Chapter Two: The First Night in America

Date: Thursday, The Eighteenth Day of April 1912
Place: Aboard Ship – Approaching New York
Time: Late Afternoon

There was a sound in the air—different than before.
Not the creak of timber beneath our feet or the steady churn of the Carpathia's engines. No, this was softer, steadier... like the hush of something immense waiting just beyond the fog. A gull's cry echoed faintly overhead—sharp and sudden—and for the first time since the sinking, it felt like the world was widening again.

Someone murmured nearby that the harbor was close. "New York's just beyond that haze," a man whispered to his wife, pointing toward the pale shape on the horizon.

I didn't know what to expect. I'd never seen America. I wasn't sure if the shore would be lined with buildings or trees or something altogether different. But something had changed in the people around us.

They stood a little straighter, eyes fixed on the distance. Some clutched their satchels or bundled coats tighter against the breeze, as if bracing themselves for whatever would come next.

We were almost there.

I stood beside Anneliese near the railing, the cold metal damp beneath our gloved hands. Momma sat on a nearby bench, her posture stiff but dignified, shoulders pressed back as though she had something to prove—even now. Beside her was Mrs. Abbott, her face pale and drawn, but calmer than I'd seen it in days. Ruth and Eugenie nestled against us, their dolls clutched to their chests like fragile treasures. Lucie was in my arms too, her cloth head resting against my jacket, a little damp from the sea air.

The sky hung low and gray, smeared with streaks of smoke and fog. Rain had come earlier, leaving ghostly rivulets along the deck and droplets caught in our hair. But no one spoke of the weather. No one complained.

Everyone was looking forward. Waiting.

Then, from somewhere along the starboard rail, a voice rang out—
"Land!"

The word rippled through the crowd like a sudden wind.

People surged forward—fathers lifting their children, women craning their necks, old men adjusting their spectacles to glimpse the outline of the New World.

Some wept aloud. Others simply stood in stunned silence.

My heart gave a hard thump—not from joy, exactly, but from the weight of it. Of what we'd come through. Of what lay ahead.

We weren't drifting anymore.
We were arriving.

Date: Thursday, The Eighteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia – Docking at Pier 54, New York City
Time: Just After 9:30 PM

The ship slowed. A deep, groaning hush settled over the deck as the engines eased their labor. The familiar thrum beneath our feet faded, replaced by the creak of ropes and the sigh of steel meeting water.

We didn't see the pier at first—just vague shapes in the dark. Massive shadows loomed ahead, tall and jagged like sleeping giants against a city skyline we could barely make out. Then the lights appeared. Not stars, but manmade—burning yellow and orange, spilling from windows, swinging from poles, blinking in timed intervals. White arcs of brightness swept across the water as if searching for something.

And then came the sound.

Not the groan of metal or the whistle of sea wind.
No. This was different.

It was people.

A roar, rising from the docks like a living thing—too large to be real. It came in waves: voices shouting names, crying out for husbands, wives, children. Footsteps pounding against wood and stone. The high-pitched clatter of horses pulling wagons. Somewhere, a bell was ringing. Then another. A siren cut through the noise, long and mournful.

I felt my hand tighten around the railing. My breath caught.

The dock exploded with movement. There were banners waving, arms reaching, women sobbing, men shouting. And light—flashes of it, brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Not firelight. Not oil lamps or candles. Something harsher. Whiter.

I squinted against the burst. "What's that?" I asked, shielding my eyes.

"Photographers," Momma said quietly behind me. "Newspapers. They've been waiting."

I blinked hard, trying to make sense of the scene. Journalists leaned over barricades, yelling questions we couldn't hear. Reporters waved notebooks in the air. Some men had climbed up crates or benches for a better view.

There were so many people waiting—so many that the pier itself seemed to heave with them. Some stood like statues, locked in place, their eyes fixed on our ship. Others paced in anxious circles. A few reached their hands toward us, as though by sheer will, they could bring their loved ones home faster.

I saw a woman fall to her knees. She crumpled right there on the dock, hands clenched, face tilted toward the sky. Someone beside her knelt too, clutching her, speaking words I couldn't hear but could feel—prayers or pleas. Maybe both.

"Are they waiting for us?" Anneliese asked, her voice barely above the noise.

I swallowed hard. "I think they're waiting for who isn't coming," I said, the words tumbling out before I could catch them.

Momma touched my shoulder gently. Her hand was warm, steady. But I didn't look at her.
I couldn't.

We were told to gather our things. The announcement came with no ceremony—just a firm voice cutting through the cold morning air. Passengers stirred like sleepwalkers, blankets slipping from shoulders, bags clutched tighter, children roused from uneasy rest.

Some had already begun lining up along the gangway, moving as if drawn by something invisible. A group near the front wept softly, their eyes locked on the chaos below.

Crewmen and officers tried to keep order, but no one was really listening. Their voices—hoarse from nights without rest—rose above the murmur of the crowd.

"First-class passengers this way!" one man shouted, gesturing toward a smaller ramp. "Private carriages are waiting. No delays, please!"

They came forward in furs and feathered hats, velvet cloaks and well-pressed suits. Not many, but enough. Their faces were pale, their shoes still damp with seawater—but they moved with the poise of habit, backs straight, chins high, as if refusing to let grief make beggars of them.

"Second and third-class—please wait where you are! Red Cross assistance is on its way!"

Assistance.

That meant charity. That meant being lined up and looked at. That meant someone deciding whether your shoes were too worn or your coat too thin. Whether you looked hungry enough to deserve a blanket.

I felt Momma's grip tighten around my fingers. She reached for Anneliese's hand too, linking us together like stitches in a torn seam.

Ruth and Eugenie huddled close to their mother, one on each side, their little fingers clutching the edge of Mrs. Abbott's coat like it was the only solid thing in the world. Lucie was still in my arm, damp and wrinkled from all the holding.

"We stay together," Momma said, her voice calm but low. Her eyes were fierce. "No matter what."

All around us, the third-class survivors stood quietly, some still wrapped in the Carpathia's wool blankets, others barefoot or with borrowed coats far too large for their shoulders. It was hard to tell who had boarded from where, who had lost what. But one thing was clear—none of us had come through untouched.

The moment my foot touched solid ground, everything felt wrong.

The dock swayed beneath me, even though the ship was behind us now—tethered, unmoving. But my legs didn't believe it. I still felt the rhythm of the sea under my boots, that ghostly rise and fall that had become part of me. My ears rang with the hush of waves, and the back of my throat still tasted of smoke and salt.

We moved slowly through the crowd, hemmed in by bodies and voices. Men in navy coats—harbor officers or police, maybe both—shouted directions that echoed off the wet walls of the pier. Reporters darted in and out, waving notepads and shouting names I didn't recognize. Some held their hats against the wind; others didn't bother. Flashbulbs popped like tiny storms—white bursts that stung the eyes and lit up tear-streaked faces like ghosts.

We kept our heads down. Momma's hand never let go of mine.

And then I saw them.

The tents.

Big canvas ones, white as sails and lit from the inside with a soft, flickering yellow. They glowed like lanterns in the fog, each one marked with a crimson cross stitched onto the flaps. People moved in and out—men with clipboards, women in aprons, a few doctors in black coats with brass-rimmed spectacles.

"This way, ladies. You're being directed to aid stations."

Someone guided us—gently, but firmly—across the slick wooden planks. Rain still misted from the sky, turning the dock to a patchwork of puddles and footprints. The air smelled of horse sweat, damp wool, and coal smoke.

At the mouth of the nearest tent, a woman in a thick shawl and heavy gloves beckoned us forward. Her apron bore the Red Cross emblem, and her voice, though brisk, held a kind of softness beneath it.

"In here, dear. We've hot broth and dry stockings for the children. Just a moment of warmth."

I didn't want warmth. I didn't want clothes. I didn't want soup or tea or whatever kindness they had to offer.

I wanted Papa.

But we followed her in anyway.

The tent was warmer than I expected. Lamps hung from the poles, casting gentle light over the canvas walls. It smelled faintly of boiled oats and wet socks, but not in a bad way—just the smell of people trying to survive. Cots lined the center aisle, some occupied by passengers too weak to stand. Others leaned against the poles, speaking quietly in German, Swedish, Yiddish, and English, all mingling like a murmur of wind through trees.

There were tables with thick loaves of bread, chipped cups of steaming broth, and piles of clothes—folded neatly but clearly worn before. Blankets, mittens, dry boots. All borrowed, all precious.

"Please sit, just for a minute," the woman urged, motioning us toward a bench along the side.

Momma helped Anneliese down gently, smoothing the damp curls away from her forehead before lowering herself beside her. I stood for a moment longer, just watching.

A nurse handed an older man a chipped teacup, guiding his shaking hand with her own. Nearby, another woman knelt in the mud beside an elderly lady, removing her shoes with delicate care. A little boy coughed so hard it bent him forward, and I flinched at the sound.

Then a different nurse appeared in front of me. She knelt to my height, holding a folded wool blanket.

"You cold, sweetheart?" she asked.

I nodded.

She wrapped it around my shoulders with careful hands, the weight of it almost making me sink where I stood.

"We've got porridge if you're hungry. And cocoa. Fresh."

I didn't answer. My throat felt like it had closed around the words.

But Anneliese spoke beside me, her voice quiet but clear. "I'd like cocoa, please."

The nurse smiled, nodded, and rose to fetch it.

"Josephine," Momma said softly, patting the bench beside her. "Why don't you sit?"

I did. Slowly. The bench creaked beneath our weight.
And for the first time since the sinking, I let myself lean against her.

We were given a bundle of clothes tied with twine—brown paper-wrapped and smelling faintly of starch, lavender soap, and something older, like attic dust. Inside were hand-me-down dresses, stockings, and underthings that didn't match and didn't fit, but they were warm. And warm was enough.

My new dress was too long in the arms and tight across the chest. Anneliese's slipped off her shoulders no matter how much she pulled it up. None of it felt like ours. But then, nothing really did anymore.

"Best we can do for now," the nurse said gently. "All donated. Some from as far as Boston and Philadelphia. There's more coming in."

An older man came down the aisle with a clipboard, stopping every few steps to speak to the families. He wore wire spectacles and a clean wool coat with a Red Cross badge pinned to the lapel. He didn't smile, but his voice was calm, practiced.

"Full name, please. Place of origin. Any living relatives in America?"

Momma stood to answer, her posture firm despite the exhaustion in her eyes. She didn't let go of our hands.
"My name is Sarah Morgenstern," she said softly. "We are from Großmöllen. That's in Pomerania."
She motioned gently to us. "These are my daughters, Josephine and Anneliese."

The man nodded, pen scratching. "Religion?" he asked, barely lifting his eyes.

"Jewish," she answered without hesitation.

He paused, then made a checkmark and turned a page. "Destination?"

"We were going to stay with family. Somewhere near Chicago. But we don't know where exactly." She hesitated. "My husband—he knew the address." Her voice faltered on the last word.

He looked at her for a moment, then scribbled something. "We'll send your information to the Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society. They may be able to locate someone for you. In the meantime, you'll be placed under temporary care with other families."

"Thank You," Momma said quietly.

He moved on.

Next to us, Ruth held a biscuit in one hand and Eugenie's hand in the other. Neither spoke. The biscuit had crumbs down the front of her borrowed dress, but she didn't seem to notice.

Mrs. Abbott sat beside them, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her expression unreadable. Her eyes looked straight ahead but seemed to see nothing. She looked like someone who'd already run out of words to say.

All around us, the air was filled with murmured voices—English, Swedish, Yiddish, German, all tumbling over one another like streams into the same river. The tent had quieted from earlier. No more camera flashes. Just the sound of tea being poured into tin cups, the rustle of wool blankets being handed out, and tired children breathing softly as they leaned against their mothers.

Momma turned to us and crouched slightly, her voice gentle but firm in that tone that always meant don't let go.

"Bleibt bei mir, ja? Nicht weggehen. Versprecht mir."
(Stay with me, yes? Don't wander. Promise me.)

"Wir versprechen es," Anneliese and I said together.
(We promise.)

That was the first time we spoke German, since going on the Titanic up to now.

She gave us a nod—small but sure. Then she sat back down beside us, her hand never leaving mine.

Outside the tent, the city thundered on—wagons rumbling, whistles blowing, strangers calling out names into the night.

But in that moment, in the warmth of the canvas and steam and borrowed blankets, we were together.

A woman from the Red Cross came over and knelt in front of us. Her coat was damp at the hem, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her eyes were warm and steady. She didn't ask for our names, or where we'd come from, or who we'd lost.

She just said, softly and clearly, "You're safe now. We're going to take care of you."

Momma nodded politely. "Thank you," she said, her voice formal, almost distant.

The woman touched her shoulder gently—just for a second—and then rose to continue down the line.

I wanted to believe her. I really did. I wanted to believe that someone could fix all this with a kind word and a blanket and a bowl of porridge.

But all I could think about was Papa.

Not stepping off the ship.
Not sitting here with us.
Not wrapped in any of these blankets.

Not anywhere.

I looked down at Lucie in my lap—her threadbare dress damp at the hem, her button eyes still staring up like nothing had changed. I pulled her closer and wrapped my arms around her middle.

She was still with me.

She hadn't let go.

And maybe... maybe that was enough.

For now.

A man from the Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society came into the tent with a clipboard in hand and a soft, tired voice. He wore a dark coat and round spectacles, fogged slightly from the warmth inside. He spoke quietly to Momma, like he didn't want the others to hear.

"We've got a room for you and the girls—just for the night. A boarding house on the west side. It's not fancy, but it's warm, and it's clean."

Momma nodded with quiet relief. "Thank you," she said, her voice still carrying that careful dignity, like someone who refused to be pitied.

Ruth and Eugenie were still clinging tightly to Mrs. Abbott, who hadn't spoken much since the afternoon. When she finally found the words to ask if they could come too, her voice was raspy but clear.

"Please. The girls—may they stay with me?"

The man nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Same house. Different room, but just down the hall." He made a quick note, then turned to the next family.

A few moments later, we were led out of the tent and into the night again. The city air felt sharper now—wet and full of coal smoke. We followed the aid workers across the dock, our shoes tapping against the slick planks. A wooden wagon stood nearby, its wheels muddy from earlier runs, its benches lined with wool blankets. A horse huffed softly, shifting its weight as we approached.

It was already half-filled—women holding babies, children curled against each other, all of us bundled in borrowed coats and silence.

A man with a gray beard helped us climb up—first me, then Anneliese, then Momma. We sat against the wooden slats, pressed close for warmth. Mrs. Abbott followed with Ruth and Eugenie, sitting on the opposite bench. No one said much. Just the sound of blankets rustling, and the creak of the wagon.

Lucie was in my arms again. I never let go of her anymore. Not since the boat. Her seams were looser now, her left button eye scratched, but she still smelled faintly of lavender and home.

The wagon rolled forward with a lurch, and we were swallowed by the city.

New York was nothing like Großmöllen.

Everything was taller, louder, brighter—even now, deep in the night. Gas lamps lit the streets in gold and shadow. The buildings loomed like stone giants—gray and endless, one pressed against the next with hardly any sky between them. The air smelled of soot and horses and something metallic I couldn't name.

We passed storefronts with signs I couldn't read and others in Yiddish. A baker's window still glowed faintly, with one forgotten loaf sitting in a tin. I saw a boy sweeping the steps of a corner shop, and an old woman hunched under an umbrella, walking quickly past the wagon without looking up.

Some people did look at us.

They passed in coats and hats, staring—not cruelly, but cautiously. Like we were part of some terrible story they'd read in the newspaper that morning. Their eyes lingered on our faces, on the blankets, on our silence.

And I suppose we were.

The boarding house was old. The kind of place that creaked when no one was moving and whispered with every gust of wind outside. The hallway smelled like soap and dust—like someone had scrubbed the floors hard, but years of footsteps still lingered in the wood.

A woman in slippers and a threadbare shawl met us at the door. Her gray hair was pinned back loosely, and she carried a stub of a candle in a glass holder.

She didn't ask us who we were. Didn't ask why we were there.
She just said, "Extra quilts in the drawer. Water basin's there. Rest as long as you need."

Her voice was soft, like she'd said those words to too many people before us.

The room was small. One narrow bed, a cracked washstand with a porcelain basin, and a wooden chair with a splintered leg. The wallpaper had once been floral, but now it peeled in curling edges from the corners, faded to the color of old tea.

The window looked out onto a blank brick wall. No sky. No street. Just bricks, stacked high and close like someone had built them to keep the world out.

But it was quiet.

Momma helped us out of our coats—her hands moving gently, methodically, like she was trying to keep herself busy. She took the Red Cross wool blanket and wrapped it around Anneliese's shoulders, then tucked it close beneath her chin.

"Can Lucie sleep with me?" Anneliese asked, her voice already thick with sleep.

I didn't argue. I just handed her over, Lucie's soft body drooping between us. Her button eye caught the candlelight for a moment before disappearing into the folds of the blanket.

Momma sat on the edge of the bed and began brushing Anneliese's hair back with her fingers—slow, rhythmic strokes that made my sister's eyes flutter and then close completely. Her breathing slowed, evened out.

I didn't sit.

I stood at the window. Not really looking. Just... standing. Breathing. Listening to the quiet thrum of the city behind the bricks. Somewhere beyond that wall, the world kept moving. Horses clopped along wet streets. Streetcars clanged. Lives continued.

But not ours. Not yet.

I pressed my palm to the cold glass. It didn't give.

I was here.
Alive.
But everything still felt like sea water and smoke.

And Papa wasn't in the room.

I didn't cry.
Not yet.

I just stood there.
Watching nothing.
Just breathing.

Just being.

Momma came up behind me and placed her hand gently on my shoulder. Her touch was steady—warm, even through the chill in the room.

"We made it," she whispered.

I nodded, slowly. But I didn't say anything.

Because making it didn't feel like the end.

It didn't feel like safety, or peace, or something we could hold onto.

It felt like something else.

Something heavier.
Something quieter.
Something that didn't come with trumpets or flags or the sound of cheering.

It felt like the beginning of something harder.

Something still unknown.

Something just beginning.

Date: Friday, the Nineteenth Day of April 1912
Place: Boarding House, West Side of Manhattan
Time: Morning

There was a knock at the door not long after sunrise.

It wasn’t loud. Just a quiet rapping—two short, one long. Momma stood from the chair where she’d been darning Anneliese’s borrowed stockings and went to answer it.

A man stood in the hallway with a satchel and a clipboard. His coat was worn at the cuffs, and his collar had a smudge of ink on it, but he smiled kindly and removed his cap when he saw us.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Mr. Feldman,” he said, in accented English. “From the Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society. I believe your name is Mrs. Morgenstern?”

“Yes,” Momma said. Her voice was polite, careful. “Please come in.”

He stepped inside and glanced briefly around the room before motioning to the chair. Momma offered it, and then stood, folded hands resting at her waist.

“I know this is not an easy time,” Mr. Feldman said gently, opening a leather folder. “But we’re doing everything we can to help families reconnect. You mentioned on your intake form that you were supposed to stay with relatives?”

“Yes,” Momma replied, nodding. “My husband had a cousin near Chicago. I believe his name was Isaac Morgenstern. But my husband… he—” She hesitated, and I saw her throat tighten. “He is not with us now. And I don’t know where Isaac lives.”

Mr. Feldman nodded, writing the name carefully in neat Hebrew script beside its Roman spelling.

“Do you know what kind of work he did? Was he a tailor, perhaps? Or maybe in the garment trade?”

“Something with shoes,” Momma said slowly. “He repaired boots, I think. He wrote once to my husband from a shop on Milwaukee Avenue.”

“That helps,” Mr. Feldman said, brightening slightly. “That’s a busy Jewish district in Chicago. Many families from Galicia and Pomerania are there. I’ll send a telegram to one of our contacts—Rabbi Weisman at the Maxwell Street Settlement House. He keeps track of families like yours.”

He paused, lowering his voice slightly.

“If your husband had Isaac’s full address written down, there’s a chance it’s listed with the steamship company as part of your original ticket. We can try to retrieve that.”

“Thank You,” Momma said quietly, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I—I don’t know how to repay this.”

“There is no repayment, Mrs. Morgenstern,” he said. “This is what we are here to do.”

He stood to leave, gave me a kind glance, and then tipped his cap once more before stepping back into the hallway.

Momma stood there for a long time after the door closed.

I didn’t say anything. I just picked up Lucie from the bed and held her against my chest.

Outside, the city kept moving.

But in that small, still room, something else had started:
hope.

Later in the Morning Boarding House, – West Side of Manhattan

I was sitting near the window, trying to write Papa’s name in the fog on the glass, when the door creaked open again. But this time, it wasn’t an adult. It was a girl.

About my age—maybe a year older, maybe not. She had tight brown curls under a knit cap and cheeks that were red from the wind. Her shoes were scuffed, and she held a tin lunch pail in one hand and a folded paper in the other.

She looked at me, then at Anneliese still curled on the bed, and finally at Momma, who was finishing the last of the mending.

“Excuse me,” the girl said. Her accent sounded like she’d lived here a while—but her vowels still bent a little in the old way. “I live downstairs with my mother and brothers. We brought some rolls up for the new families. My name’s Minnie. Minnie Baum.”

Momma smiled gently and stood. “That’s very kind, Minnie. Thank you.”

Minnie stepped closer and handed over the bundle—wrapped in a clean dishcloth, still warm. She glanced at me.

“Are you from the ship?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away. Just nodded.

She sat down on the floor across from me, crossing her legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I heard someone say the captain went down with it. That true?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I never been on a ship. But I saw a drowned rat once after the river flooded near the Gansevoort Market. You’re braver than me.”

That made me smile—just a little.

“I’m not brave,” I said.

“Sure you are. You’re here, ain’t you?”

Anneliese stirred on the bed and opened her eyes, blinking at the light. She looked at the girl on our floor and whispered, “Who’s that?”

“This is Minnie,” I said. “She brought rolls.”

Minnie grinned. “And if you’re good, I’ll show you the dumbwaiter downstairs. My little brother got stuck in it once. Mama still makes fun of him.”

Anneliese giggled sleepily.

For a few minutes, the heaviness in the room lifted. Not all the way. But just enough.

Just enough to feel like the world might have more than just sorrow in it.

A few minutes after four in the afternoon – Boarding House Courtyard

There was a narrow courtyard behind the building, mostly dirt and broken cobblestones, but it was enough. Enough for running. Enough for laughter.

Minnie had gone downstairs for something and came back pulling two younger boys behind her—her brothers, she said, though they didn’t look much like her. One had jam on his face. The other had a shoelace tied around his head like a crown.

“We don’t got a ball,” Minnie said, “but we can play plumpsack. Or something close to it.”

“You know Plumpsack?” I asked, surprised.

“Not really. A girl from Hamburg used to live here and taught us. But we forgot half of it.”

I looked at Anneliese. Her eyes lit up. We hadn’t played Plumpsack since Großmöllen. Since the churchyard in spring.

“I remember the song,” she said.

So we showed them. We held hands and made a circle. Minnie’s brothers didn’t know the words, but they didn’t care.

Anneliese began to sing softly:

Dreht euch nicht um, der Plumpsack geht um…
Wer sich umdreht oder lacht…
We moved in a slow circle. My feet skidded a little on the stones, but it felt good. Familiar. Like something we hadn’t lost.

One person walked behind us, holding a folded rag to drop behind someone’s back—the “Plumpsack.” Minnie played first. She dropped it behind me and ran. I chased her laughing, barely missing her as she dove into my spot.

“You’re fast for a girl in boots,” she teased, out of breath.

We kept playing, over and over, the words drifting between German and English, the circle growing faster each time.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard. And for a little while, it didn’t matter where we were.

We were girls. Just girls. Playing.

Evening – Boarding House Kitchen

The smell of something cooking drifted up the stairs long before anyone called us down. It wasn’t fancy—just onions and something warm and stewed—but it pulled at my stomach like a rope. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then.

Minnie came tapping at our door.

“Soup’s on,” she said with a grin. “Mrs. Brenner says to bring your own spoon if you’ve got one.”

We didn’t.

But when we reached the kitchen, she handed us extras from a chipped tin pail near the stove.

The kitchen was narrow, with low ceilings and oil lamps hanging from the rafters. The table was long and worn, its surface covered with mismatched bowls and cups, some already filled, others waiting. A few of the older women were already seated, heads bent in silent prayer. A toddler in a knitted cap banged his spoon against the bench.

Mrs. Brenner, the landlady, stood behind the stove ladling soup into bowls from a massive iron pot. She had strong arms, a handkerchief tied around her hair, and an apron smudged with flour.

“It’s barley tonight,” she said, nodding us toward the end of the table. “And rye bread if you’re lucky.”

Momma thanked her and settled us at the bench. Minnie squeezed in beside Anneliese, already halfway through her first piece of bread. Ruth and Eugenie sat with Mrs. Abbott at the opposite corner, whispering quietly to each other.

The soup was thin, but hot. Bits of carrot, potato, and barley floated in cloudy broth, and the bread—though hard around the edges—was still soft enough to chew.

It wasn’t home.

But it was food.
And it was enough.

Momma didn’t speak much during dinner. She sat beside me, slowly working through her bowl, her eyes distant but calm. I watched her hands. They didn’t shake.

“Do you think Papa had dinner the night before?” I whispered suddenly.

Anneliese looked up from her spoon. Momma didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “I hope so. I hope it was something warm.”

We all sat quiet for a moment after that. Even Minnie.

Then someone down the table laughed—an old man telling a story in Yiddish that made another woman slap the table. For a moment, the kitchen filled with warmth. Not just from the soup or the fire, but from voices, from company, from something that felt a little like life again.

Afterward, we helped stack bowls in a washbasin and wipe down the table. Minnie showed Anneliese how to fold a napkin into a rabbit. Momma thanked Mrs. Brenner again and tucked the leftover crusts into a cloth for tomorrow.

We didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight—we had soup.
We had bread.
We had each other.

After the dishes were washed and the benches cleared, a soft hush settled over the house. A woman down the hall lit two candles on a tin plate, her head bowed as she whispered the blessing in Hebrew. The flames flickered gently, dancing in the draft.

Momma paused at the door as we passed, nodding quietly to the woman. She didn’t light candles of her own—we didn’t have any. But when we returned to our room, she pulled out the scarf from her coat pocket and draped it across the small table like a cloth.

Then she whispered the blessings by heart—no match, no flame. Just the words.

Baruch atah Adonai…
Her voice didn’t waver.

Anneliese stood beside her. I watched from the chair, still hugging my knees.

No challah. No wine.
But the words were enough.

And somehow, even in this strange house, with borrowed clothes and unfamiliar voices through the walls, it felt like a piece of home had followed us here.

I looked outside the sky had gone dark. Lamps flickered in the hallway, their golden glow stretching in thin lines beneath the door. The building creaked gently as it settled in for the night.

We didn’t undress fully—just loosened our laces and pulled on extra layers from the drawer. The air had grown colder again. The walls here never held heat for long.

Anneliese sat on the bed. Momma gently unpinned her hair and brushed it back with her fingers.

“She was brave tonight,” I said softly.

“She was,” Momma answered. “So were you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t feel brave. I felt like a puddle—spilled out and spread too thin.

Momma helped Anneliese lie down and drew the Red Cross blanket up to her chin. Then she kissed her forehead and said, softly, in German:
“Schlaf gut, mein Herz.”
(Sleep well, my heart.)

I watched from the chair, arms wrapped around my knees. My eyes burned, but not from tiredness.

Momma turned to me. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Not yet,” I said.

She didn’t push.

Instead, she stepped into the hallway for a moment. I heard soft footsteps, the creak of a floorboard, then hushed voices just outside the door.

It was Momma. And Mrs. Abbott.

I leaned slightly, the way children do when they’re pretending not to listen.

“She keeps asking about him,” Mrs. Abbott murmured. “Your oldest—Josephine. You must be strong for them both.”

“I try,” Momma whispered back. “But I feel like if I stop moving—if I let myself cry—it won’t stop.”

A pause. Then Momma added, “I keep thinking about his hands. How cold they must’ve been. I should’ve held them tighter.”

Mrs. Abbott didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was broken but steady.

“My girls don’t speak of their father anymore. But I think about him each night. I imagine him holding the railing. Looking for us.”

They fell quiet then.

I turned my face to the wall and closed my eyes tight.

Not because I was tired.
But because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

I didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. Or maybe I did, but I don’t remember.

At some point, Momma came back into the room. She didn’t say anything. She just placed a folded shawl over my shoulders and kissed the top of my head before sitting on the edge of the bed beside Anneliese.

I stayed in the chair a little longer, hugging my knees, staring at the crack in the wallpaper.

I used to think that once we made it to America, everything would be better. That surviving meant we’d be safe. That stepping off the ship meant the worst was over.

But now I knew the truth.

Surviving isn’t the end of the story.

It’s just the part where you start carrying it with you.