Long Way Home(18)
My heart raced. I knew how fond I was growing of Samuel Shapiro, and it amazed me to think he might feel the same way about me. “That . . . that would be wonderful,” I stammered. I hoped my smile told him just how wonderful it would be.
The weather cleared, and later, Sam and I listened to a small orchestra perform on the upper deck. That evening, we went to the cinema again. The captain had apologized for the insensitive newsreel and promised it would not happen again on this voyage. As Sam and I settled into our seats and the lights dimmed, he took my hand in his. I knew it belonged there, warm and snug and safe. We smiled at each other in the darkness.
By Friday, we were inseparable. The St. Louis was almost halfway to Cuba, and at one point, we were called up on deck to catch a glimpse of the Azores in the distance. We could see windmill blades through the drizzling mist. It was a welcome change from seeing nothing but endless water all around us every day. In a way, I would be sad to have our journey end. Spending time with Sam had been a precious gift to both of us. We were suspended in time between our past and our future, free from family responsibilities, free from the threat of violence and persecution. The crew members treated us with dignity and respect, something that had been missing from our lives for a very long time. As sundown approached on Friday, we prepared to celebrate Shabbat. Nearly all of the 937 passengers were Jewish, and the crew had set aside three separate “synagogues” where we could pray. The Orthodox congregation assembled in the first-class social hall. Reform Jews used the dance floor. And Conservative Jews met in the gymnastic hall. The fact that we were offered this much consideration and effort seemed like a small miracle, too. The captain even ordered that the portrait of Hitler in the social hall be covered during services.
As the days passed and the second week of our voyage began, Sam and I noticed that the mood of the passengers on board the St. Louis began to change from worried wariness to cautious hope. And our feelings for each other continued to blossom and bloom. Memories of all the conversations we’d had and the fun things we’d done together on board the ship gradually replaced the tragic memories of the past few years.
Then on Tuesday, Sam led me to our secret place behind the row of lifeboats where we would hide from his brothers when we wanted to be alone. But the light had gone out of his eyes and he seemed uneasy. “I have some very sad news to share with you, Gisela. It has upset me a great deal. I found out today that Moritz Weiler, the kind, elderly professor in the cabin next door to ours, has died.”
“Oh no! What happened?”
“He has been ill for some time, but Mrs. Weiler said that he died from a broken heart.”
“Oh, Sam. He was so close to freedom in Cuba.”
“I know. But what’s even worse is that we won’t arrive in Cuba for four more days, so Professor Weiler will have to be buried at sea.”
“His poor wife. Is there anything we can do?”
“The rabbi is with her now. They’re having the burial service tonight, after 10 p.m., so the rest of the passengers won’t be distressed by it. But Mother and I are going.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
Sam knocked softly on my cabin door later that night, and we held hands as we made our way up to deck A, near the swimming pool, with a handful of other passengers. I recognized Captain Schroeder and the ship’s first officer, Herr Ostermeyer, their hats removed in respect. “The ship has come to a stop,” Sam whispered. “Can you feel it?” I did, and it left me strangely unbalanced. After a few moments, the men bearing the stretcher approached, followed by the rabbi and Mrs. Weiler. A gate in the ship’s railing stood open, and Mr. Weiler’s body, which had been wrapped in a special canvas shroud, was placed on a plank in the rail’s opening. The rabbi spoke a brief service in Hebrew. Then, in a moment I would never forget, one of the crew members tilted the wooden plank and the body slid down into the sea. We heard a distant splash a moment later. “Remember, God, that we are dust,” Sam murmured with the other mourners.
I didn’t know why the death and burial of a gentleman I’d never met moved me so deeply, but it did. Sam saw my tears and, without a word, took my hand and led me to our quiet place beneath the lifeboats. We sat on the cold, hard deck, our backs against the wall, our arms wrapped around each other for comfort.
“I feel so sorry for his wife,” I said. “She has no family here to grieve with her. And she doesn’t even have a plot of land or a grave that she can visit and mourn for her husband. It just isn’t fair that she has nothing—that we have nothing! None of us has a place to live or a home to call our own. We’re separated from our families and our friends. It just isn’t fair! Why is this happening to us, Sam?”
“Only God knows,” he whispered. Sam looked into my eyes for a long moment, then leaned close and kissed me for the first time. It began as a gentle meeting of our lips—once, twice, three times. Then we surrendered to our feelings with all the passion two young people in love had to give. I knew with a certainty I would never doubt that I was in love with Sam Shapiro. And he loved me.
Some people might say we were much too young for such a deep love, that it was only a teenage infatuation. But after everything Sam and I had survived, and the responsibilities that we’d been forced to shoulder for our mothers and siblings, we both had aged well beyond our years. We were adults, not children. While other young people our age might have experienced the loss of a grandparent or a beloved pet, Sam and I had tallied more losses than either of us could count, including our childhood, our home, and our freedom. We’d seen people beaten and lying dead in the street, killed for no other reason than that they were Jewish—like us. We knew how short and fragile life was, and we were determined to savor all the little blessings God sent every day, like the sunlight sparkling on the open sea and the moon playing hide-and-seek with the clouds at night as we sat in each other’s arms beneath the lifeboats. We were headed for a new life, a new beginning in Cuba, and I wanted my new life to include Samuel Shapiro.