L’CHAYIM! A HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR’S AMERICAN JOURNEY

Nine interminable days after leaving Le Havre and enduring the full fury of the Atlantic Ocean, not to mention a long night of wretched bobbing at anchor resulting in another vicious attack of mal de mer, the MS “Ronda” and its twelve excited passengers at long last sailed slowly past the Statue of Liberty and its incomparable skyline in New York Harbor. A sight I shall never forget, and a truly romantic and long-anticipated welcome to this land of milk and honey and Freedom. The date was December 8th, 1948, some three years after the official conclusion of WWII and the madness of the Shoah. Not until much later was I apprised of the historical significance of the previous day, December 7th, the evening we had actually dropped anchor: no one on board had even mentioned Pearl Harbor, and it wouldn’t have meant anything to me at the time if someone had. Not until we started to study our American history, however, did we learn about that infamous day and the treacherous and horrific attack that launched this country into the war against the Axis. As I am writing these lines for posterity, some sixty-three years later, the Lady has just turned one hundred and twenty-five… Still looks great, perhaps even more so now! A magnificent symbol of Freedom forever… It had been a very tough crossing for our tiny freighter and therefore for us. The high swells even broke one of the large rectangular portholes in our stateroom. Rough seas and the nauseating smell of diesel, a deadly combination. Whenever I found some respite from the storms, I continued reading Autant en emporte le vent, the French translation of Gone with the Wind, a cherished and thoughtful farewell gift from Robert Stadler, an acquaintance to whom I had expressed my great disappointment at being excluded from seeing the film at its release in Brussels: ENFANTS NON ADMIS ~ young people under the age of sixteen were not admitted to the showings because of the great violence of the war scenes! I thoroughly enjoyed reading Margaret Mitchell’s accounts of the War of Secession, as we called it in French; there really was nothing civil about that conflict (forgive me, I couldn’t resist the word play!). The book was just a voluminous paperback; I had it bound by the Society for the Blind, whose industry that was, rather than making brooms, just before leaving Brussels, and the leather spine has held up well all these years. Yellowing paper, though. A faithful translation, by the way. Subsequently I did see and thoroughly enjoy the film at the MGM Theatre on Market Street in San Francisco in 1949 or perhaps 1950. Only six staterooms on the ship, for six couples. But there happened to be an American woman whose first name was Jean; the ship’s purser thought her to be a man of course, and therefore he put her together with another one. Horrors! So Mutti and I were forced to give up our cabin; she now unwillingly shared it with that young woman, and I had to move in with the only other single guy. A Swiss, no less! There were two stewardesses and a steward to take care of us, or rather to thoroughly spoil us. The young women, statuesque Scandinavian goddesses to this young stud, liked me and provided me with delicious canned pineapple juice (the best beverage I had ever tasted until then) whenever I wished. I still have the autographed souvenir book they so affectionately presented to me upon our arrival in New York. We dropped anchor to await the upcoming visit of the immigration officials. A prolonged night of bobbing up and down – and yet another bout of mal de mer! That malaise had plagued me mercilessly throughout the crossing, and I had been very much mistaken in thinking it was now behind me. December 8th. A glorious morning. The launch carrying the inspectors pulls alongside about 10 am. Matters proceed fairly rapidly; after all, there are only nine visitors, two immigrants (Mutti and I) and one American on board—plus the crew, of course. So, nothing too involved happening with the inspectors this morning, pretty much routine for so small a group I should imagine. Mutti and I are filled with hope and excitement. Around noon the ship is allowed to proceed to its dock location. We disembark with much more baggage than our three suitcases of worldly possessions and follow the gangplank down. We also bring our character, our sense of morality, our very strong work ethic, and our belief in the basic goodness of people, the core the Nazis could neither steal nor destroy. We have our unflinching commitment to this new country and culture that welcome us with open arms, we hope! We do not kneel to kiss this hallowed ground, but I did indeed think about it! We see Omama and people whom we do not yet know waving joyfully and screaming our names. Winding long passageways to actually reach them. And then we are met, and we are hugged, and we hold each other fast, and we are “home” at long last and forevermore.