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6
Gisela
MAY 1939
I had never experienced anything like the hot, humid tropical air that greeted us on Friday morning, May26. We had been at sea for two weeks, and today would be our last full day aboard the St.Louis. Sam and I were twitching with excitement and anticipation, barely able to stand still let alone sit down to wait. In spite of the merciless sun and unaccustomed heat, we stood outside at the ship’s rail with our fellow passengers, watching as we sailed down the coast of Florida. It was visible in the distance, offering our first glimpse of the United States. “We’d better start getting used to this climate,” Sam said. “My father says Havana has two seasons—hot and hotter.”
We passed the city of Miami in the early afternoon, shimmering like a glowing mirage in the distance. Although the United States was still miles away in our dreams, seeing its shoreline renewed our hope that we would be allowed to immigrate there one day. We were thousands of miles from the Nazis and within sight of our future home. Sam and I talked about our future all that day, able to dream of one at last after the Nazis had closed and locked every door to us back home. Sam had once considered becoming a pharmacist like his father, but a whole world of new possibilities would be open to him once we settled in the United States. I had enjoyed science classes in school before being barred from attending and had thought of becoming a nurse. But now I had no other thoughts for my future except spending it with Sam.
We took a break from the relentless sun later that afternoon, and I stood in line with Sam outside the purser’s office so he could send a telegram to his father in Havana saying we would be arriving tomorrow morning. My father waited right behind us to send one to Uncle Aaron. Vati looked happier than I had seen him in years. Everyone’s hopes were so high, we could have flown the rest of the way to Cuba. At sundown, Sam and I ate our last Shabbat meal on board the ship with our mothers and siblings. “I’m so excited I could stay up all night!” I told him as we said good night.
“I know, but we’d better get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day for us—our first one in Cuba.”
“Do you think we’ll live near each other?”
“I’ll insist on it! I know my father will help your family get settled.” He held me tightly and kissed me good night, then murmured, “We’re another day closer, Gisela.” It had become our private motto at the close of each day. We were another day closer to spending a lifetime together.
The blast of the ship’s horn jolted me from sleep early Saturday morning. I pulled back the curtain that covered the porthole and saw that it was still dark outside with stars shining in the sky. But as I continued to stare, I was able to distinguish a few faint white buildings onshore. “I think I see Havana!” I shouted. “Mutti! Ruthie! We’re there! We’re in Havana!” The three of us hugged each other, bouncing with excitement.
The breakfast gong sounded at 4:30a.m. but I was almost too excited to eat. I went to the social hall with Mutti and Ruthie anyway, hoping that Sam would be there. On the way, we passed people in the passageways, hauling their suitcases up to the deck in preparation. Sam and his family were already eating breakfast, and we sat down at a table next to theirs. The portrait of Hitler glowered down at us from the wall again, and I wanted to stick out my tongue at him and say, “You have no power over us!” I had sensed that the ship was slowing for the past several minutes, and suddenly there was a rumbling vibration beneath our feet. “What’s that?” I asked.
The waiter who was serving coffee to Mutti replied, “The ship’s anchor is being lowered, Fräulein.” We were there!
Sam and I and our three siblings rushed to the window on the starboard side of the dining room to peer out. We could see buildings and the city’s skyline in the distance in the early morning light.
“But we aren’t in the harbor. Why is the ship anchored so far from the harbor?”
“I don’t know,” Sam replied. “Waiting for permission, maybe? Or a berth? But look, see that tall dome in the middle? I think that’s Havana Cathedral. I recognize it from the postcards my father sent us. And those high walls must be El Morro, the old fort that guards the entrance to the harbor.”
We sat down again and quickly finished our breakfast, then hurried back to our staterooms to finish packing so we could leave the moment they anchored at the dock and lowered the gangway. The sun was already broiling, but we all wanted to go up on deck and watch everything that was happening as we prepared to step foot on Cuban soil at last. The ship’s orchestra performed on the deck, putting us in a festive mood. “Do you think our legs will be all wobbly when we get back on land?” I asked Sam. We had our arms around each other, not caring who saw us.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, laughing. “Although you took to the waves pretty fast for a girl who’d never sailed before.” We watched as a launch approached from shore and a man in a white suit came aboard. We soon learned the reason why when the loudspeaker announced that all passengers were required to assemble in the social hall for a medical inspection. Sam hurried below to get his mother and brothers, and I found Mutti and Ruthie in our stateroom, talking with Vati. He still looked pale and unwell from his imprisonment, and he still had his nagging cough after two weeks at sea.
“I’m worried about how thorough this exam is going to be,” he said.
“We’ll all go together,” I told him. “The rest of us look healthy enough. Maybe the doctor won’t notice.” I felt Vati’s forehead the way Mutti always felt ours when we were ill. He didn’t have a fever. I kissed his cheek and hugged him to reassure him. There wasn’t a worry in the world that could diminish the joy I felt. “Just remember to smile and don’t look so worried, Vati. The Nazis are far away now. No one can stop you from being with our family again.” We joined the long line in the social hall to file past the Cuban doctor, and it turned out to be a swift inspection. “See? Nothing to worry about,” I whispered. “Just a little hurdle, and now we can land.” The doctor left. The ship’s quarantine flag was lowered. Sam and I went back up on deck, taking Ruthie and his brothers with us.
Soon, another launch arrived, filled with Cuban police and immigration and customs officials. Their uniforms weren’t Nazi ones, but experience had made me uneasy around uniformed men. Sam’s brothers wanted to see where they were going, so he told them they could follow them on their own. The boys returned a few minutes later to report that the officials had gone into the dining hall and were eating breakfast. Sam had noticed my nervousness and said, “Don’t worry. This will all be over in no time.”
By midmorning a flotilla of small rowboats and motorboats had crossed the harbor to greet the ship. Some were fruit vendors selling fresh pineapples and bananas. But most of them were relatives of the passengers who waved and shouted up to us from seventy-five feet below. Many of the women and children on board had husbands and fathers waiting for them in Cuba, like Sam did. We raced below to fetch our mothers. Vati was still in our stateroom and he came up on deck with us, too. Sam had just returned with his family when one of his brothers spotted their father. They waved wildly to each other, shouting with joy. “You did it, Sam,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. “You got your family here safely.” Vati and I searched for Uncle Aaron and called out his name, but we didn’t see him.
The Cuban immigration officials had started processing passports, and the few fortunate souls who’d had their landing permits stamped were already standing at the top of ladder with their luggage, waiting for the launch to return and take them to land. “How I envy them,” I sighed. “They’re going to be the first people to get off the ship.” The launch returned, but only the immigration officials were allowed to board it. They had inexplicably stopped working and were returning to Havana. “Why are they leaving?” I asked aloud. “They haven’t finished processing everyone’s passports.” It was the question everyone seemed to be asking. The launch motored toward Havana, leaving the Cuban police behind and my fellow passengers and me bewildered.
Hours passed. Sam’s father and the people in the other little boats returned to shore. Everyone grew irritable and impatient. Most people decided it was too hot to wait on deck and went below, but Sam and I stayed, unwilling to be separated for a single moment. After lunch, a British passenger ship steamed past us and docked at the pier. Why were they being allowed to land and we weren’t? Midafternoon, another launch tied up to our ship; another uniformed official boarded the landing ladder. The purser broadcast the names of a woman, her two children, and four other passengers, asking them to come to his office. Before long, the group descended the ladder, their suitcases were handed down to the launch, and off they went toward shore.
Sam exhaled in frustration and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. “This will take weeks if they’re only going to let us off a few at a time.”
“But people are getting off, Sam. Let’s not lose hope. Your father must be doing everything he can to help you.”
“I know one of the men on the passenger committee,” Sam said. “Let’s go ask if he has any information.”
It took us more than an hour to find the man. The ship that Sam and I had explored with such glee now seemed like a hot, oppressive maze of dead ends. “There is a mix-up of some sort concerning our landing permits,” the gentleman from the passenger committee told us.
“You mean the permits we bought in Germany?”
“Yes. It should be straightened out soon.”
But it wasn’t. We were still waiting with no news long after the sun set. We returned to our staterooms at the end of the day, pulled our nightclothes from our packed suitcases, and prepared to spend another night on board the St.Louis. “We’re another day closer,” Sam and I whispered to each other before we parted. I refused to allow this delay to discourage me.
