Long Way Home(25)

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.

Sunday morning found us still anchored in the bay. We heard the sound of guns being fired and later learned that an American warship had arrived and had been greeted with a military salute. A new passenger ship was now tied up in the harbor where the first one had been. Sam and I and our families gathered in the social hall with the other passengers to demand answers from the committee. “Other ships are landing and letting off passengers,” someone said. “Why can’t we land?”

“Those were English and French ships. This one is German.”

“What difference does that make?”

“We aren’t sure. We’ve also been told that a religious holiday in Cuba may be adding to the delay. It’s the Feast of Pentecost, and many offices are closed. Perhaps more customs officials will be available to process our papers after the weekend.” The sun set on Sunday night, a fiery red ball in the tropical sky.

There was a small ray of hope on Monday when Max Aber, a Jewish doctor who’d been living in Cuba, arrived in a launch to pick up his two little daughters. The girls had traveled from Hamburg without their mother, under the guardianship of another passenger. Everyone gathered around him, showering him with questions as he waited near the ladder for his girls to collect their belongings. “What’s going on? Do you know when we will be allowed to leave? Can you help us?” He couldn’t. All he knew was that the delay seemed to involve our landing permits. Late that afternoon, fifteen more passengers were allowed to leave. We demanded to know why and learned that they had boarded in Cherbourg, France, and weren’t German.

We tried to be patient, but we all longed to be off the ship, out from under the swastika flag and Hitler’s glowering portrait. Our initial joy on arriving in Havana evaporated in the humid heat. Our despair climbed with the temperature as our questions went unanswered. What was causing the delay now? Why weren’t we being allowed off? We had all purchased Cuban landing permits, hadn’t we? Everywhere Sam and I went, we saw people weeping. Boatloads of anxious relatives continued to surround our ship. We saw Sam’s father again, and Vati finally spotted Uncle Aaron, who shouted up to us that there was no explanation onshore for the delay, either.