Long Way Home(33)

My father spent the next few days with Sam and his mother as we tried to decide which of the four countries we would choose. Our mothers had become friends, Sam and I were inseparable, and Vati had offered to help Sam take care of his family while his father remained in Cuba. We decided against Holland because it was too close to Germany. Belgium and France weren’t much more distant, but at least Mutti had a brother in Paris. Eventually we chose Great Britain because it was an isolated island, even though none of us knew a soul there. It felt safer. “Sam and I already speak a little English,” I reasoned. “And if we all improve our skills while we’re waiting, we’ll have an advantage when our US quota numbers are called.”

On Saturday morning, the American Jewish committee representative, Morris Troper, sailed out to us on a tugboat from the Dutch port of Flushing, along with relief workers from the four host countries. Everyone on board strained for a glimpse of the man who had worked so hard to save our lives. Children formed a reception line to greet him. As the St. Louis sailed the remaining miles to Antwerp, Belgium, Mr. Troper and the four relief workers took their places behind a table in the social hall to decide our fates. “We will do our best to keep families together,” they announced.

But Sam and I weren’t a family, not yet. I clung tightly to his hand as we waited in a long line in the social hall with our parents to speak with the representative from England. I happened to glance up, and a chill came over me when I saw the portrait of Hitler glowering down on us from above. I felt like a mouse under the watchful eye of a hawk.

Vati presented our case to the British representative, as did Sam, and we learned that the most important factor in deciding our fate was the quota number on our US immigration applications. Passengers with the lowest numbers received preferential treatment because they would be out of their host country the soonest. Sam’s number was lower than mine by thousands. The final decisions would be announced by five o’clock, after the workers conferred with each other.

Soon after two that afternoon, Sam and I stood on the deck of the St. Louis as it docked at the pier in Antwerp. It was the first time we’d tied up on land since leaving Hamburg on May 13. Now it was June 17. We were so close to freedom, and yet I feared that something still could go wrong. Hadn’t we all cheered and rejoiced when we’d arrived in Havana? “To be honest,” I told Sam, “I’m still not quite willing to believe that our ordeal is over. And what will we do if you and I end up in different countries?”

He pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “We’ll find a way to be together, Gisela. I promise.”

We returned to the social hall at five o’clock to learn our fates. The representative from Great Britain read his list of names first, and neither Sam’s family nor mine was on it. I barely had time to recover from my disappointment when they started reading the list for Belgium. Near the end of the list of 214 names was Shapiro. Sam and his family would be staying in Belgium. I held my breath until they reached W and said, “Wolff,” then I could breathe again. We hadn’t gotten our first choice of England, but thank God we would remain together. “And at least we’ll be free from the Nazis in Belgium,” Sam said.

We ate dinner aboard the ship for the very last time, and we were the envy of all the others when we were the first ones allowed off the St. Louis. I couldn’t believe the moment had finally arrived. At seven o’clock that evening, my feet touched land once again. As we were walking down the pier away from the ship, I heard a passenger behind me say, “We’ve sailed ten thousand miles without ever stepping foot on land, and now we’re back in Europe, three hundred miles from where we started.”

As it turned out, we had little time to celebrate our freedom once we disembarked. We were met by an escort of Belgian policemen and taken to a special train that was waiting for us on a nearby siding. An iron barrier blocked it off from the public streets. Our luggage was collected and we were quickly shuttled into the rail coaches. They were third-class coaches with hard, wooden seats, like the ones designated “for Jews only” in Germany. The coach windows were barred and had been nailed shut. We were locked inside and watched over by the police all the way to Brussels. “It’s for your own safety,” we were told. It didn’t feel that way. I sat with my head on Sam’s shoulder, clutching his hand for the two-hour ride.

Everything was in a state of confusion when we arrived in Brussels that night. Names were read off and families scrambled to find their luggage before being shuttled off to spend Saturday night in various hotels around Brussels. We were told we’d be moved once again in the morning. I needed to remain close to my family, so I barely had a chance to say goodbye to Sam before he and his family were whisked off to a different hotel. I was terrified that we would remain separated when morning came and I would never see him again. As it turned out, we were all reunited in the morning and were met by officials from the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, welcoming us to our new home in Belgium.

My family and Sam’s would settle in Antwerp, where there was a large Jewish community comprised mostly of refugees like us. We would live in a Jewish neighborhood near the city’s elegant train station. “Our stay in Belgium is only temporary, my dear ones,” Vati assured us. “But for now, let’s settle in and wait patiently until we’re allowed to immigrate to the United States.” America felt real to me now that I had glimpsed it from a distance, even if my opinion of that country had been tainted by their cruel rejection of us.