Read an Excerpt
JUNE, 1939
DANIEL
Last year, in Berlin
on the Night of Crystal
my grandfather was killed
while I held his hand.
The shattered glass
of a thousand windows
turned into the salty liquid
of tears.
How can hatred have
such a beautiful name?
Crystal should be clear
but on that dark night
the glass of broken windows
did not glitter.
Nothing could be seen
through the haze
of pain.
DANIEL
My parents are musicians
poor people, not rich.
They had only enough money
for one ticket to flee Germany
where Jewish families like ours
are disappearing
during nights
of crushed glass.
My parents chose to save me
instead of saving themselves
so now, here I am, alone
on a German ship
stranded in Havana Harbor
halfway around
the huge world.
Thousands of other Jewish refugees
stand all around me
on the deck of the ship
waiting for refuge.
DANIEL
First, the ship sailed
to New York
and then Canada
but we were turned away
at every harbor.
If Cuba does not
allow us to land
will we be sent back
to Germany’s
shattered nights?
With blurry eyes
and an aching head
I force myself to believe
that Cuba will help us
and that someday
I will find my parents
and we will be a family
once again.
PALOMA
One more ship
waits in the harbor
one ship among so many
all filled with sad strangers
waiting for permission to land
here in Cuba.
Our island must seem
like such a peaceful resting place
on the way to safety.
I stand in a crowd
on the docks, wondering why
all these ships
have been turned away
from the United States
and Canada.
DANIEL
One of the German sailors
sees me gazing
over the ship’s railing
at the sunny island
with its crowded docks
where strangers stand
gazing back at us.
The sailor calls me
an evil name---
then he spits in my face
but I am too frightened
to wipe away
the thick, liquid hatred.
So I cling to the railing
in silence
with spit on my forehead.
I am thirteen, a young man
but today I feel
like a baby seagull
with a broken beak.
DANIEL
This tropical heat
is a weight in the sky
crushing my breath
but I will not remove
my winter coat, and my fur hat
or the itchy wool scarf
my mother knitted
or the gloves my father gave me
to keep my hands warm
so that we could all
play music together
someday, in the Golden Land
called New York.
I am secretly terrified
that if I remove
my warm clothes
someone will steal them
along with my fading
stubborn dream
of somehow reaching the city
where my parents promised
to find me
beside a glowing door
at the base of a statue
called Liberty
in a city
with seasons of snow
just like home.
