My name is Josephine. I live in Großmöllen, in the German Empire, near the coast of Pomerania. I am seven years old, and I am Jewish—Ashkenazi, like all the families on our street. We keep a kosher home, and Mama lights the Shabbos candles every Friday evening. But I suppose that's not the part most people notice first.

They see me and ask, "Is that the boy from the Goldstein family?"

But I'm not a boy. Not to me. Not ever.

I was born Joseph. But even when I was three years old—just learning to speak full sentences—I knew something was wrong with that name. With that life. I told Mama I was a girl. I wanted a girl's name. I wanted to wear dresses and ribbons and help knead challah with the other girls in the kitchen.

Papa didn't like it. He said I was born a boy and must behave like one. He didn't yell, but his eyes would get tight like the string of his fiddle when it needed tuning. I cried and stomped and screamed until I couldn't breathe. I remember that night so well—Mama kneeling by my bed, brushing my hair back, whispering that maybe this was just a phase. "It'll pass," she told Papa later. "Let her have her way for now."

But it's been four years. And it hasn't passed. It won't.

My twin sister, Anneliese, couldn't be happier. She says Hashem gave her a sister after all—just in His own time. We share everything: hair ribbons, secrets, and our favorite game—knucklebones, which we play on the cobblestone stoop outside. Sometimes we chalk squares for hopscotch. Other times, I stay inside with Lucie, my doll. Mama gave her to me for my sixth birthday. She has a soft linen face, blue glass eyes, and long red yarn hair. Her dress is sky blue with tiny hand-stitched flowers. I tuck her beside me every night before I sleep, whispering secrets only she can hear.

The boys in the neighborhood found out I was born Joseph. Since then, they've called me awful things. "Freak of nature," "sissy," "mishugene." They laugh when I pass by, kicking up dust with their boots and pointing. The girls, except for Anneliese, won't speak to me. They act like I don't exist.

So most days, it's just me and my sister. I don't have any other friends.

But I still have Lucie. And Shabbos. And Mama's soft hands brushing mine when no one else is looking.

Date: Friday, the 5th of April, 1912
Place: Großmöllen, German Empire
Time: Half Past Ten in the Morning

Anneliese and I were playing knucklebones in the yard, near the edge of the garden. The sun had warmed the stones just enough to make sitting outside pleasant, and we were halfway through our third round when we heard the sound of wheels skimming the road.

A boy on a bicycle—older than us, maybe fifteen or sixteen—sped up to our gate, tossed a small envelope toward Papa, and was gone again before the dust had time to settle. A telegram.

Whenever a telegram arrives, it's usually from Opa and Oma in Berlin. They send little messages on holidays or birthdays, always signing with blessings for health and long life. So of course Anneliese and I scrambled to the door, eager to hear what they had written this time.

But it wasn't from them.

Papa unfolded the paper. His brow furrowed as he read, and his hands began to tremble.

Mama stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. As her eyes scanned the words, she raised a hand to her mouth—and then the tears came.

Anneliese and I stood in silence, hearts pounding.

"It's from the city," Papa said quietly, though not really to us. "We're being told to leave."

"To leave?" Anneliese whispered.

"Five days," he said. "We are to vacate the home and leave Großmöllen."

For a moment, the whole house went still. Mama turned away, clutching her apron, crying harder now. Papa sat down heavily in his chair, the telegram still in his lap, staring ahead like someone had struck him.

Anneliese looked at me, her eyes wide with fear—and then she ran. Up the stairs, down the hallway, into our room.

I followed close behind, tears already welling up in my eyes.

We threw ourselves onto our beds and sobbed, holding onto each other like driftwood in a storm. When my crying slowed, I sat up and turned to the window.

From here, you could still see the water—gray and calm today, with just a few gulls gliding low near the shore. I stared at it, that familiar stretch of ocean I'd known my whole life, and wondered how I could ever leave it behind.

This was Mama's hometown. It's where Anneliese and I were born.
We weren't just being asked to leave a house.
We were being pushed away from home.

Date: Monday, the 8th of April, 1912
Place: Großmöllen, German Empire
Time: Quarter to Three in the Afternoon

It has been three days since the telegram arrived. Since then, we've packed up nearly everything—though not all of it can come with us. There's only so much you can carry when you're crossing the ocean.

Uncle Bernhard and Aunt Grethe are coming by to take the rest. Mama says they'll keep our things safe until we send word from America, once we've found a place to settle.

Yes—America.
The land of freedom. The land of opportunity. That's what Mama says, though the words feel too big for me to understand. All I can picture is that statue—a lady with a crown and a torch, waiting by the water to greet us. I wonder if she really smiles. Or if she's just made of stone.

Papa says we are leaving the German Empire for good. He doesn't talk much about why, but I can feel the worry beneath his voice when he speaks in hushed tones to Mama after we go to bed. Something about new laws. Something about how things are changing, and not in ways that are good for families like ours.

I had just finished tying the strings on my bag when I heard Papa hurrying up the stairs, his boots loud on the wooden steps. He's always in a rush on days like this—travel days. Leaving days.

"Beeile dich.Wir wollen nicht zu spät kommen!"he called.

Hurry up. We don't want to be late.
He doesn't speak much English—not yet—which Mama says might make things harder for a while. But she's hopeful. She always is.

Just as we finished bringing our bags downstairs, we heard the low rumble of an engine sputtering up the road. Uncle Bernhard pulled into the yard in his high-wheeled motor buggy, tipping his hat as he waved.

Anneliese and I ran to him at once.

"Uncle Bernhard!" we cried in unison.

"Hallo, meine Mädchen!" he said, arms open wide as he bent to hug us both. "All packed?"

"Pretty much," I said, my eyes dropping to the dirt road beneath my shoes. Saying goodbye was harder than I thought it would be.

We loaded into the buggy, and just before I shut the door, I turned to look back at the house—our house—for the last time. The white curtains fluttered in the upstairs windows, and I imagined Lucie waving to me from the bedroom, even though she was already tucked in my travel bag.
I didn't want to leave. I really didn't.
But we had to.

"Let's get this show on the road," Uncle Bernhard said with a grin, shifting gears and pulling away from the gate.

And just like that, we were gone.

We're bound for Cherbourg, in France, where we'll board a ship called the Titanic. Everyone says it's the largest ship in the world—even bigger than the Olympic, which sailed just last year. And best of all, it's unsinkable. Or so they say.

I wonder what it will feel like to stand on something that big and still float.

Date: Monday, the 8th of April, 1912
Place: Belgard, German Empire
Time: Half Past Six in the Evening

"Alleeinsteigen!" theconductor called, his voice sharp over the bustle of footsteps andclattering trunks. "Allaboard!"

We joined the small crowd making their way onto the train platform, the evening air crisp and damp. As we climbed aboard, the scent of coal and oil filled our noses. Papa helped Mama with her bag, while Anneliese and I clutched each other's hands tightly, trying not to get lost in the shuffle.

Our tickets were for third class, all the way at the rear of the train—but that didn't matter. To us, it felt like we were riding in gold-trimmed carriages. We had three seats toward the back, and since Anneliese and I were small enough, we sat together, pressed shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't the softest seat in the world, but we didn't care. We were going to America.

Papa had explained that train travel was the most affordable way to get anywhere. "We're lucky," he told us earlier. "The coal strike just ended, or there might not have been enough fuel to run the lines at all."

He looked tired when he said that. But proud, too—proud that he'd managed to get us this far.

And he had done something else too: he'd spent a little extra for our passage on the Titanic, so we wouldn't have to share a room with strangers. Just one small room, but it would be ours. Anneliese and I would share a bed, which we were already used to anyway. Better that than sleeping beside someone we didn't know—especially on a ship full of people from all over the world.

Once we found our seats, the conductor came down the aisle, long coat brushing the edges of the narrow path between benches. He took our four tickets with a polite nod, punched neat holes into each, then returned them to Papa with a quiet, "Danke schön."

The train gave a lurch, and we were off.

Anneliese and I jumped up at once, racing to the windows and watching as the world outside began to blur. Trees and cottages zipped by in streaks of green and brown. Horses in the fields turned their heads as we passed. We waved even though we knew they wouldn't see.

"I wish I could see the ocean," I sighed, resting my chin on the edge of the window.

"Why?" Anneliese asked. "We'll see the ocean when we get on the Titanic."

That made me smile. She was right. But still... I wanted to see it now. Just a glimpse.

After a while, the passing scenery began to look the same—more trees, more houses, more fences. I sat back in my seat, and Anneliese followed, plopping down beside me with a happy little bounce.

"This is fun," she said, her voice light as air.

"I agree," I said, nodding. "But I wish there was more to do than just sit or stare out the window. Did you bring any games?"

Anneliese reached into her little cloth satchel and pulled out a small velvet pouch. "I brought jacks," she whispered.

I laughed softly. "We can't play that on a moving train. The ball will roll away, and we'll never find it again."

I looked up toward the baggage rack above us. "I put my chalkboard up there. We could play tic-tac-toe, if we can get it down."

I glanced at Mama, who was seated a few rows ahead, speaking gently to a man in the next seat. He looked kind and had a travel-worn coat. From what I overheard, he was going to Cherbourg as well. And like us, he would be boarding the Titanic.

I began to wonder—how many of these passengers were headed there too? How many people on this train would be with us at sea?

Papa was sitting across from us, leaning over a little wooden board playing chess with a man who wore spectacles and smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. Judging by Papa's pleased smile and the other man's frown, I think Papa was winning. I didn't dare interrupt him. I didn't even know how to play chess.

I giggled as I bounced in my seat. Anneliese was bouncing too, and it made her hair puff up and down like a wool hat being fluffed. I burst into a fit of quiet laughter.

"Stop that," I whispered. "You're making me dizzy."

She grinned and nudged me gently with her elbow. "Only a little dizzy?"

"Very dizzy."

I curled up beside her, hoping the train's rocking motion would help me fall asleep later, not make me sick. The rhythm of the wheels on the tracks—clack-clack, clack-clack—was starting to feel like a lullaby.

We were on our way. Not just to Cherbourg. Not just to a ship.

But to something completely new.

Date: Tuesday, the 9th of April, 1912
Place: Berlin, German Empire
Time: Quarter to Five in the Morning

Somehow, I must've fallen asleep.

The rhythm of the train must have rocked me into it, even if I can't remember when I drifted off. When we arrived in Berlin, it was still dark outside, and everything felt too quiet, too gray. The kind of gray that comes before the sun rises but after the warmth of dreams is already gone.

Papa shook us gently. "Aufwachen," he whispered. "Wake up. We need to change trains."

I rubbed my eyes and whined, "I'm tired." But there was no time for rest. Our connection to Cherbourg wouldn't wait for sleepy children.

We stepped off the train into the cold April air. My hands were stiff. My shoes felt heavier than before. As we crossed to the next platform, a uniformed man stepped in front of Papa and held out a hand.

Papa stopped and began digging in his coat pocket. I watched as he handed over a set of papers—documents and little booklets, the kind that had our photographs glued inside and stamps all over them. Next, they asked to look through our bags.

I clutched mine tightly at first, confused. "Why are they looking in my bag?" I asked.

"They're looking in everyone's," Mama replied softly. "They want to be sure no one is bringing anything forbidden across the border."

"What would we bring that's forbidden?" I asked again.

She didn't answer that time. Her lips pressed into a line, and her eyes stayed on Papa.

Once the inspection was over, we were allowed to board the next train. As before, our seats were in the last car—the third-class compartment near the rear. The benches were stiff and the windows smudged, but at least it was warm inside.

I climbed into the seat, peering longingly toward the front of the train.

"I wish we were up there," I murmured, gazing at the second-class carriages ahead. "They look so new... and clean."

Papa heard me but didn't say anything. I think he wished it too.

The train began to move again. This time, the conductor didn't come to check our tickets. I wondered if that meant something was different—or if maybe they already knew who we were.

The city was still waking up. As the train pulled away from the Berlin station, the early light began to spill through the windows, casting a golden glow across the rooftops. For a moment, the whole city looked like it was made of gold—like it had never known night.

There were people everywhere. Men pushing carts. Women sweeping stoops. Boys chasing each other down alleyways with paper caps on their heads. The buildings were tall, proud, stacked beside one another like dominoes in a row.

But soon, the tall buildings gave way to low houses, then to farmland. And then—

"Sheep! And goats!" I cried, pressing my face to the glass. "Look, Anneliese!"

"Nothing to write home about," a woman across from us muttered, hardly glancing up from her knitting. Her needles clicked steadily as she worked a pale gray yarn.

Her needles clicked steadily as she worked a pale gray yarn

Date: Tuesday, the 9th of April, 1912
Place: Cherbourg, France
Time: Five Minutes to Eight in the Evening

"Did we make it to Cherbourg?" I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes as the train hissed to a stop.

"Yes, mein Kind, we did," Mama replied softly. "This is your first time outside the German Empire."

I blinked in surprise, then gasped. "Really? We're not in Germany anymore?"

"No, we're in France now," she said, brushing a bit of lint from my coat. "A whole new country."

I couldn't help it—I squealed with excitement. The idea of being in a brand-new land made me feel like a character in a storybook. I looked around as we stepped off the train, expecting something magical.

Instead, I felt a raindrop land on my cheek.

"It's raining!" I groaned, pulling my shawl tighter. The sky above was a sheet of dark gray, and the station's roof did little to keep the water out. Puddles were already forming along the cobblestones outside. I could tell from the look on Anneliese's face that she didn't like the rain any more than I did.

"Since we arrived a day earlier than expected," Mama said, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck, "your Papa and I will look for a place for us to stay tonight."

So we walked—Mama, Papa, Anneliese, and I—through the damp streets of Cherbourg. The gas lamps flickered, casting long shadows over slick stones. The buildings looked old and proud, with narrow windows and signs written in French, which I couldn't read.

We tried every inn we passed, but every place was full. The rooms were taken, and the clerks looked tired and impatient.

"No vacancies," one said without even looking up. Another simply shook his head.

After the fifth or sixth rejection, Mama sighed. Her voice was steady, but I knew she was disappointed.

"We'll have to go back to the station," she said quietly. "It's the only shelter left."

By the time we returned, we were all soaked through. My dress clung to my legs, and my shoes squished when I walked. The station smelled of wet stone, coal smoke, and too many people.

I found an empty bench near the wall and sat down, shivering. Anneliese sat beside me, and we huddled together under our coats, trying to stay warm.

"It's not much," Mama said, brushing water from my hair, "but it will have to do."

That's when I saw it—a flash of movement near the edge of the station wall. A rat darted across the floor, its tail trailing behind like a string. I nearly screamed, but swallowed the sound. No one else had seen it.

"I'm cold," Anneliese whimpered, curling against me.

"Me too," I whispered back. "And hungry."

Papa must have heard us, because he disappeared for a little while and returned with a small bundle of food wrapped in brown paper. He had bought it from a vendor near the station doors—a bit of dark bread, some boiled potatoes, and two small apples.

It wasn't much. But it was warm. And right then, it was enough.

As we ate, people passed us by without a glance, like we were invisible. Wet, tired, and sitting on a wooden bench with food in our laps—we must've looked like ghosts.

But after a while, some people began to notice us. A woman whispered to her husband. A man nearby gave us a long look before turning away. The whispers grew. I couldn't understand what they were saying—French, I think—but it was clear they were talking about us.

The noise in the station grew louder. It seemed the whole world was passing through at once—voices in every direction, carts creaking, footsteps echoing through the stone arches. I saw Mama and Papa listening, trying to catch bits of the conversation.

But I didn't care anymore. My head was heavy. My eyes burned. And despite the noise, despite the cold, despite the rat and the hunger and the strangers watching us...

Anneliese and I lay down on the bench—our coats wrapped around us, heads nestled together—and we fell asleep almost instantly.

Date: Wednesday, the 10th of April, 1912
Place: Cherbourg, France
Time: Six o'clock in the Evening

We spent the day near the harbor, not far from the train station. The rain hadn't quite stopped, but it had lightened into a soft drizzle—just enough to dampen our coats and turn the streets to mud.

The hours dragged by. Every time a ship's horn echoed in the distance, I perked up, hoping it was the Titanic, but Papa would shake his head and tell me, "Not yet."

Now, finally, it was almost time.

The ship was due any moment—thirty minutes, Papa said, checking the pocket watch he always kept chained to his belt. But before we could board the ferry that would take us out to her, we had to go through an inspection.

There was a queue of families ahead of us, all looking tired and travel-worn, some with crying babies, others clinging to sacks of belongings tied shut with string.

We were checked first for illness—Papa said they didn't want anyone with fevers, or coughing fits, or anything that might spread aboard ship. Then a man in a white coat began looking through our hair and behind our ears. He held a small light, peering close. I froze.

What if they checked everything?

I turned quickly to Mama, tears already starting to prick my eyes.

"I don't want them to see... my boy parts," I whispered in a panic.

Mama knelt down beside me, brushing a lock of hair from my cheek. "Shh, Josephine. Don't worry," she said, gently rubbing my back. "They won't ask to see that. Just stay still. It'll be over soon."

I nodded, swallowing hard, and let the man finish. He barely looked at me.

Then they began searching our bags again—something I had become used to by now. I watched as they poked through the clothing, lifted Lucie from the bottom of my satchel, gave her a curious glance, and put her back.

When it was done, they handed Papa a stamped paper and told us we were cleared to board the tender—a ferryboat that would carry us to the great ship waiting just beyond the breakwater.

We stepped aboard with dozens of others, huddling together on the deck under the drizzle. The air was full of voices, French and German, some English too. Babies cried. A woman beside us clutched her rosary tight, whispering prayers under her breath. It was loud. Crowded. Smelled like coal smoke and wet wool.

"It's crowded," I said to Anneliese, squeezing her hand. "There must be a hundred people on here."

Before she could answer, a thunderous blast shook the air.

I jumped so hard I nearly dropped Lucie.

Then I heard Anneliese gasp, "Look, Josephine!"

She pointed out toward the sea.

And there—rising out of the mist and the fading light—was a ship so vast, so grand, so impossible, it made my breath catch.

I turned slowly, my heart pounding.

The funnels reached into the clouds. The hull was a mountain of black iron. The lights gleamed like stars strung along her decks. The ferry rocked slightly as the great vessel came into view, accompanied by smaller tugs and whistles.

I screamed the name before I could stop myself.

"TITANIC!"