Mahmoud saw a cardboard box of used toys at one of the shops and knelt to dig in it while his mother and brother and sister walked on. He sifted through it, hoping—yes! A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle! It was the one with the red bandanna. The box didn’t have any other Ninja Turtles in it, but Waleed would be excited to get it. Mahmoud hoped so, at least. Waleed didn’t seem to get excited about much these days. Mahmoud paid ten Syrian pounds for it—about five cents in American money.
A car honked behind Mahmoud, and he turned like everybody else. It was an old blue Opel taxi, traveling so slowly Mahmoud could walk faster. It was the only car Mahmoud had seen in the camp, and the crowd parted for it as it drew closer. A Syrian pop song blared from the radio, and young men and women danced and laughed alongside the taxi. As it passed, Mahmoud saw a young couple sitting in the back. The woman was dressed in a white satin dress and veil.
It was a marriage procession, Mahmoud realized. Back in Syria, it was a tradition to be escorted to your wedding by a parade of cars, to help carry you into your new life. Mahmoud remembered his uncle’s wedding, before the war. His uncle had worn a tuxedo and his bride had worn a dress of sparkling jewels and a tiara, and they had been escorted by a dozen cars to a party where Mahmoud had eaten a piece of the delicious seven-tiered cake and danced with his mother to a real band. Here, the couple’s only escort was a group of rowdy teenage boys running behind the taxi, and their destination was a dirty white tent with whatever food they’d been able to buy in the camp’s market. But everyone seemed to be having fun.
The old taxi’s exhaust pipe made a sound like a gunshot—POK!—and everybody ducked instinctively. The spell of happiness and safety was momentarily broken by the unforgettable memories of the chaos they had just escaped.
Mahmoud’s heart was still racing when someone put a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped.
It was his dad.
“Mahmoud, where’s your mother? Where are Waleed and Hana?” his father asked. “I found us a ride, but we have to leave now.”
Josef followed the small group of kids through the raised doorway onto the bridge of the St. Louis. The bridge was a narrow, curving room that stretched from one side of the ship to the other. Bright sunlight streamed in through two dozen windows, offering a panoramic view of the vast blue-green Atlantic and wispy white clouds. Throughout the wood-decked room were metal benches with maps and rulers on them, and the walls were dotted with mysterious gauges and meters made of shining brass.
There were a number of crewmen on the bridge, some of them wearing blue-and-white sailor uniforms like the stewards, and three more in brass-buttoned blue jackets with gold bands at the cuffs and blue officers’ caps with gold trim. One of the regular sailors stood at a spoked steering wheel the size of a truck tire with handles sticking out all around it. It looked like the steering wheels Josef had seen in paintings of pirate ships, but this one was metal and connected to a big rectangular pedestal.
The shortest of the three men in fancy uniforms strode over to the group with a big smile on his face. Josef recognized him from the Shabbos service.
“Welcome to the bridge, boys and girls,” he said. “I’m Captain Schroeder.”
The captain shook each of their hands, even though none of them was older than thirteen. One of the parents on board the ship had arranged for a tour of the bridge and engine room for any children who wanted to attend, and eight of them had signed up. Ruthie and Evelyne hadn’t been interested, but Renata was there, along with a few of the other older kids.
Captain Schroeder introduced them to his first officer and the other crew on the bridge, and showed them what some of the gauges and dials meant. Josef listened eagerly. “This is the engine control for the St. Louis,” Captain Schroeder explained. “When we want to change speed, we grip these handles, slide them all the way forward, and then pull them back to the new setting.” He smiled. “I’m not going to change the speed now, because we’ve got the engines set right where we want them.”
Josef noticed both handles were set to AHEAD FULL.
“Are we going full speed because we’re racing two other ships to Cuba?” Josef asked.
The captain looked surprised, and then a little angry. “Where did you hear that we were racing other ships to Cuba?” he asked Josef.
“Two stewards were talking about it the other day,” Josef said, feeling a little nervous. “They said if we don’t make it there first, they might not let us in.”
The captain pursed his lips and glanced meaningfully at his first officer, who looked concerned.
The captain turned on his smile again. “We’re not in any kind of race,” he said, looking from Josef to the other kids. “We’re just making best possible speed because we have calm seas and a following wind. You’ve nothing to worry about. Now perhaps Petty Officer Jockl will show you the engine room.”
As high up as the bridge was on the ship, the engine room was just as far down. After stepping through a steel fire door that had CREW ONLY painted on it in big letters, Josef and the tour group went down staircase after staircase, and they still weren’t to the engine room yet.
Below decks was very different from what Josef was used to above decks. Where everything on A-, B-, and C-decks was airy and comfortable, there were no portholes here, no spacious cabins. The air was damp, and smelled of cigarettes and cabbage and sweat. Peeking into the rooms, Josef could see that the crew quarters below decks had two beds to a room, and barely enough space to turn around. The hallways were narrow, and the ceilings were low. Petty Officer Jockl had to duck as they went through doorways. Josef had never been afraid of tight places before, but the close living conditions made him uneasy. He felt like he was visiting an alien world. The seven other kids must have felt the same way, because they were all silent. Even Renata.
From down the hall came the sound of men singing, and Petty Officer Jockl slowed. As they got closer, Josef recognized the tune. It was “The Horst Wessel Song,” the anthem of the Nazi Party. Josef’s skin crawled, and he and the other kids looked at each other nervously. Josef had heard “The Horst Wessel Song” hundreds of times in the weeks following his father’s abduction. It had gone overnight from an obscure song the Nazis sang at rallies to the unofficial national anthem of Germany—and it was frightening. The last time Josef had heard the song was the day every one of his neighbors had lined the street to salute as Nazi soldiers marched by.
Petty Officer Jockl tried to slip the children past the little common room where the crewmen were drinking and singing, but suddenly someone in the room called out, “Stop! Passengers aren’t allowed down here!”
Jockl froze, and so did Josef.