Page 136 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

One of the Poles fills my glass, and Katarzyna complains that her arthritis is stopping her from bringing out the rest of the food, and I begin.

* * *

We were into November 1940, and Frieda was sick day and night. I could not get her to eat. We shared bunks with an Italian woman and her husband; both were as sick as she. The Italian woman tried to read the Bible for Frieda, to calm her. She only stopped when she herself grew too sick, instead talking deliriously in Italian, her husband, pale as snow, trying to tend to her.

I did not leave Frieda’s side other than to fetch things or use the toilet, which overflowed. I was surprised that more of us weren’t sick.

One of the crew told me that we were a mere two hours away from docking. I went back to the bunk room and told Frieda to hold on – we were nearly there. Her face and body were flaming with fever, and a rabbi’s wife had come to sit with her. She told me to leave for a while as she was going to undress her and cool her.

I stood on deck, and it was as though all of the ship’s passengers were there too – all waiting for a glimpse of their new home. But the weather was not kind and the sky was dark even at midday, a thick grey that reminded me of how smoke looked rushing out of chimney pots on a cold day. Perhaps New York was a very cold place, and everyone had fires lit.

The ship slowed and even more people came on deck. Before I could turn to go back below there were so many people emerging – children crying, women weeping with relief – that I could not move.

I was pinned against the rail, and it took all my strength not to allow the swell of people to push me overboard into the murky water.

As the Statue of Liberty appeared, her hand reaching to the sky, a calm and reverent silence overcame us all. Tugboats churned through the water noisily, turning up the sea, making it green and grey at the same time. The city came into view; buildings that reached the sky, the tops of some hidden in the low-hanging storm clouds that held a belching of snow.

The wind whipped about us, making us hold on to our coats, our hats. I blew warm air into my cupped hands, which were raw and red.

And as we docked, it felt almost magical. Chains jangled and men shouted at each other on the quayside as they secured the ship. Horns blared from other vessels, causing soot from their chimneys to fill the air, dirtying the overcast city.

Mothers told their children to get off the railings as they perched, waving their hats, their chubby hands and even their kerchiefs in the air at the people that waited. Some waved back, shouted to their family and friends. Most were smiling, relived to have made the crossing; relieved to have found safety.

The gangplank was lowered and hit the concrete of the port with a loud thud and shudder. Within moments, everyone had got themselves into lines to disembark as soon as possible, their papers clutched in their hands. Those without the proper authority stood aside smoking, worried looks on their faces that they would be sent back.

I weaved through the crowds and finally reached our cabin. Frieda was gone.

‘The medics took her,’ the rabbi’s wife said, and gathered her things. She put her hand on my forearm. ‘It does not look good.’ She squeezed my arm.

The Italian couple were gone too. ‘They all have the same thing, I think,’ the rabbi’s wife said, holding a scented handkerchief to her nose.

I collected my belongings quickly and took our papers out. We shouldn’t be detained long; we had the right papers, I was sure. Henri would not have given us the wrong things. I opened mine and saw a stamp, the approval of a US consul and my name. Frieda’s were the same. But where had they taken her without any papers?

I raced back on deck and asked one of the crew where she would be. He said there was a hospital and told me to get off the ship.

There were queues everywhere, waiting to get inside the grey stone building.

‘Over there.’ Someone shoved me towards the back of a queue.

I had to wait. I had to queue like the rest of them, my hands holding the papers, my heart almost in my mouth.

As we waited, a woman gave her children a stale biscuit. They were tired, hungry, and looked as though they could fall asleep at any minute.

Soon we were inside, and families were taken together to be questioned, stamped, checked by a doctor. I stood with the other men, those from the deck who had looked worried.

I asked a security guard where the hospital was. He told me a doctor would see me soon. I tried to tell him it was not for me, not about me, but he pointed to the line, to the worried men, and told me to wait.

Hours passed. It was warm inside, and all I could smell was the sweat and grime from our journey that clung to our tired skin. Now and then the smell of saltwater wafted through the air, and I welcomed it.

Someone behind me asked if there was any water to drink and someone else told him to shut up, all of them eyeing the security guard in his dark blue suit with shining brass buttons.

It was my turn at last.

‘Where is she?’ I asked the man as he stamped my papers.

‘Next,’ he said.

‘No, please – look,’ I said, my English muddled. I pointed at her name. ‘Sick.’ I mimed being ill as best I could, and he pointed to a desk in the corner.