Unwanted: The Voyage of the St. Louis
I. Klaus
It is 1939. War tears through Europe, swallowing lives by the thousand. Fear and hatred run rampant in the world. It is particularly bad for you. A Jew born in Germany, you fear for your life daily. It started slowly, being banned from stores, having to wear the star. It seemed like the blink of an eye and suddenly the world was against you.
You're out of work. A few months ago, the SA destroyed your shop. You remember staring at the shattered glass on the road with wonder. A thousand tiny crystals spelled out the end of everything.
Since then, you've been keeping a low profile. A few days ago, they'd come knocking while you were out, and had taken your housemate Jakob along with the vast majority of your valuables. You managed to salvage some money hidden under the floorboards along with a photo of your parents. Nothing else was left. So you moved in with another close friend and her family, not Jewish themselves but sympathetic to your plight.
You knew you weren't safe there and nor were your hosts, so when a friend mentions a cruiser leaving for North America, you jump on the opportunity to escape. You spend your last couple Marks on an entrance visa to Cuba and leave the following morning with little more than the clothes on your back.
It is 1939. War tears through Europe, swallowing lives by the thousand. Fear and hatred run rampant in the world. It is particularly bad for you. A Jew born in Germany, you fear for your life daily. It started slowly, being banned from stores, having to wear the star. It seemed like the blink of an eye and suddenly the world was against you.
You're out of work. A few months ago, the SA destroyed your shop. You remember staring at the shattered glass on the road with wonder. A thousand tiny crystals spelled out the end of everything.
Since then, you've been keeping a low profile. A few days ago, they'd come knocking while you were out, and had taken your housemate Jakob along with the vast majority of your valuables. You managed to salvage some money hidden under the floorboards along with a photo of your parents. Nothing else was left. So you moved in with another close friend and her family, not Jewish themselves but sympathetic to your plight.
You knew you weren't safe there and nor were your hosts, so when a friend mentions a cruiser leaving for North America, you jump on the opportunity to escape. You spend your last couple Marks on an entrance visa to Cuba and leave the following morning with little more than the clothes on your back.