Unwanted: The Voyage of the St. Louis
Word comes to the ship: you will not be allowed to disembark.
What comes first is silence.
What comes next is terrible.
Men and women weep openly. Children, too young to understand what is happening, clutch at their parents, eyes wide and scared. Schroeder begs the passengers for calm, but it is futile. He promises that you will not go back to Germany, but once before you dared to hope, and you find it hard to do so again.
The boat stays in the harbour for a while longer as less than a dozen passengers are allowed to go to shore. A few of them carried US passports and the others were Cuban citizens, mixed up in this sordid business by fate. One is a refugee dragged out of the bay, to a Havana hospital. He had slit his wrists and jumped over the side, but was unsuccessful in his suicide attempt.
He was left behind to recover in hospital with a promise that he would be shipped back to Hamburg when recovered. His wife and children were forced to stay on the ship.
When the passengers settle into a state of horror-struck calm, word is passed around that you'll sail North, seeking haven in the United States and Canada. The captain has sent word ahead to the North American countries of your plight and has begged assistance. Jewish organisations are working to convince leaders to let you in. The news is going crazy over you. All these reassurances fall flat as you know that each and every refugee is thinking the same thing: you will be sent back. You have escaped, but Germany will take you back.
As the ship turns away from safety, you hold an arm around the crying Ilse. You whisper to her that someone will take you in. Someone must. The words are hollow.
What comes first is silence.
What comes next is terrible.
Men and women weep openly. Children, too young to understand what is happening, clutch at their parents, eyes wide and scared. Schroeder begs the passengers for calm, but it is futile. He promises that you will not go back to Germany, but once before you dared to hope, and you find it hard to do so again.
The boat stays in the harbour for a while longer as less than a dozen passengers are allowed to go to shore. A few of them carried US passports and the others were Cuban citizens, mixed up in this sordid business by fate. One is a refugee dragged out of the bay, to a Havana hospital. He had slit his wrists and jumped over the side, but was unsuccessful in his suicide attempt.
He was left behind to recover in hospital with a promise that he would be shipped back to Hamburg when recovered. His wife and children were forced to stay on the ship.
When the passengers settle into a state of horror-struck calm, word is passed around that you'll sail North, seeking haven in the United States and Canada. The captain has sent word ahead to the North American countries of your plight and has begged assistance. Jewish organisations are working to convince leaders to let you in. The news is going crazy over you. All these reassurances fall flat as you know that each and every refugee is thinking the same thing: you will be sent back. You have escaped, but Germany will take you back.
As the ship turns away from safety, you hold an arm around the crying Ilse. You whisper to her that someone will take you in. Someone must. The words are hollow.