Long Way Home(120)
“I trained with Sam in Egypt and fought beside him in Italy,” the captain began. “By the time the war came to an end, we had moved into northeastern Italy and were encountering survivors from the concentration camps. Our brigade worked in a displaced persons camp to care for the refugees and help as many as we could escape to Palestine. We eventually acquired the use of a modest fishing boat, and since Sam knew a bit about navigation, he offered to help pilot it to Palestine with some 150 refugees on board. In order for Sam to do that, our commander sent a report to the British military that Sam was missing in action. Sam knew that his family was safe and that Antwerp had been liberated. He hadn’t listed anyone as next of kin, so he hoped you wouldn’t be wrongly notified that he was missing. He mailed a letter to the gentleman who was hiding his mother and brothers, telling them what he was doing.”
“His letter never arrived.”
Captain Cohen’s face fell. “Oh no. That is very unfortunate. And it has caused a great deal of pain, I am sure. I am so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. So what happened?”
“Sam’s ship smuggled the refugees past the British patrols during the night, and they landed safely on a deserted beach north of Tel Aviv. It seemed easy, and because they had been so successful, they decided to make a second run with more people. And then a third. But his ship was intercepted by British patrols the third time. Sam and the others were taken to a detention camp on Cyprus.”
“Aren’t they allowed to send mail from there?” Jim asked.
“I assume so. But does Sam know where to find you after all this time?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Is there a way I can contact him?”
“I will give you the address of the Jewish relief agency that is working on the island. They’ll track him down and make sure he gets your letter.”
It was too good to be true. I covered my face and wept again.
“Are you all right, Gisela?” Jim asked.
“Yes. Yes! Just stunned and . . . and overwhelmed!”
“Sam is a big supporter of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Did you know?” the captain asked.
“He used to go to Zionist meetings in Antwerp.”
“Aren’t the British restricting immigration at the moment?” Jim asked.
“They are. But the detention camps on Cyprus are fueling international outrage. The British are asking the United Nations to send observers to Palestine to advise them what to do. I realize that it is impossible to see any sane reason for what the Nazis did to us. But if the doors to Palestine are flung open because of it, and if the Jewish people are able to return to our homeland after two thousand years, future generations will see this terrible trial as the hand of God.”
“No!” I cried out. “The sacrifice was much too great! Millions of us were murdered!”
Captain Cohen leaned toward me, resting his arms on his thighs. “Let me ask you this, Miss Wolff. You have lost family members, yes? Your parents, perhaps?” I nodded and stared at him through my tears. “If you could ask them if they would be willing to give up their lives to make sure you and your children and grandchildren had a homeland, a place where no one could ever persecute you or make you leave again, what do you think they would say?”
I closed my eyes as my tears fell, remembering how hard Vati had worked to get our visas and landing permits for Cuba. He and Mutti had sold all of their possessions so we could be free from persecution. They’d been so relieved when we boarded the St. Louis, believing we were sailing to safety. They had made sure that Ruthie and I had hiding places in Belgium before they died. They had wanted us to survive. To be safe from pogroms and persecution. From wandering and homelessness, from concentration camps and DP camps. They wouldn’t want us to experience the pain of being unwanted and rejected ever again. But I couldn’t give Captain Cohen’s question a simple reply. There wasn’t one.
“The world witnessed the tragedy of your voyage on the St. Louis, Miss Wolff. And now it is being repeated with the refugee ships. People were appalled by the photographs of the concentration camps. And now they are seeing photographs of women and children living behind barbed wire once again, on Cyprus. A terrible war has been fought and won, yet nothing has changed for us. Outrage is growing. Many are ready to say to the pharaohs of this world, ‘Let my people go!’ I believe the Red Sea is going to part.”
“We’re still hated,” I said. “We would be fools to believe that anti-Semitism died with the Nazis.”
“We are a people set apart from everyone else because we have been given the Torah, in which God speaks to humanity. It teaches that every person has dignity and value because we are made in His image. It gives the world morals and values, a conscience. That is why we are hated. If they can be rid of us, they can silence God’s voice. Whether it is Haman or Hitler or Pharaoh drowning Jewish babies in the Nile, there will always be someone who is desperate to silence us and to silence God. Right now, we stand like the prophet Ezekiel, staring at a valley of dry, dead, lifeless bones. But God isn’t finished. Hitler doesn’t get the last word. God does. In the prophet’s vision, God fused those dead bones back together and breathed His own breath into them—and they lived! That is what I believe He is about to do.”
The captain had given me more than good news—he had given me hope. I didn’t feel the cold or the raindrops or the water soaking through the soles of my shoes as Jim and I retraced our steps to Grand Central station in the drizzling rain. I was giddy with joy, laughing one minute and sobbing tears of happiness the next. We took a bus from the station to Uncle Aaron’s apartment, and I started crying all over again as I told Ruthie and my family the wonderful news about Sam.