Long Way Home(8)
“I’m not supposed to be on this deck,” Vati said, “but I had to see you, Elise. I had to know that you and our girls were here. That you were safe.”
“Stay with us, Daniel. Who’s to know?”
“The stewards down below know who all of the former prisoners from Buchenwald are. They’ll know if one of us goes missing. We have nice living quarters down there, a deck, common rooms, and our own dining room, separate from first class. I’ll be fine, Elise. Once we’re out at sea, we’ll find a place to meet every day. The voyage only takes two weeks.”
I wiped my tears of joy and relief. Vati was with us again. I didn’t have to hold our family together anymore. Ever since Kristallnacht, I’d felt as though I was lugging a huge steamer trunk on my back as I carried the weight of responsibility for my mother and sister. Now I could finally set it down again. I could relax and enjoy the voyage, and I wanted to savor every moment of our journey to freedom, including our departure. “It must be almost time to set sail,” I said. “I’m going up on deck to watch us shove off, if that’s all right. Come with me, Ruthie.” I grabbed her hand and opened the door, not waiting for my parents to reply. They needed a few minutes alone after all these months apart.
The crowd of somber passengers that had already gathered at the rail seemed strangely subdued to me. I wondered if they had the same mixed feelings that I did—relief at finally escaping the fires of persecution, yet sorrow at leaving our homeland, our ancestors’ homeland. Would we ever see Germany again? Some of the passengers were waving to people on the wharf below, but we didn’t have anyone to wave to. The band continued to play, oblivious to the shouted commands of the sailors and dockworkers as they raised the gangway and untied ropes. The sudden blast of the ship’s whistle made me jump and cover my ears. Ruthie let out a startled yelp too, then we looked at each other and laughed. The band stopped playing below. The ship trembled beneath me. We were moving. The gap of water separating us from shore grew wider. I wanted to watch the city of Hamburg grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared from sight. My old life was ending and a new one beginning.
“Right on time,” a voice behind me said. I turned to see a young man about my age studying his pocket watch. “Germans are always on time.” He closed the lid and returned the watch to his pant pocket. He was as handsome as a film star, with hair the color of honey and eyes the same greenish-blue color as the water. I wondered if he was a Gentile and if he would dare to speak to me if he knew I was Jewish. He smiled and held out his hand. “Guten Abend. I’m Sam Shapiro.” A Jewish name. I smiled in return and released Ruthie’s hand to shake his. That was the very first time I held Sam’s strong, warm hand in mine.
“I’m Gisela,” I told him. “Gisela Wolff.”
“You can take that off now,” he said, pointing to the yellow star we were required to wear on our clothing. “We’re no longer in Germany. We’re free.”
3
Peggy
JUNE 1946
I rode into Newburgh with Mr. and Mrs. Barnett the following morning, and we took the car ferry across the Hudson River to the veterans’ hospital in Wappingers Falls. We were a little early and more than a little nervous, so we spent a few minutes walking around outside the hospital. The peaceful grounds offered a sweeping view of the river and of the distant mountains that had surrounded me and grounded me since childhood. I hoped Jimmy could see the mountains from his hospital room and that they would remind him of home and the people who loved him.
I had remembered Jimmy’s Bible and I pulled it from my pocket to show his parents. “I brought this along to give to Jimmy, if that’s okay with you.”
His mother caressed my shoulder. “Of course, Peggy. That’s a wonderful idea.”
“And look—I found the name Gisela, the woman in the photograph, written in the margin beside this psalm.”
I showed Mr. Barnett the marked page and he shook his head in bewilderment. “Martha showed me the photograph but neither of us can recall Jim ever mentioning her.”
“There’s an address in Brooklyn written on the back page. See? Does Jimmy know someone who lives there?”
Mr. B. studied it for a moment. “Not that I know of. Maybe it’s one of his Army buddies.”
“Maybe we’ll get a chance to ask him today.” I put the Bible back in my pocket as we walked up the stairs to go inside. The hospital was a square brick building three stories tall, with an odd white-pillared replica of a Greek temple pasted onto the second floor like an afterthought. It was as if someone had decided that the institution’s dull facade needed to be taken more seriously, so they added a completely useless miniature version of the Parthenon. It did nothing to inspire my confidence in the VA. The waiting room was stark and institutional, with drab linoleum floors, a row of uncomfortable metal chairs, and an antiseptic odor that made my nose tingle. A soldier at the information desk led us up a flight of stairs to Dr. Morgan’s office for our appointment.
I disliked the doctor almost immediately, even before he began speaking to us as if we were barely worth his time. He ordered us to sit, then lit a cigarette.
“Corporal Barnett is suffering from combat exhaustion,” he said, exhaling smoke with his words. “It’s my considered opinion that he could benefit from a course of insulin therapy.”