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Sam and I went to find our families and waited with everyone else in the stuffy dining hall. It was hard to believe that we had danced at a fancy ball here barely a week ago, and Sam and I had made plans for our future as we’d glimpsed the beam of the Bahamas’ lighthouse in the distance. Now, as we waited for Herr Joseph, the committee spokesman, to tell us our fate, I wished that my heart held even a glimmer of the joy and hope I’d felt that night. The room grew very still after Herr Joseph arrived and began to speak.
“After hours of negotiation, the Cuban government still refuses to accept our landing permits.” Moans and weeping greeted his words. “We have been ordered to leave Havana by 10a.m. tomorrow morning.” I huddled with my family in despair. Sam was trying to comfort his mother. “Wait, listen,” Herr Joseph continued. “The shipping company has given Captain Schroeder permission to sail the St.Louis to any port that will allow us to land.”
“They’re lying to us!” someone shouted. “This ship is flying a Nazi flag! If we leave Havana, we’ll end up back in Hamburg!”
“No, I promise you that’s out of the question. Once we set sail, the captain will travel slowly along the US coastline as we wait to hear from the Americans. We’re hoping their government or perhaps the Canadian government will provide sanctuary for us. Our story is in all of the newspapers. The whole world knows of our plight.”
That evening, dozens of relatives arrived in boats again, saying the news was all over Havana that we were leaving tomorrow. People sobbed and stretched out their arms to each other as they shouted their goodbyes, including Sam’s mother, who sobbed with grief. I could already see the huge weight of responsibility Sam was forced to carry again. Vati and Mutti wept as well, as they told Uncle Aaron goodbye for now. I wondered if Vati still believed God had a reason for everything that happened. I was too frightened to ask him. If he lost his faith, how would I ever hang on to mine?
The committee asked Sam to be on suicide watch again after dark. Despair hung over the ship like fog. I lay awake long after midnight, watching the strobe of police searchlights through the porthole of our floating prison.
When Sam and I went up on deck on Friday morning, we saw that the police were no longer allowing the flotilla of small boats to approach. Our last connection with our relatives onshore had been cut off. We had been on this ship for three weeks now, two at sea and one in the harbor, and it was clear that the crew was preparing to set sail. One last police launch arrived with a civilian on board, and the ship’s loudspeaker summoned everyone to the social hall. He introduced himself as Milton Goldsmith, the American representative from the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee. “Don’t give up hope,” he told us. “You are not returning to Hamburg. Our committees around the world are working to ensure that you can land somewhere outside of Germany. We’re waiting at this moment to hear from the US government. The world is watching.”
Someone in the hall began to chant, “We must not sail. We must not die,” and hundreds of us quickly joined him. “We must not sail. We must not die.” The chant was still ringing out as Mr. Goldsmith left. The Cuban policemen who’d been stationed on board all left, as well. The rumble of the engines increased as the ship finally began to steam toward the open sea. Passengers lined the rails, some weeping, some standing in stunned silence as Havana’s skyline faded in the distance.
“We have no place to go,” I said to Sam. It was a devastatingly hopeless feeling.
We sailed all night and all day Saturday, heading slowly north toward Miami. Sam and I could only steal short snatches of time together, as his mother and both of my parents grew increasingly depressed. “My mother keeps asking, ‘What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?’” Sam told me. “I don’t know what to tell her. It’s up to me to take care of everyone, and... and I don’t know what to do.” Holding each other for a few minutes each day gave both of us comfort.
When we awoke on Sunday morning, I looked out the porthole and was relieved to see that we were still off the coast of Florida. We were so near and yet so far. Not long after breakfast, a US Coast Guard cutter approached. “Maybe this is good news,” Sam said as we watched the cutter circle our ship. Everyone waved to the Americans, and for a few minutes, I dared to hope for a rescue. But then the Coast Guard captain called out to us through a loudspeaker, and I understood enough English to know that the Americans weren’t going to come to our rescue or offer us refuge.
“Do not approach any closer. You will not be allowed to land,”the loudspeaker blared. The cutter was circling us to prevent people from jumping overboard and trying to swim to shore.
“I don’t understand why the Americans won’t help us,” Sam said. “Isn’t it called the land of freedom?” None of us understood it.
That evening, the St.Louis turned south again, back toward Cuba. The passenger committee announced that we would be allowed to disembark on the Isle of Pines, off the Cuban coast. The news was met with applause and relief. Once again, we brought our suitcases up on deck in anticipation. Late that night, we were told to go to bed. We wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning.
Morning came and went. We spent all day Tuesday in limbo as negotiations to land on the Isle of Pines or possibly the Dominican Republic continued. In the end, all of those negotiations fell through. On Tuesday night, we sensed the ship changing course, heading north once again. Vati was convinced that the Nazis were deliberately playing with our emotions, offering hope, then snatching it away, simply to torture us. If that was their plan, it was succeeding. We were Jews. We were hated and rejected by the entire world. Nobody wanted us. Our only certain welcome was in a Nazi concentration camp.
We sailed all day Wednesday with no idea where we were headed. On Thursday, the loudspeakers summoned everyone to the social hall. Herr Joseph from the passenger committee made the announcement we’d all been dreading to hear: “The captain has been ordered to return the ship to Europe.” A gasp swept the room. Vati looked as though he might faint. I began to shiver from head to toe, remembering the beatings and killings in the streets, the fires, the relentless fear that awaited us.
“Are we going back to Germany?” someone called out.
“Not necessarily. Please, remain calm. We have a long voyage ahead of us, recrossing the Atlantic. In the meantime, the Joint Committee and many other friends are working on our behalf to find sanctuary. The world is watching.”
“Does the world know that the Gestapo is waiting to arrest us? Do they know about the camps?” someone shouted. There was no reply.
Once again, everyone began to chant: “We will not return. We must not die. We will not return. We must not die.” I couldn’t draw a breath deep enough to join in. We were sailing back to Europe.
