Chapter 264: A Mass Exodus from Venice
The Venice harbor was thronged with crowds.
"Stop pushing, everyone! Please line up! First register your details, then you'll receive a number card to board. Those behind, don't cut in line—we'll be here several days, so no need to panic!" An East African immigration officer stood atop a wooden crate, shouting into a megaphone at the masses.
Once Austria-Hungary declared war on Italy, people who hadn't yet left Venice realized—almost overnight—that war had truly come.
In fact, savvy locals had already sensed trouble and fled after noticing Italy dispatching more troops to Venice and Lombardy. Under normal circumstances, those with resources or personal connections would run to the Austro-Hungarian interior, deeper into Italy, or to places like France or Switzerland.
But this year was different. The East African Kingdom and the Hechingen Financial Consortium had prepared in advance by docking ships in many Italian ports bound for East Africa. For ordinary citizens, fleeing war typically meant losing work; to endure the turmoil, they either relied on relatives or headed to safe areas to find new jobs. Venice's laborers had some hope—they possessed industrial skills, and a rapidly industrializing Europe always needed workers. Farmers had it worse; their only skill was farming. In previous wars, a lucky few had family abroad. Most stayed behind, left at war's mercy.
The East African recruitment of immigrants in Italy wasn't new, but it had mostly seen modest results. Italy had multiple emigration channels: large flows went to North and South America. Now, with war looming, people in the Venice region made a snap decision and crowded onto East African ships. Passage was free, and the Hechingen ships had the highest capacity.
"Your name, home village in Venice (be precise about your town), any relatives with you, previous occupation, and any particular skills?"
"Sir, my name is Tomas. I'm from Timosto Village east of Venice. My wife and two daughters are with me. Occupation? I'm a farmer, but I can fish—does that count?"
"It does!" the staffer replied.
He then noted under occupation: Farmer/Fisherman.
"All right. Here's your number card. Take it, gather your family, and come back here. You see that yellow sign there? That's where you'll assemble. Someone will guide you to the ship!" The staffer handed Tomas a yellow slip labeled "#3303."
"Sir, may I ask—"
"No more questions! If you need anything else, you can ask your group leader at the assembly point. I'm only handling registration. Now move along—we have plenty of people waiting." The staffer urged him on.
"Got it. Sorry, sir!" Tomas apologized. He took his number card and left to find his family.
Pushing through the throng and turning a few corners, he spotted his wife and daughters beneath a lamppost.
"Jenny, I'm back. I've got the boarding card—look!"
"Dear, there's just one card. Don't I and the kids need ours?"
"The immigration official said one card's enough for the whole family. We just show this at the meeting point."
Jenny took the slip, curious about any markings, but it was all in German, unreadable.
"Maybe it's a family pass. I noticed some people got different colored slips, but everyone with family got yellow ones."
Tomas scratched his head. "Yes, probably. I wanted to ask, but the line was too long, and the staffer was impatient. He said to wait till we assemble, then ask the group leader."
He pointed toward the three-meter-tall yellow sign on the dock—other signs in different colors stood nearby.
"Mom, Dad—where are we going? There are so many people," asked Tomas's younger daughter, Little Jenny.
Tomas crouched and said, "We're headed somewhere far away. We'll take a big ship across the sea, to a place called East Africa. That's going to be our new home."
"What about our old home?"
"That's… gone now."
"Why?"
"Because…" Tomas struggled to explain the horror of war to his little girl.
Jenny rescued him: "Because two big bullies moved in, and it's not safe to stay. We'll find a new place to live."
"So why doesn't Dad beat them up, so we won't have to move?" the child asked.
Both parents fell silent.
…
"Stop crowding! Quiet, everyone!" called out Mars, an employee from the Venice shipyard, who was in charge of organizing passengers on board.
"Before we board, let me introduce myself. I'm Mars, your immigration coordinator on this ship. If you have any questions during the voyage, ask me," Mars announced in clumsy Italian.
"But first, I need to warn you all: we're sailing to East Africa, a country with strict law and order. If you're the type who's lazy, idle, or easily bored, you might want to leave now. Their security is much tighter than in Europe, and there aren't many places to have fun—no casinos, no big taverns. If you're a gambling addict or a drunk, better get off. There's no cash economy, so thieves and crooks also won't find any opportunities there."
Mars's words had the desired effect. Several couples without children left, presumably to "build a better life" somewhere else. Mars had dashed their hopes for East Africa, so they might head to America or Argentina. After those few left, nobody else did.
Then someone in the crowd asked, "Mr. Mars, why does East Africa sound like a prison?"
Mars responded calmly: "East Africa is a land governed by law—a law that serves the majority. Its enforcement is stricter than in Europe. For regular folks, that's good news. As long as you obey the rules, remain honest, and work diligently, life can be quite comfortable. But it's no place for loafers, those lacking self-control, or anyone seeking 'quick shortcuts.'"
"I don't care about that," someone else called out. "I just want to know if my family and I can get enough to eat once we're there. We can handle tough conditions."
"As long as you're willing to work, there'll be food on the table," Mars said. "East Africa needs manpower, so don't worry about employment. The question is whether you can accept it."
"What kind of work is it? I'm curious," someone else asked.
"Generally farming, much like what many of your families have done for generations. Of course, you can also apply to join the army, where the pay is better. Or if you have a specific skill we need, you can ask the government for a specialized position."
"Sir, you said East Africa doesn't use money. So what do we do with any cash we bring?"
"There are banks in East Africa. You can deposit your funds or exchange them for vouchers we use locally to buy daily necessities."
…
Mars patiently answered each question. Finally, he gave them one last chance to back out if they felt East Africa didn't fit their family's needs.
Nobody left this time. From his few words, these people learned enough to know their quality of life in East Africa wouldn't differ much from Europe—just more monotonous. That was fine with them; European sophistication was never really part of their rural, working-class lives anyway.
Thus, after a second round of screening, the East African Kingdom welcomed these new immigrants. Later statistics showed that because of the Austro-Italian War, over 300,000 Italians emigrated—above average for that period—and 90% of them headed to East Africa, with the majority coming from the Venice area.
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