The German Girl

by Armando Lucas Correa

  While his family was sleeping, Mr. Moser would creep out of bed. He would go to the bathroom, look for the silver-plated razor with the leather handle bearing the insignia of the St. Louis, and sever his arteries with a determined stroke. First he’d feel a searing pain, but soon panic would drive out all feeling. He’d collapse to the floor, and the blood would seep slowly from his twitching body, so slowly it would allow him to see one last time, from the cold bathroom tile, how the people he had most loved in his life were sleeping soundly.

  As he convulsed, his still-warm blood would start to gush out. Even though he was still conscious, his sight would grow dim, and his heartbeats would become gradually fainter. Finally he would lie still. His blood would start to dry, turning from red to black. The liquid would solidify.

  At dawn, Mrs. Moser would wake up and realize her husband was not beside her. She’d touch the cold sheets that no longer bore any trace of her beloved’s warmth, and then notice that the bathroom door was ajar. She’d walk slowly toward it, terrified of what she might find. Filled with foreboding, her breathing would become quicker, more urgent. She’d want to cry out, but be unable to. Coming to a halt in the doorway, she’d see the confused image of a scene she had avoided thinking about in the previous days, weeks, possibly even months. She’d close her eyes, take a deep breath, and start crying silently.

  At the sight of her husband’s body curled up on the bathroom floor in a fetal position, she’d kneel down to embrace him, even knowing that he no longer felt anything, that he was no longer there. A desperate cry and inconsolable weeping. The first one to join her would be her youngest daughter, aged four, clutching a white teddy bear. Then her six-year-old boy. Her eldest daughter, ten, would try to lead her brother and sister away to spare them from a sight that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  Soon afterward, someone came to inform Papa. Neither showed any emotion: they were too preoccupied with their own anguish.

  I stayed in bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Moser when she found her husband’s body. I hoped her children would never forget this day. They had to remember who was to blame.

  Someone would have to pay.

  Over 900 passengers, 400 women and children, ask you to use your influence and help us out of this terrible situation. The traditional humanitarianism of your country and your woman’s feelings give us hope that you will not refuse our request.

  St. Louis passenger committee to First Lady Leonor Montes de Laredo Brú, wife of Cuban president Federico Laredo Brú

  30 May 1939

  Wednesday, 31 May

  “We’re going to set fire to the ship today,” Leo whispered in my ear almost as soon as we left my cabin and ran up on deck.

  In less than ten minutes we had been up and down ladders, visited the engine room, rushed from first to third class. I had no idea what we were after.

  “If they don’t let us land, we’ll set fire to it.”

  There’ll be no need for that, Leo. It’s so hot here that the heat is burning the ship’s rails and the wooden decking. It’s impossible to stay outside. The sun is another enemy.

  Leo told me that, up to now, Cuba had accepted less than thirty passengers—the ones who had landing permits issued by its state department—but rejected those signed by the director-general of immigration, Manuel Benítez. He was the scoundrel who, together with his military mentor and ally Batista, had pocketed all our money. The “Benítez” had already lost its validity while we were crossing the Atlantic. Or possibly much earlier than that.

  Now that military chief, the real power on the island, was in his luxury residence surrounded by his family and his escort while recuperating in bed from a cold and did not dare show his face.

  His personal physician forbade him to answer the telephone, not wanting him disturbed by such trivial matters as the lives of more than nine hundred passengers!

  When Mama bought the Benítez for Papa, she purchased two more for us, thinking the visas she already had might lose their validity. But we also had our US visas and were on the waiting list for entry there. I didn’t know what more they could expect from us.

  “It’s possible everything will be sorted out mañana.” Leo pronounced the word in his deep, ridiculous Spanish accent. Mañana—the only word, apart from gracias, that he could say in the language spoken on the island—was to be the last day of negotiations.

  “Mañana,” he said again, as if those three syllables had some other meaning and could convey hope.

  Papa’s passport had been stamped with a big R: for return or rejected or repudiated. They had done the same with the passports of Leo and Mr. Martin; Walter, Kurt, and their family; and Ines. Nobody would be saved. We were nothing more than a pack of undesirables, ready to be thrown into the sea or sent back to the Ogres’ hell.

  No one cared that we’d spent our life savings on purchasing those documents. Now a heartless president had dared to sign a decree declaring them null and void.

  Leo thought that if we could set fire to the ship, they were bound to take account of us. The committee that Papa was chairman of had lost its powers of persuasion or negotiation, if it ever had any. The captain didn’t know how he could face the passengers, who had put their trust in him. From the very first day, the most powerful man on board had led us to believe we would disembark—that there would be no problems when we got to the wretched port of Havana.

  Two weeks wasted. We, the ridiculously gullible ones, had believed the Ogres when they authorized us to leave after handing over our businesses, our homes, our fortunes. How on earth could we have been so stupid as to trust them? It had all been planned in advance, even before Mama bought the landing permits for Cuba written in Spanish. They knew it from the moment we sailed from Hamburg; the band playing us off was another farce. It was obvious now why we were forced to have return tickets: they wanted us to cover the costs of the journey back.

  In Cuba, they looked down on us; the rest of the world ignored us. They all lowered their eyes in confusion, as if trying to escape the embarrassment. They wanted to wash their hands to avoid feeling guilty.

  The three young men who had toasted with us during the first banquet were now plotting with Leo—a twelve-year-old boy!—to set fire to this monstrous transatlantic liner. Please, that’s enough nonsense: keep your fantasies for when we reach dry land, if we ever do. Some of them had no doubts about seizing the ship, changing its course, stripping the captain of his command. A kidnapping on the high seas. Or at least, in that ramshackle bay.

  “What’s she doing here?” the young man who looked like a matinee idol asked Leo.

  “You can trust her, and she could help.” Help you do what, Leo? If I had stopped a moment longer to think about what they were planning, I would likely have run off and left them to organize their harebrained scheme on their own.

  But that young man with no future had few scruples. He was so desperate: the last thing he wanted to do was to return. He was too young and handsome to have to confront a premature death, and so he was capable of throwing into the sea anybody who got in his way, if it helped him survive. I felt like telling them that only a bunch of idiots could think that they could set fire to this sixteen-thousand-ton mammoth, but in the end I decided to leave them to their plotting and go up on deck. I had to take photos.

  Let them burn it if they can. Destroy it. Sink the biggest ship in the bay. And sink us with it. That’s the best thing that could happen to us.

  I went to the far end of the deck, where there was no one begging to be let off the ship or people observing our despair from tiny boats. Someplace where I could not see the shoreline of a city that would pay a high price for its indifference—not today or tomorrow, but someday.

  I leaned against the rail and closed my eyes, because I didn’t want to see the sea, either, or El Morro Lighthouse. When I sensed there was someone behind me, I didn’t need to turn around: I immediately recognized his smell of grease from the engine room,
vanilla biscuits, warm milk. He stepped alongside me and took my hand. He squeezed it as hard as he could, and I smiled.

  I opened my eyes because I knew I would be gazing at the long eyelashes of my only friend. Look at me, Leo, we don’t have much time left, I wanted to tell him, but I stayed silent. If anybody knew that, it was him. Leo knew everything. Always.

  On this side of the ship, we couldn’t hear the shouts. The silence was ours. A boat loaded down with passengers approached. They must be “pure,” I thought, because it entered the port and headed straight for its mooring, its horn sounding a warning.

  And there we two were, not saying a word, hand in hand, watching them sail past and then turning around again to face the vastness of sea and sky.

  Get up, Leo. Let’s jump into the sea and let the current take us. Somebody is sure to rescue us far from this port. And if they ask our names, we’ll invent ones that don’t cause disgust, rejection, or hatred.

  We would have done better to stay in Berlin. You and me, without our parents. We would be roaming streets littered with broken glass, laughing at the Ogres, listening to the radio in a dark passageway. We were free and happy then, in our own way.

  My brain worked far more quickly than my tongue, and so I couldn’t get the words out.

  Look at me, Leo. Don’t leave me alone here. Let’s play. Let’s go and roller-skate from deck to deck. You’re squeezing my hand too hard. Into the water! I swear I’ll do whatever you say. You decide. You’re older than me.

  Come on, it’s time.

  June 1939

  His Excellency Federico Laredo Brú

  President of the Republic of Cuba

  Your Excellency,

  As a result of the meeting you were kind enough to offer me, I have the honor of presenting the following proposal from the National Coordinating Committee to allow the refugees on board the SS St. Louis to enter Cuba:

  A surety from the Maryland Casualty Company, authorized to do business in Cuba, will, with your approval, be deposited forthwith in the name of the Republic of Cuba, to the value of $50,000.

  Lawrence Berenson, honorary advisor to the National Coordinating Committee for Aid to Refugees and Emigrants Coming from Germany

  Thursday, 1 June

  Mañana—that popular word among the passengers; the one Leo kept repeating in his strong accent—our fate was to be decided.

  My parents would wait until I fell asleep to take out the bronze container with the miraculous powder from its hiding place. He would hold me down, she would pry open my mouth. I wouldn’t resist; I’d chew on the glass coating to release the potassium cyanide that would bring about instant brain death. There would be no pain. Thank you, Mama and Papa, for not allowing me to suffer, for thinking of me, for putting an end to my agony. I would say good-bye happily, with a smile on my face. The time had come.

  I lay down beside Papa on the bed, and we watched Mama getting ready for the last dinner on board. She went over to the dressing table and picked up her jewel case, an antique music box.

  When I was little, I was hypnotized every time I opened that small black case encrusted with mother-of-pearl and saw the toy ballerina dancing to the tune of Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” Mama used to let me play with it and spend hours winding it up. The fragrance I associate with her jewels wafted over to the bed: the delicate aroma of lavender kept in a silk pouch inside the case. In the compartment where the ballerina’s clockwork mechanism was hidden, Mama opened a tiny little drawer and took out her wedding ring, the most valuable piece of jewelry she had brought from Berlin.

  At that moment, I understood in a flash. I almost jumped up but managed to stop myself: all those days trying to find the bronze container, and now it had shown up right under my nose! That must be the hiding place! If those capsules were worth their weight in gold, what better place to keep them than with the big diamond, her most precious possession.

  The ship’s horn sounded again. I don’t think there was anything that annoyed me more than that blast. Yes, there was: strangers knocking on the door. It was time to return to the dining room, where they were going to serve our last dinner in Havana. My parents were all in white; they looked as if they were frozen in time.

  “I’ll be done soon, I’m not ready yet,” I told them. They looked at me in surprise but decided silently to respect my routine, which was becoming more absurd by the day.

  I sat at the dressing table and picked up the music box. I could have thrown it into the sea and made it disappear, jewels and all, but instead I turned the key and watched the slender ballerina spinning around and around. I was scared to open the secret compartment, because if the capsules weren’t there, I’d finally give up. I couldn’t stop my fingers from trembling as I opened the hidden drawer and saw the bronze container. It was so small it almost made me laugh. Then my heart began to beat so wildly I was afraid that someone, even outside the cabin, might hear it. I picked up the container with the lethal powder inside, and my hands were shaking so much I had trouble unscrewing the top.

  Calm down, Hannah. Nothing is happening.

  At a moment like that, Leo ought to have been beside me.

  When I opened the top, I held my breath. I could see that the glass capsule really was in there, and so I quickly closed the container again. I was afraid that by opening it some tiny particles of cyanide might escape, pollute the air, and paralyze us all. A tinkling sound inside the container told me there was more than one. Of course, there ought to be three of them!

  I couldn’t understand how something so small could be so powerful. If you inhaled it, or a molecule got onto your skin, you would be in the next world. I thought of putting one in my mouth right then, but I couldn’t do something like that to Leo. It was a decision we had to make together, and it would have been a betrayal for which he’d never forgive me. Let’s do it, Leo!

  I ran to find him.

  As I hurried along, I bumped into first-class passengers who were going down for their farewell meal. As I entered the dining room, I was stunned by the noise of cutlery on plates, the sound of the diners chatting to one another, the smell of roast meat. I saw Leo in a doorway to one side, flanked by his usual cohorts, Walter and Kurt.

  When he spotted me, he signaled that I shouldn’t move: he would come to me. He strode across the room. Looking down at my right hand, he understood immediately that I was holding the treasure. He didn’t smile. In fact, I thought that, for the first time, he was truly afraid.

  When he took my hand, I opened it and let the little bronze tube with the three cyanide capsules drop into his. Leo made sure no one was looking or following him, and left the room without saying a word, like a real conspirator.

  I could see my parents talking to one of the stewards. Mrs. Moser came in without her children and sat at a table on her own. Mama invited her to join them, and she accepted timidly.

  The final dinner was a feast that started with black caviar on toast au gratin and celery in olive oil, followed by asparagus in hollandaise sauce and spinach in wine sauce, then sirloin steak with fried Saratoga potatoes, macaroni with Parmesan, and Lyonnaise potatoes, and lastly California peaches and Brie cheese with raspberries. I hardly touched anything but the macaroni and the peaches: all I wanted was for that absurd farewell dinner to be over.

  Then the dancing began. The orchestra launched into “Lotus Flower Waltz” and then “Come Back to Sorrento,” followed by a Schreiner medley and a tune by the Hungarian composer Franz Lehár. The main ceiling lights had been switched off, making the lighting much softer: an amber glow enveloped the dancers, who seemed to be floating on a layer of fog.

  All of a sudden, the orchestra fell silent.

  The couples waited for the next tune without returning to their seats while the hubbub from the tables increased. The stewards were performing miracles to cross the room, which was getting more and more crowded.

  A tall, slender woman wearing a strapless yellow gown and with a huge red flower behind o
ne ear climbed reluctantly onto the stage as if forced to become the protagonist of the next act. She spoke to the musicians, who closed their scores. Apparently they didn’t need them. The woman took the microphone in both hands, closed her eyes, and started to sing in a low voice.

  As the first verse in German of “In einem kühlen Grunde” was heard, everybody fell silent: “In einem kühlen Grunde, / Da geht ein Mühlenrad, / Meine Liebste ist verschwunden, / Die dort gewohnet hat.” “In the coolness of a valley / A windmill is turning, / Though my beloved who once dwelled there / Is now gone.”

  Nobody dared move an inch. Couples embraced as the orchestra accompanied the singer. The moment the last verse was over, she stepped down without another word. By then, the atmosphere in the room was mournful. Dressed in white, Papa and Mama were the discordant note in that tide of black, gray, and brown.

  Leo came up behind me, panting.

  “It’s done,” he whispered in my ear, trying to regain his breath.

  I shuddered. He had thrown them into the sea. We had lost our only chance to save ourselves together! It didn’t occur to him that this could have been our escape route.

  Sitting next to me, he stared in fascination at the profusion of exotic food. His eyes lit up as he piled as much as he could fit onto the china plate with the ship’s emblem on it. He had already forgotten the capsules, the possibility of throwing ourselves into the sea, of fleeing.

  He was hungry, and this feast that a steward described with unintelligible names was nothing more to him than salad, meat and potatoes, fruit and cheese. He devoured it as though it were his last meal. His first comment seemed to have come straight from one of the cables that the captain would receive and hand on to Papa: