Dad tried to apologize again and refuse the offer of help, but Mahmoud was already climbing in the backseat with the load of life jackets. Mom got in beside him with Hana, and Mahmoud’s father shifted Waleed in his arms so he could reluctantly sit in the front passenger seat.
“Mahmoud … ” his father said, unhappy. But Mahmoud didn’t care. They were off their feet, and they were on their way to someplace they could sleep.
The little Skoda’s gears ground as the man got them underway.
“My name is Samih Nasseer,” the man told them, and Mahmoud’s father introduced them all.
“You are Syrian, yes? Refugees?” the man asked. “I know what it’s like. I am a refugee too, from Palestine.”
Mahmoud frowned. This man was a refugee, and he owned his own car and his own business? “How long have you lived in Turkey?” Mahmoud asked Mr. Nasseer.
“Sixty-seven years now!” Mr. Nasseer said, smiling at Mahmoud in the rearview mirror. “I was forced to leave my home in 1948 during the first Arab-Israeli war. They are still fighting there, but someday, when my homeland is restored, I will go home again!”
Dad’s phone chimed, surprising them all and making Waleed stir. His father read the glowing screen.
“It’s the smuggler. He says the boat is ready now.”
Mahmoud had learned not to get excited about these texts, but even so, he still felt a little flutter of hope in his chest.
“You take a boat to Greece? Tonight?” Mr. Nasseer asked.
“Maybe,” Mahmoud’s father said. “If it’s there.”
“I will take you to it,” Mr. Nasseer said, “and if it is not there, you can come back and stay with me.”
“You’re very kind,” Mom said. Mahmoud didn’t know why, but his mother pulled Mahmoud close and gave him a hug.
It took very little time for the car to take them back to the beach, and when they pulled to a stop, they were all quiet as they stared.
This time, finally, a boat was there.
A day out from Cuba, the St. Louis threw a party. Streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling and decorated the gallery rails of the first-class social hall. Chairs and tables were pushed aside to make room for dancers. There was a feeling of wild relief, as though they were dancing away all the stress of leaving Germany. The stewards smiled with the passengers as though they understood, but none of them could really understand, Josef thought. Not until their shop windows had been smashed and their businesses had been shut down. Not until the newspapers and radio talked about them as subhuman monsters. Not until shadowy men had burst into their homes and smashed up their things and dragged away someone they loved.
Not until they had been told to leave their homeland and never, ever come back.
Still, Josef enjoyed the party. He danced with his mother while Ruthie, Renata, and Evelyne ran in and out between people’s legs all evening long. Josef had been nervous about Cuba at first, scared of the unknown, but now he was excited to reach Havana, to start a new life—especially if it was like this.
Josef’s father stayed hidden away in their cabin the whole night, sure this was all just another Nazi trick.
The next morning, breakfast in the ship’s dining room was interrupted by the thundering, clanking sound of the anchors being dropped. Josef ran to the window. Dawn had broken, and Josef could see the Malecón, Havana’s famous seaside avenue. The stewards had told them all about its theaters and casinos and restaurants, and the Miramar Hotel, where all the waiters wore tuxedos. But the St. Louis was still a long way off from there. For some reason, the ship had anchored kilometers out from shore.
“It’s for the medical quarantine,” a doctor from Frankfurt explained to the small crowd who had gathered with Josef at the porthole to look at Cuba. “I saw them run up the yellow flag this morning before breakfast. We just have to be approved by the port’s medical authorities first. Standard procedure.”
Josef made sure he was on deck when the first boat from the Havana Port Authority reached the St. Louis. The Cuban man who climbed the ladder to C-deck from the launch was deeply tanned and wore a lightweight white suit. Josef watched as Captain Schroeder and the ship’s doctor met the man as he came aboard. The captain swore an oath that none of the passengers was insane, a criminal, or had a contagious disease. That was apparently all that should have been required, because when the port doctor insisted he still be allowed to examine each and every passenger, Captain Schroeder looked angry. He balled his fists and breathed deeply, but he didn’t object. He gave a curt order to the ship’s doctor to assemble the passengers in the social hall and then marched away.
Josef ran back to his cabin and burst in on his mother packing the last of their things. Ruthie was helping her while Papa lay on the bed.
“The—the doctor from Cuba—he’s going to make all the passengers—go through a medical examination,” Josef told his mother, still panting from his run. “They’re gathering everybody in the social hall right now.”
Mama’s shocked look told him she understood. Papa was not well. What if the Cuban doctor said he was too mentally disturbed to be allowed into Havana? Where would they go if Cuba turned them away? What would they do?
“Gathering us?” Papa said. He looked even more frightened by the prospect than Josef’s mother had. “Like—like a roll call?” He stood up and backed against a wall. “No,” he said. “The things that happened at roll call. The hangings. The floggings. The drownings. The beatings.” He wrapped his arms around himself, and Josef knew his father was talking about that place. Dachau. Josef and his mother stood like statues, afraid to break the spell. “Once, I saw another man shot dead with a rifle,” his father whispered. “He was standing right beside me. He was standing right beside me, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound, or I would be next.”
“It’s not going to be like that, dear heart,” Mama said. She reached out to him, tentatively, gently, and he didn’t flinch under her hand. “You were strong once before, in that place. We just need you to be strong again. And then we’ll be in Cuba. We’ll be safe forever. All of us.”
It was clear to Josef that his father was still lost in his memories of Dachau as they led him to the social hall. Papa looked frightened. Jittery. It scared Josef when his father got this way, but he was even more scared that the doctor would see Papa’s condition and turn them away.
Josef and his family joined the other passengers standing in rows, and the doctor walked among them. Papa stood beside Josef, and as the doctor got closer, Josef’s father began to make a low keening sound, like a wounded dog. Papa was starting to attract the attention of the passengers around them. Josef felt a bead of sweat roll down his back underneath his shirt, and Ruthie cried softly.
“Be strong, my love,” Josef heard his mother whisper to his father. “Be strong, like you were before.”