“Wait, wait,” he said. “Don’t be in such a hurry to go just now. Stay, please, to talk with me. Do not worry. Nothing is demanded of you. I come only to introduce myself.” He held out a hand disproportionately large for his frame, and gave her a firm and powerful handshake. “My name is Joseph Levin. I apologize that I spoke so strongly that I am scaring you away. This is not my intent.” She looked up at him, and before she could respond, he continued, “How do you do?”
“Well,” she stammered. “Thank you. I am well,” she continued, and then she realized that this last phrase from him—the words of this simple question—were the only words that he had spoken all evening that were in English, not German. And likewise, her response came out automatically in English.
But now he was transitioning back to German. “Please, miss, let’s talk for a moment,” and he motioned for her to sit down once more, to share the small table setting with him. “Aha,” he continued. “I knew it. Well, actually my wife, Hannah, first had the idea, but then I thought, as always, she just may be right—you speak English. You see, I know only a few phrases. I can maybe say ‘how are you’ in four languages, but often the answers will elude me. I have no great linguistic skills. Please, I have introduced myself and now I ask for your name, if you would not mind.”
“Sarah. I am Sarah Berger.”
“From?”
“From Berlin.”
“Aha,” he said again. “I thought so. Cosmopolitan. And you’ve traveled. You are fluent in English, I am presuming, by the natural ease of your response.”
“Well, yes. I have had years of instruction.”
“And what other languages?’
“Well, French. And I guess Swiss and some Polish, as well.”
“Sarah,” he paused. “I may call you Sarah, may I not?” he posed rhetorically, waiting for no answer. “We are informal here. Sarah, you saw my wife by my side, did you not?”
“Yes, yes, I did,” she said, wondering if he was displeased that she had intruded on their private moment. “You are right. I was watching you both. I will apologize for my poor manners. She seemed so quiet, so sad. You had such tenderness for her, although you had such force for your audience.”
“Ah, you are a student of human behavior, as well. What you say is true. She is very sad. But not because this ship has reversed course. She did not even want to leave at Hamburg and I physically had to lead her aboard.”
Sarah could envision the scene, perhaps not so different from her own. “It is the guilt. I know it myself. The pain of abandoning loved ones.”
“Yes, you are right. Separating from her parents—as well as mine—not knowing if we will see them again— not knowing if they will be safe.”
Hearing this admission reawakened her own despair and brought tears to Sarah’s eyes, but she held back the sobs that often surfaced during her lonely nights.
“But with Hannah, there is more,” Joseph continued. “You see, a month before we secured passage on this ship, we accompanied Hannah’s younger sister, Miriam, to the train station, where she began her journey relocating to the French countryside. There was a group— maybe thirty children—and the promise that more will be able to go—to hide out—to become Christian children until the madness ends. In the weeks before she left, she had to be instructed in the most basic of Christian tenets, and we had to impress upon her the need to deny her heritage—explain to her the importance of keeping the secret. For a nine-year-old, this is not an easy assignment. You heard me say it earlier—I am a rabbi’s son—and yet I had to tell Miriam to deny her Judaism. And so now she is Mary.”
Finally, Joseph looked up at Sarah for a moment, but did not pause for her to comment. “My in-laws could not bear to take her to the train—and so it was Hannah who had to make sure that Miriam took her seat—Hannah who had to wave as the train left the station, her sister racked with convulsive cries through the window.” Now Joseph closed his eyes and rubbed his hands on his temples. He swallowed deeply in an effort to control his own emotions. “You have to understand that because of the age difference, because Hannah’s parents have become paralyzed by the Nazi rampages, Miriam was more like our own daughter than a sister or sister-in-law. And so Hannah is so incredibly distraught that she cannot even eat. You see how thin she is.”
He looked up and saw Sarah nodding slowly. “And yet, and this you will find hard to believe, Hannah is happier now than she has been. There is a relief to her that we are returning. She does not know if she can locate Miriam, and she understands, anyway, that we should not try just now. But she wants to find ways to help with the Resistance herself. And she knows that I too feel the same now. You see, we made a good match. We were beshert; we are soul mates. And now that is very important. And these people organizing the evacuation of the children, they are proof that there is humanity among some of the Gentiles. We were lucky in this one respect. God provided our community with a few Church elders who have compassion for our plight, who despise the Germany that Hitler is creating, and so they are helping us. And Hannah believes that we must do more to help ourselves. When she saw you earlier on the ship, before today, she pointed you out to me. ‘This is a young woman for our cause,’ she said. ‘Look how she handles the children, and she does not look Jewish, but I know that she is.’ And so I see that my emaciated wife still has energy in her mind. She wanted us to talk to you—to recruit you to the Resistance—and then on to Palestine when we succeed.”
Late that next afternoon aboard the St. Louis, sitting at a small deck table and grabbing the sun’s lingering rays, Sarah composed her letter to Taylor. She had been formulating thoughts in her mind since the voyage had reversed its course, but she kept waiting to put pen to paper, initially still holding out hope. But finally she was facing the truth—the same truth she saw reflected in all of the bleak faces that surrounded her on the lounges of the promenade level. The days of people smiling, laughing, playing games, and even simply conversing were only a memory. They had been swept away with the ocean breezes. And now only a thick, depressive fog was palpable in an ostensibly cloudless sky.
It had been so long since she had written to him that the very act of gathering the stationery materials was overwhelming. Only the previous week, she had been practicing the words she would surprise him with on a telephone call. “It’s me—yes—it’s Sarah. No, I am not calling from Germany.” She didn’t know exactly where or how or when the call would be made—but she wanted it to be perfect. She could envision him on the other end, almost dropping the phone in relief. But now there would be no such call. Instead, she had to picture him receiving this letter and she winced when she visualized the reaction it would evoke.
My Dearest Taylor:
Darling, I can only imagine the way you have quickly torn this envelope, ready to devour its contents as a starving man would unwrap a gift of chocolates. Yes, I know you still care for me as I do for you, although I have not been at home to receive or send any correspondence for over six months. But your dreams have reached me, even when your letters could not. In those dreams, I sensed your search for any word from me and my family, and some answers to that are the meager bites I can offer you.
This past year, the terror that you knew was coming managed to strike hard. I have been separated now from both of my parents. My father was arrested and taken away in November of 1938. My mother and I later left Berlin and assumed Christian identities in the countryside until we could find a way to escape to America. But just as you would have expected—you would have understood it even before me—my mother would not leave the country without word of my father.
I have spent these last weeks on a ship that was to bring so many refugees to a safer life across the ocean. But we have been denied—we have become a leper ship looking for a port. And now we are almost back on the continent from which we sailed in fear. My latest news is that I will leave the boat in Belgium. I have so much to tell you—and although I know I need you more now than ever before
in my life—I must try to explain to you briefly why our reunion, which once seemed inevitable, now seems impossible.
So many experiences in my recent past have molded me into a different person. Even the new person still loves you, still hopes to be with you someday, but I don’t know if that is someday soon. I feel I cannot put my wants and needs first right now. I cannot be more forthcoming in this letter, as I do not know whose evil hands may contact it before it reaches your sweet touch. I only know that I cannot turn my back on my people now, especially the children, when I am told that I can be of help. I know none of this makes sense to you—and that now both of our dreams will be only nightmares. Although I will pray to be once more in your arms, I cannot ask you to put your life on hold for me. No matter what the future will bring, I promise I will always love you, I will never forget you…It is all in God’s hands now.
With all my love,
Sarah
As she sealed the envelope, she could not move from her chair to deposit it with the purser. She simply sat back and held it at the end of her fingertips, as if a postal agent would happen by and collect it on his rounds. And within only moments, a very trim, blond young officer, his epaulets possibly signifying a fairly high rank, and the metal buttons of his impeccable white uniform glowing with the reflections of the last beams of light, tipped his cap toward her and reached for the letter she seemed to be offering.
“Miss,” he said, and then repeated again, for she did not appear to be concentrating on the present and seemed lost in thought. “Please let me take that for you. It would be my pleasure to see that it is on its way to its destination.”
She looked up only briefly. He and his fellow officer exchanged knowing glances, immediately sensing her sadness, imagining the story behind this beautiful girl with tears in her eyes. And she had seen the pair before, so alike they could have been twins or, at least brothers, not inconspicuous on the ship, both in their professional roles and outwardly flirting with the female staff.
“Thank you,” she said so softly that it was almost inaudible, and then remembering her manners, she gave them an appreciative smile as she released her hold on the letter.
As the pair walked away, she did not follow them with her eyes. And so she was not cognizant of their suddenly cheerful, posturing gait, their jovial discourse. She did not hear their words, as they were approaching the turn at the stern of the ship. “Yes, my dear blond Jewess,” one remarked to the other. “I will be sure this letter is properly handled…Poor Captain Schroeder. He has not been able to protect his charges like he hoped— and now one more time he has failed.” As he spoke, he led his friend closer to the ship’s railing and then without the slightest hesitation, he let the letter fall to the water. The two officers watched its slow descent, and then turned toward each other as if on cue. “Heil Hitler,” they said in unison.
Only a nine-year-old boy, scouting the ocean horizon for passing ships or hints of land, would bear witness to the fate of the white rectangular object as it floated ever so slowly to the waters below, lingering on wind pockets and drafts of sea water currents, gracefully dancing in the air before it was engulfed by the powerful waves and then disappeared. And he walked away, thinking that one more of his playmates’ art projects was making its way back to the very place that he had hoped to be.
Throughout the days of the return voyage, the very brave Captain Schroeder of the St. Louis had worked closely with Jewish groups to negotiate with the four European countries that would absorb the passengers so they would not have to return to Hamburg, their port of embarkation in the Third Reich. All of the passengers would leave the ship at Antwerp, Belgium, and then be processed and transported to their assigned locations. And just as Sarah’s mother had surprised her by parting from her by the dock of the St. Louis when it began what turned out to be its doomed voyage, so Sarah now turned to the Blumberg family to say her farewell.
Once again, in small groups, the passengers were dispersed on a dock area sitting on suitcases, dressed in suits. But there was no hint of hope on their faces this time, only fear and despair for the majority, rebellion for a minority.
“No, Sarah,” Alfred had insisted. “You are part of our family now. You are our daughter and our sister all in one. We will proceed into the future together.” He was holding her hands tightly and sincerely as he spoke. “Sarah, we all love you,” he continued as his wife and the children devoured her in a circle of affection.
“I love you all so much also,” Sarah returned. “But I have made a decision that I believe my mother would approve of. No one knows what lies ahead for any of us now, but we know that we have many enemies in this world and few friends. These last evenings I have spent in meetings with our fellow passengers who are not going to try to make their way to America again, but are impassioned now to join the Resistance Movement. They feel I could be of great help to them because of my Christian looks. And I do hold a second passport as Liesel Schultz. I have to admit that I initially met their proposal with reluctance and trepidation. But they insisted that they have been watching me on the ship and they see I have an ability with children. Some of them say they are happy to return because they shared my same guilt of leaving and they plan to become involved in relocating German Jewish children to the French or British countryside. They know there are many displaced young people and many orphans. They not only want to protect them, but include them in a Zionist vision. And now I am telling you that I have signed onto that same philosophy. I know that you are set on making your way to the United States, and believe me, I don’t fault you for that. I care so much for you and I pray for you to be settled in safety as soon as is possible. But right now, I feel I must follow this calling. Just please—never forget me—I will never forget any of you.”
And then, just as she did when they initially met, she acknowledged each family member separately—but no longer with a handshake—now with a hug and a kiss and tears.
Sarah would disembark at the same port as the Blumbergs in Antwerp, but she would surreptitiously meet up with her new group and would eventually become a resourceful and respected member of the Resistance Movement during the war years. In 1947, she would finally sail to Palestine on one of the ships evading the British blockade. This ship would provide passage for refugees from four centers: Switzerland, Belgium, France, and the Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Even after liberation from Buchenwald, many of the Jews would have wished to return to Poland or Hungary—but the shocking truth spread quickly. They were not wanted back home—there were few, if any, Jews, and anti-Semitism had taken no rest.
The stories they exchanged on the way to the Promised Land were remarkable and followed a distinct pattern—those from the three countries told of years of fear and luck and the aid of decent, moral countrymen. And those from the camp told of the inhumanity of misguided and evil men.
The irony was that in decades ahead, when Yad Vashem, the Jewish Memorial of the State of Israel, began honoring those Gentiles who aided Jews during the Holocaust, the name Liesel Schultz was put forth many times. The grateful sponsors would be shocked when they were assured that Liesel Schultz was actually of Jewish heritage, just like them. In 1993, however, Gustav Schroeder, captain of the St. Louis, was recognized posthumously for the Righteous Among Nations honor.
Taylor
Kenilworth
August 1940
“Taylor, dear,” his mother said as she uncharacteristically greeted him at the front door and ushered him into the expansive living room.
His day at work had been long and he actually felt gritty and grimy from hours spent in the factory, training with the two foremen on some new machinery.
“Mother, you seem especially welcoming this evening—I don’t usually see you downstairs for another hour with your dinner dress preparations completed.” The family was still maintaining the formal dining pattern of the previous generation.
“But, darling. You just must see this. The most delightful surpris
e has come today. I don’t know who would have sent it to us, but it appears to have come from abroad. It is so beautiful. I didn’t know what it was at first. The doorbell rang and since I was passing the foyer I just answered it myself and this fairly tattered package was dropped off.”
“Mother—I haven’t seen you so excited like this— actually, maybe ever. I’m not really sure what you are telling me—could you be less cryptic, please?”
At this point she took his hand to lead him farther into the room. Taylor was used to the controlled decorum with which his mother usually presented herself. She was truly a wonderful, warm and supportive mother—a demonstrably loving wife—and he adored that about her. But she was also extremely formal and regimented. Tea time at three o’clock, and then from four to seven, she would have her evening repose, and then appear newly made up and fashionably attired, ready to share a pre-dinner cocktail with her husband, son, and any guests that may have been invited. But now it was well after six and she looked as if she had begun no such ritual preparations.
“I opened the door,” she continued, “and a driver brought in a rather large package. It had ‘Woodmere Residence’ written on the outside—some customs markings—and so I tipped the driver, naturally, and he was on his way. I wasn’t even going to open it, but it was a bit torn at the edges and something was protruding.”
Although she had been leading Taylor toward the object under discussion, at this point she held him back, wanting to finish her narrative before she revealed her prize. “No Taylor, just wait now. I want to unveil it to you as it was unveiled to me.”
“OK, Mother. I am trying to be patient—but I would request you come to the point, as I am in need of major freshening before dinner. Do you see the dirt on my hands?”
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