Long Way Home(17)

A few minutes later, we noticed that the ship was changing course again. When it happened a third time, Sam said, “I think I know what the captain is doing. He’s tacking—deliberately zigzagging so we don’t face the swells head-on.”

“How did you learn so much about ships?”

“My grandfather had a sailboat on the Bodensee, and he taught me how to navigate and sail it. That seems like a lifetime ago now. You would make a good sailor, Gisela. You don’t seem at all seasick.”

I smiled up at him. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

By the time we reached calmer seas and the clouds began to thin, Sam and I had peered into every corner of the ship, as well as into every corner of each other’s lives. We eventually veered onto the topic of our faith. We were sitting very close to each other on folding deck chairs, covered with thick blankets, when Sam’s blue-green eyes grew serious. “I want to ask you a question, Gisela. Are you a Jew because you were born to Jewish parents or by true belief?” I frowned, not sure I understood. “In other words, all of the laws given in the Torah, the stories of Abraham and Moses, the Exodus from Egypt—do you believe they’re all true or simply traditions carried over from the past?”

I took a moment to ponder his question, shutting out the noisy conversations around me as other passengers emerged from below to come up on deck. I focused only on Sam. I was learning every inch of his handsome face, from his square jaw with its golden stubble to his thick, sandy hair and dark brows. I loved his eyes most of all and the laughter that would appear in them but also the intensity I sometimes saw there. I would never be able to look at the sea again without thinking of Sam’s eyes and how they changed from green to blue to gray like the waters of the ocean.

“I’m a Jew by belief,” I told him. “For as long as I can remember, our family has celebrated the Sabbath and all the yearly feasts and festivals, and I believe in the truths they teach us. I believe in God and that He parted the seas to rescue us, the same God King David sings about in the Psalms.”

“I love the Psalms,” Sam said softly. “They cover the entire range of human emotions, from fear and grief to joy and love, in such an honest and forthright way.”

“When our lives began to change in Germany,” I said, “my father insisted God had a reason for everything that happened and we could trust Him. We celebrated Passover even when Vati was in Buchenwald—and we saw a true miracle when he was released. Vati believes God allowed him to be arrested and to suffer in the camp so he could tell the world what the Nazis are doing to us. He believes that when the freedom-loving Americans hear about it, they’ll come to our rescue.” I could tell by Sam’s intent expression and the way he hung on my every word that he believed as I did, but I asked anyway. “What about you? Are you glad to be Jewish, in spite of Herr Hitler?”

“I am. And I agree with your father about God’s purposes. The fact that we’re no longer welcome in Germany—just as Jews have been unwelcome in so many other places, many times before—emphasizes the need for our people to find a homeland of our own.”

“Where would that be? Wouldn’t we have found a homeland by now if there was a nation that wanted us?”

“Our true homeland is Eretz Israel. God promised it to us in the Torah, and that’s our true home. I believe our people will live there again, someday.”

“Really? When we close the Passover seder with the words ‘Next year in Jerusalem,’ it seems like something you’d only wish for on a star, not something that could really happen.”

“God told the prophet Isaiah that He would bring us back to our homeland a second time. The first return was in the days of Ezra and Nehemiah. Maybe the second time is coming soon.”

“Vati says the British are in control of Palestine, and they’re against the idea of a Jewish homeland.”

“I know. But imagine a country where everyone is Jewish and we get to make our own rules and laws. A place where people who hate us aren’t allowed to live—or even to visit.”

“I can’t imagine it,” I said with a sigh. The sun was growing warmer and I pushed the wool blanket aside. “But I also can’t imagine what it will be like to live in Cuba. Or the United States for that matter.”

“If we’re going to start all over again,” Sam said, “if thousands of us are fleeing persecution in Germany and other places, why not give us a real home?” His passion for the subject was clear, his excitement infectious. “Would you go to Palestine, Gisela? Would your family?”

“I’ve never thought about it before. There were Zionists in our congregation who talked about returning there. But I’ve heard it’s very primitive compared to Europe. And my family is used to nice things. These past few months have been very hard on Mutti, living in our nearly empty apartment.”

“My mother is the same. But would you be willing to go when we’re old enough to make our own decisions?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it some more. All I’ve thought about for the longest time was taking care of Mutti and Ruthie and getting out of Germany.”

Sam suddenly sat up in his lounge chair and leaned close to face me. “What if one of God’s purposes in all we’ve been through was so you and I could meet? What if our futures are going to entwine from now on?”