our crew. All of the younger men were forced to register for military service and to present themselves at various recruitment centres, leaving on board our ship only the master, myself, our engineer, the boatswain and our female cook. Those on board still drew wages and the daily provisions which were adjusted for the reduced number of persons and partially rationed, as several items had already become scarce. At times we had to go directly to the farmers for some more produce and to friendly fishermen for additional proteins.

One day, a sudden storm hit us. The ship was in serious danger of being driven ashore. One bow anchor could not hold the vessel: it dragged along the sea-bottom in the gale-force wind. Even two anchors were unable to hold the vessel. This situation brought about a state of emergency, but we had not been authorized to utilize available preventative measures — namely, under no circumstances were the vessel's engines to be used without prior sanction. Captain Grunthal decided to disobey these orders and instructed the engineer to activate the motor. Only by using engine power were we able to hold the vessel in deep water against the pressure of the violent storm. Fortunately, the storm did not last long. The worst of it was over within eight hours and we just hoped that the soldiers on the wharf had not noticed the exhaust fumes coming from the engine outlet. Most likely, they had taken shelter for the duration of the storm, even though their main duty was to keep watch over the ship at anchor.

By the end of August, we were already hoping that the Soviet Navy, to whose orders all merchant ships were now subjected, had forgotten our existence in the Jaaguharu roadstead. Since the last visit of the white-braided officers in June, we had not seen any of their commanders. Our hopes vanished, however, when one early morning, officers belonging to the Red Fleet boarded the vessel. This time they all were decorated with gold braids on their sleeves. They gave us orders, almost exactly like those issued to us two months earlier — namely, to proceed without delay to Leningrad. This time the reason for the voyage was given; a precautionary move to prevent the vessel from falling prey to the advancing Germans. Our shrewd captain again agreed to everything the officers said and, politely commenting on the brave resistance of the Red Army in slowing the advance of the Germans, he advised the commanders that the "Oskar" was in no condition to sail anywhere, unless they would take responsibility for sending the vessel on a voyage where she would run the risk of perishing on rocks because of a lack of navigational aids. The ship also needed, besides navigational equipment, various other supplies. And the ship also needed sailors, without whom we would not be able to raise even the anchor. These problems, they magnanimously gesticulated, would be put right the next morning when all the needs of the vessel would be fulfilled. After this generous assurance, the self-important commanders descended to their launch and sped away. Having seen some aspects of the inefficiency of our "superiors", we were not surprised when nothing of the promised preparations for the voyage took place on the following day, nor did wee see our visitors again.

The frontline of the war was gradually approaching Estonia's northern shoreline and the outer islands. High-flying reconnaissance aircraft with German markings were seen from time to time, but the real fighting was still far away from Jaaguharu. The captain continued making regular visits to Kuressaare to bring our wages and nobody approached us with any further alerts of some impractical and ridiculous instructions. In fact, we hoped that we would not be ordered to sail for Leningrad. Anything connected with the Russians had become so distasteful to our national conscience and our way of life, that instead of fleeing before the advancing enemy, we preferred to remain behind the retreating Soviets and be overrun by the Germans, if their advance continued. We felt that living under German occupation would be less disagreeable than having to tolerate the Russian suppressive hegemony. And, I wish to emphasize, that these sentiments can only arise in the hearts of people who have actually been subjected to the torturous treatment and oppression of basic liberties in the hands of the Soviets. Although at the time there was no immediate danger of us being forcefully evacuated to Leningrad, the captain and myself were contemplating deserting the vessel if that time came.

Before the next Monday, Captain Grunthal asked me to go to Kuressaare for our regular wages. This journey was usually made on a Monday. This time, the captain said, he would rather leave this obligation to a younger man. I was delighted. After an extended time on board a ship, a man needs to stretch his legs and I had not been on shore for several days. The weather on the morning of the Monday was not very inviting. Frequent showers were spreading over the bay and the coastline, and the sky was covered with uneven cumulus clouds. I knew I would have to walk for nearly an hour to reach the bus terminal to catch a bus to Kuressaare. Prudence advised me to postpone the trip. After all, we did not need our money so urgently that we could not wait for a more convenient day. At the same time, a compelling urge to feel solid ground under my feet overtook me; it was so powerful that it almost made me run off the ship. With a shudder, I jumped into our jolly-boat before anybody else and, with unaccountable urgency, told the engineer to row me ashore. However, I was not the only person going ashore that morning and I nervously and impatiently had to wait for the cook and boatswain, who intended to go shopping in the village. The engineer made some jokes about my agitated behaviour while I perspired under the influence of the incomprehensible feeling.

I hardly heard the engineer's promise to frequently look toward the landing stage on the wharf so as not to make me wait for the boat on my return. My feet barely touched the road on my way to Kihelkonna, the village where the bus terminal was. I could not explain to myself the rush I was experiencing, especially as there was no particularly elusive object to be reached nor purpose to be gained by such haste. Yet the sensation that permeated from my sub consciousness did not resemble a fear, such as one may experience when being pursued by or fleeing from some tangible peril. In retrospect, I recognize that while being under this compulsive urge, I subconsciously refused to take on a deeper and more thorough search into this unusual experience because, at that time, there did not seem to be enough time to explore the source of this conquering feeling.

It was a few minutes before 10 o'clock when I turned from the footpath that I had followed from Jaaguharu, to the highway that led to the village of Kihelkonna. Suddenly, I heard a series of explosions somewhere behind me, immediately followed by the sound of airplane engines. The stretch of road where I was walking was surrounded by thick bush so I could not ascertain from which direction the sound of the explosions had come from, but I approximated that they had likely been at sea.

When I reached the village and entered the general store, which also was the bus terminal, I was told that my ship, the motor-schooner "Oskar", had been hit by aerial bombs and was now ablaze. I shivered as though with fever and a numbness paralyzed my body. Although I could not see the ship, my mind visualized it and my shipmates enveloped in flames. And I was too far away to render any assistance to them. The bus to Kuressaare departed without me.

More details about the attack were brought to me by local fishermen. A plane with Finnish identification had flown over the bay and dropped three incendiary bombs with explosive charges, with a direct hit on the vessel. The young engineer had been killed instantly. Captain Grunthal had been injured but quickly rescued from the burning ship by soldiers on the wharf and fishermen who had rushed to the scene with their boats. The captain, however, died from his injuries before he could be transferred to the hospital. The boatswain and cook escaped the holocaust, as they were on shore at the time of the attack.

The whole ship was consumed by fire, right down to the water level. Then, before the fire was entirely out, the hulk sank to the bottom of the sea. Water had leaked into the exposed bottom and this, together with the heavy diesel engine and anchor cables, had weigted the wreck so that it sunk. She disappeared under the rippling waters of the Jaagurahu bay on the 1st of September, 1941.

I beg to submit the developments of that fatal morning, as herein described, to the respected readers for their impartial adjudication, to decide whether or not it was the elusive koterman who intercepted by directing me to leave the ship in uncommon haste and thereby saving me. Was it he who made me disregard, againt my practical judgement, the rainy and unpleasant weather and go ashore and so remain alive while my good shipmates perished in the bombing that could well have taken me? In most instances, this benevolent leprechaun protects the ship where it dwells — this time he must have acted for my personal safety and, possibly, for that of the boatswain and cook, unless their case was merely a coincidence.

Stephanie Bergman

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