The German Girl (20 page)

From birth, we the impure were prepared to face a premature death. For years, even in happy times, we would try to avoid it at every step, bumping into it and then continuing on. Sometimes I wondered what right we had to think we could survive when others were dropping like flies.

What I hated about the idea of death was not being able to say good-bye, leaving without a farewell. Just the thought of it made me shudder.

I would not allow others to decide my fate. I was twelve! I was not ready yet, and so I had to find those wretched capsules. If I didn’t, Leo would be the one who killed me. He had explained that I had to look for a small bronze cylinder with a screw top. Inside would be three thin glass capsules with the lethal substance inside them, the ones that Mama suggested just yesterday could free her from agony if we were not allowed to land in Havana.

I had to search every corner, every suitcase, and be sure to tidy up afterward, to leave everything as it was so that nobody noticed.

That night, there was going to be a fancy dress ball, a tradition on the
St. Louis
before landing. But we still didn’t know whether we would arrive, whether the ship would be allowed to dock, whether we’d be permitted to disembark. We didn’t have a final destination.

A blast on the ship’s horn announced it was time to go to the ballroom. Leo had already forgotten about the skates, or roaming the decks, or our game of playing at being count and countess. Playtime was over. He was a conspirator once again.

After the discussion my parents had in our cabin, I doubted whether they would want to go to such a pointless masquerade. I walked along the first-class corridor. With each passing day, it seemed narrower to me: the ceiling was closing in, and the yellow wall sconces cast shadows everywhere. I looked for the side stairs and descended reluctantly, tired of Mama’s complaints, Papa’s silence, Leo’s demands. I reached the door to the mezzanine, and as I opened it, I heard the pop of champagne corks, the chatter of passengers as they waited for the orchestra to strike
up, the laughter of those who were still confident we would be leaving the ship as soon as we reached the port of Havana.

We children were not allowed at the ball, but Leo had found a spot for us on the mezzanine balcony, which had been decorated with paper flowers, so that we could watch this crowd of imbeciles enjoy themselves before they received the slap in the face from the Cuban authorities at dawn on Saturday.

The atmosphere remained calm. The captain and the passenger committee had made sure of that, feeling responsible for these 936 wandering souls.

Walter and Kurt were unable to contain their glee, pointing out all the outlandish costumes. Leo was still in conspirator mode, analyzing every gesture of the couples on the dance floor.

The guests were like spirits as they milled around beneath the glittering candelabra bedecked with garlands intended to create a false sense of gaiety. From our observation post, the ballroom, which before had so impressed me with its majesty, now appeared little more than a shabby stage set. I could see plaster moldings based on some French palace or other, clumsy copies of bucolic scenes in elaborate gilt frames, paneling in noble woods, bronze sphinx wall lamps, frosted glass mirrors. A fantasy on the ocean. “Cheap luxury,” Mama would have said.

Ines looked sad, waiting for a suitor who would never appear. She was wearing a fake diamond tiara and a tulle-and-lace gown that seemed as if it were made from cheap cotton. She had come as a princess without a throne and haughtily greeted her subjects: three girls dressed in sky blue, each with a white rose at her neckline and diamond earrings. Ines saw us watching them from above and nodded.

Walter and Kurt almost clapped when they saw a man burst into the room wearing heavy makeup. His cheeks were red, his eyebrows outlined in black, and his eyelids covered in bright-blue eye shadow. He had on a white tuxedo draped in a dramatic red velvet cape, and on his head was a golden crown ringed with laurel leaves.

A tall lady who was traveling alone was wearing a black sequined
gown with wide sheer sleeves sprinkled with stars. A pearl tiara with an enormous feather completed her attire, while her bright-scarlet lips and dark lines under her eyes gave her an ominous look. She was half hidden behind an enormous ostrich-feather fan as she crossed the ballroom, where by now it was almost impossible to move.

“It’s the queen of the night!” Kurt whooped.

“No, she’s a vampire!” Walter corrected him, and we all laughed.

The most common costumes were pirates, a pair of young men dressed as sailors, and there were also several Greek goddesses draped in gowns with one shoulder bare.

As the noise increased, we could still hear the clink of glasses filled with intoxicating bubbles. In the space between the double staircase leading down to the dance floor, the orchestra began to play some nostalgic German tunes that darkened everyone’s mood. We wouldn’t be allowed to forget.

Then the orchestra paused, and there was a brief silence. Two trumpeters came to the front and started playing the tune that—for me, at least—belonged to us. Leo glanced at me: he recognized it as well. As the first notes of “Moonlight Serenade” sounded, I saw Papa enter the room in his made-to-order tuxedo. He ushered in the Goddess, who was wearing a black lace gown split halfway down, and with a train behind. Both were wearing black velvet masks, Mama’s decorated with feathers and rhinestones.

They descended the staircase slowly, to the sounds of an orchestra trying hard to imitate Glenn Miller. Everyone stopped to admire the triumphant entry of the Rosenthals: if they had come to the ball, there couldn’t be any problems. We would disembark without a hitch in the longed-for port of Havana. That was the message the captain wanted the Rosenthals to transmit to the disheartened passengers. But with things as they stood, not even the band’s joyful music, or the brightly colored fancy dress, or my parents’ air of distinction, could have lifted the gloomy atmosphere of the ball.

Concealed behind his mask, Papa looked like the hero of some cheap melodrama. Mama, frozen-faced, was trying in vain to smile. She
seemed to be saying to him: “You’ve forced me to come, so here I am, but don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

The couples came together again to the strains of “Moonlight Serenade.” Papa led Mama to the center of the room. She let her head droop gently onto his shoulder while he took short steps like someone dancing a waltz without following the rhythm: he didn’t know this new music.

As they twirled around, Papa nodded to several of the men. Mama ignored them and avoided any eye contact.

Twelve days, that’s all our happiness had lasted.

I had to leave. This was the moment for me to search the cabin.

Cable from the Hamburg-Amerika Line office in Cuba

T
his was the day we were scheduled to disembark in Havana. Many on board were waiting to be reunited with family members who had already relocated to Cuba; others to go to their homes or find lodgings in a hotel. They hoped to settle on the island, learn Spanish, set up businesses. A lot of them planned to live there for only a few months, waiting to travel to Ellis Island, the entrance to New York, their final destination.

In Havana, we could create more families, and the island would slowly fill with the impure. But even though we intended to find homes and jobs there, we would always be on alert, because the Ogres had long tentacles, and who knew whether one day they would stretch as far as the Caribbean.

The destiny of the 936 souls aboard the
St. Louis
was now in the hands of one man. Who knew whether, depending on his mood when he
got out of bed, he would say yes or no. The president of Cuba might prohibit us from docking and expel us from his territorial waters like stinking rats. Then we would be returned to the land of the Ogres, where we would be sent to prison and have to greet our premature, inescapable deaths.

I was already awake at four in the morning when the ship’s horn announced we were coming into the harbor. I had been looking for the capsules for the past two days, and could sleep only a couple of hours a night. I turned Mama’s room upside down, and then I had to put everything back very carefully. I found nothing. Leo came to the conclusion that Papa had concealed them in the soles of his shoes.

Walter and Kurt were convinced that we would finally be allowed to disembark, but Leo was doubtful. As for me, I didn’t know what to expect.

All the passengers had brought their luggage out into the corridors; it was almost impossible to navigate without tripping. There were no suitcases outside ours, though, and that worried me. Between the blasts of the ship’s horn came the call to breakfast. This routine seemed to suggest that the problems had been resolved, although in our cabin uncertainty still reigned. My parents had not packed anything. They appeared convinced we wouldn’t be getting off the ship.

Breakfast was a rapid affair. Everybody was very excited, and the children rushed up and down. The passengers were dressed to the nines. Not me. I was comfortable in my blouse and shorts: the heat and humidity were unbearable!

“Just you wait till the summer months. You won’t be able to stand it,” Leo said to encourage me. Just like him.

He knew I would read between the lines: if it was going to be so dreadfully hot in the future, that meant we were going to land. He sat down on the floor beside me, and so did Walter and Kurt. There was no room left at the tables.

“Everything has been settled,” Kurt told us. “My father says that newspapers all over the world are reporting what is happening to us.”

That meant nothing to me. Newspapers didn’t win battles.

A Cuban doctor had come on board. They were going to check us all, and so we had to stay in the dining room. Who knew what they were looking for. I left my friends to their breakfasts and ran to warn Mama.

I got there as quickly as I could, stepping around all the suitcases, and opened the door to our cabin without knocking. They were both dressed, ready to go for their medical checkups. Mama was in one corner, protecting herself in the shadows. Her face was so pale it frightened me. Papa came over.

“Stay with your mother. The captain is expecting me.”

His voice was not as gentle as usual. This was an order. I wasn’t his little girl anymore.

I hugged Mama, but she pushed me away. Then she apologized, smiled, and began to push locks of my hair behind my ears. She didn’t look at me. We sat there together, waiting for more orders from Papa.

The ship was anchored in the port but still rocked to and fro.

“I’m going to lie down for a while,” said Mama, pushing me aside gently and going to her bed.

After she was back among her pillows, I returned to the dining room. Leo found me and was holding something oozing a sticky yellow liquid. A fruit.

“You have to try this.”

Cuban pineapples had been loaded on board. I bit into a small piece; it was delicious, although it made my mouth sting afterward.

“First you chew to get the juice out, then you spit it out,” said Walter, instructing the ignorant.

Now that we were in the tropics, our palates were discovering the shock of Cuban fruits.

“A ship left Hamburg today bound for Havana and had to change course when it was told the Cuban government wouldn’t let its passengers land,” said Leo, who always found out the latest news.

I could not see that this had any bearing on our situation. Perhaps they diverted the ship because, with us already here, they could not process
so many passengers. Luckily, all of us on the
St. Louis
had landing permits signed and authorized by Cuba, and many even had visas for Canada and the United States, as did my family. We were on the waiting list and would stay only a short while, in transit. This would reassure the authorities. Everything would be all right.

That was my hope: there was no reason for me to think otherwise. Of course everything would be all right.

We went out on deck, where the smells of Cuba wafted to us on the breeze: a sweet mixture of salt and gasoline.

“Look at the coconut palms, Hannah!” All at once, Leo was a wide-eyed little boy, spellbound by the discovery of a new place.

As the sun came up, we could make out the majestic buildings on the Havana skyline. We saw a first group of three men, and then four more joining them on the shore. Now there were ten people running to the dock.
We’re here! They can’t send us back now!
My friends and I started jumping and shouting. Leo danced a comical jig.

Family members of many of the
St. Louis’
s passengers soon heard of our arrival, and within a few hours the port was teeming with people.

Small boats crammed with desperate relatives began heading toward us, although they were forced to stay at a safe distance from our quarantined ship. The coast guard had surrounded us like criminals.