Gretel and Hertha were not sisters, nor were they cousins. No ties of blood ran between them, but they were daughters of the same ancient religion. None could stem the rising tide of Nazism in Germany, and Adolph Hitler had been in power for several years now. Hatred had seeped into every town and village; racism was swelling, and antisemitism was rising to fever pitch. Crowds chanted the name of the Reich, gathered in praise of German glory. Gretel and Hertha’s families had been subjected to unjust and arbitrary laws back in Berlin. For Jews, at least, these laws were enforced on street corners through barked orders of Nein! and Verboten! They had been forced to flee for their survival. Families had sold their jewels to pay the people-smugglers. They had given up their furniture, their ornaments and their rugs to pay backhanders to the port agents. They brought only what their suitcases could carry. Their past was sold off, left in the hands of opportunists. None had looked back as they boarded the Saint Louis. They had been turned away in Cuba and in Miami. “You can’t dock here!” they had been told. “You’ll have to seek refuge elsewhere,” they had been informed. The 963 Jews aboard the transatlantic crossing were sent packing. They needed but one thing, their hope and their greatest desire: to find a home. Somewhere beneath an olive tree, on a hill, behind a wall. Just a home. Gretel had a dream; she wanted to live in a beautiful house. Not in some walled-off neighbourhood in Berlin where the Nazis committed atrocities and hurled abuse at them, where she was jeered and mocked, seen merely as a vessel of an enemy religion. In that place she no longer had the freedom to live as a little girl without worry; to live unfettered, as children should – just a nameless child who could be left alone. She never wanted to go back to Germany. For Gretel, Germany was over. This she believed in her bones. Germany’s demons were alive and well. For Hertha it was a different story. She did not daydream; her dreams came only in sleep. She told Gretel: “I saw a sea, a great wide sea opening up to us. Only for us. The sea opened wide, and horses fell in. I saw grasshoppers jumping in the fields. I saw it all, as plain as day. The army was wiped out. The sea opened just for you and me. As if the Almighty were real.” Gretel was spellbound by the dream. She smiled at Hertha, who held her tight in her arms. The two girls stayed looking out of the porthole of the ocean liner that was bringing them back to Belgium, to the Flemish port of Anvers. They could see the smokestacks and the ancient buildings. They were not in New York, but perhaps a new life awaited them all the same.
The Saint Louis finally docked in Anvers. The families jostled in the hold, and a commotion rose up. The families were carrying everything they owned as they left Germany. A prayer book, some photos, a bag of clothes; only the essentials, which they now set down on the dockside. At least here they were out of Hitler’s reach, protected from his hatred. They were far from the vast crowds chanting for the Third Reich. Gretel felt certain no-one could hurt them in Belgium. This was her new home. She held Hertha’s hand, and they strolled along the docks. They needed to find refuge; a home to sleep and tell stories in. “I don’t know if the Almighty really exists,” said Gretel, sadly. The dock agents blew their whistles. The families were ushered toward Anvers. They left the docks, and went out into the streets. Where now were they to go?
Alan Alfredo Geday