Unwanted: The Voyage of the St. Louis
The journey to Havana seems like something from a dream. The St. Louis is a luxury liner and Captain Gustav Schroeder is good to you. He shows the passengers the kindness that the world seems to have forgotten. You are fed, and you are safe, and you are on your way to a new life.
After docking in Cuba, you and the others plan to head to the United States. They'll help you. Someone must.
As Havana grows on the horizon, a cheer goes up among the nine hundred or so of you. An elderly woman named Ilse who you've befriended on the journey smiles in a way that makes her seem twenty years younger. You feel something you haven't in quite a while: hope.
It seems that you've escaped. Germany is nothing but a distant memory of blood and broken glass, and while you mourn for those left behind, you have a future here.
The jubilation is short-lived. As boats come and go and Schroeder speaks with Cuban officials, anxiety creeps on board. None of you have been permitted to disembark. Yet, the shore is so tauntingly close. Quite a crowd has gathered at the docks and some refugees shout to their friends and relatives on land. You stare blankly at Ilse as she chirps reassurances that you'll soon be allowed to leave the boat.
"They'll take us in, surely. We have the permits,"
She wrings her hands and paces. For the thousandth time, she pulls out her passport and the worn immigration papers inside. The ticket to paradise. It had cost a small fortune, but the officials were now saying that it was worthless, that the policies had changed.
After docking in Cuba, you and the others plan to head to the United States. They'll help you. Someone must.
As Havana grows on the horizon, a cheer goes up among the nine hundred or so of you. An elderly woman named Ilse who you've befriended on the journey smiles in a way that makes her seem twenty years younger. You feel something you haven't in quite a while: hope.
It seems that you've escaped. Germany is nothing but a distant memory of blood and broken glass, and while you mourn for those left behind, you have a future here.
The jubilation is short-lived. As boats come and go and Schroeder speaks with Cuban officials, anxiety creeps on board. None of you have been permitted to disembark. Yet, the shore is so tauntingly close. Quite a crowd has gathered at the docks and some refugees shout to their friends and relatives on land. You stare blankly at Ilse as she chirps reassurances that you'll soon be allowed to leave the boat.
"They'll take us in, surely. We have the permits,"
She wrings her hands and paces. For the thousandth time, she pulls out her passport and the worn immigration papers inside. The ticket to paradise. It had cost a small fortune, but the officials were now saying that it was worthless, that the policies had changed.