Remembering the Refugees of the SS St. Louis
By Jonathan Taubes, Social Justice Associate at the Workers Circle
I grew up in a community where the politics of refugee and immigrant rights weren’t often discussed — but were always present. My parents raised me in a modern orthodox community in Northern New Jersey, just outside of New York City. They instilled me with a love of Jewish culture and, from a young (maybe too young) age, a keen awareness of the Holocaust. I knew that three of my grandparents were Holocaust survivors; I was taught to appreciate that my family’s presence in America was something of a miracle. But it was only as a teenager, in my 8th grade class at Yavneh Academy, that I started connecting my family’s experiences to broader American history.
One unique feature of Yavneh’s curriculum is a “Holocaust play” that every graduating class of 8th-grade is obliged to write and perform. Each class chooses a different topic, and our class of 2008, picked “The Ship That Shamed the World — the Voyage of the S.S. St. Louis,” a voyage which approaches its 81st anniversary this week.
81 years ago, the U.S. government turned the St. Louis away and the more than 900 German Jewish refugees it carried. Our play memorialized these refugees and their struggle to find safe haven, even as multiple governments (including Cuba and Canada) refused to let them in. I was given the honor of a lead role in the play, and a special one, at that — I performed as Fred Buff, a real-life passenger of the St. Louis who’d been around 15 while on the boat and was then an 87 year old survivor. Luckily for us, he also happened to be a resident of Bergen County, where we went to school.
Fred, known in Germany as “Fritz,” watched carefully as I depicted him on stage. I recounted his story of being hidden by German doctors who treated his broken arm, who had kept him from being sent to a concentration camp. Later on the boat, hoping to gain safe passage to the U.S., Fred started to plan a mutiny upon hearing the ship would turn back to Germany (the captain of the ship refused to change course until the very end, and so the mutiny never happened). At the end of the play, I brought the real-life Fred up on stage. He, of course, had survived, but over 200 of his shipmates would go on to die in Hitler’s death camps.
I’d been taught that America was the land of opportunity for Jews; everything about the relatively affluent community I was raised in seemed to confirm this. Yet, I knew now there was a time, not long ago, when America rejected Jews just for being Jews, for being “the wrong kind” of immigrant. The story of the St. Louis showed me that in times of rising nationalism and xenophobic bigotry, anti-Jewish discrimination usually isn’t far behind. In the years after the play, I spoke with Bobbi and Grandpa, my mom’s parents, about their pre-war lives in Poland; I learned about Grandpa’s parents and siblings, all of whom died in the Holocaust. I talked to Saba, my dad’s father, about his experience as a hidden child in the Netherlands; how he survived by the grace of strangers and how he was prevented from coming to America until after the war. Finally, I began to read about politics and started making friends with people (Jews and non-Jews alike) from liberal backgrounds. In looking beyond my community’s right-wing, I became convinced that the Jewish history of persecution meant that we have obligations to other persecuted people, not only to Jews. Moreover, the story of the St. Louis and my own family history proved that these struggles were often inseparable, if not one and the same.
In recent years, the parallels between the St. Louis and current political realities have become impossible to miss: hundreds of refugees fleeing deadly political violence are turned away and denied entry by a bigoted U.S. government. The refugees have no choice but to return to their countries of origin, where they face violence and maybe death.
The St. Louis story has, in recent years, become something of a symbol for progressive Jewish activists in the immigrant rights movement. In recalling this history, and remembering the 900+ Jewish refugees turned away not so long ago by a racist and xenophobic U.S. government, Jewish activists show that we have a special stake in the ongoing fight for immigrant rights and against deportations. American Jews have *relevance here.* We remind the country, and ourselves, that “we were refugees too.” When we oppose concentration camps on the Southern border *as Jews*, our voices have special relevance to those in power. When we say “Never Again Is Now,” people pay attention.
But it doesn’t end with “we were refugees too.” In fact, it is my belief that our fate is still bound up with the refugees of today. At a time of increased attacks against Jews and immigrants alike, solidarity is the only way forward for all of our communities. The same racist, xenophobic forces which hope to bar Muslims and people of color from this country are, today, increasingly vocal in their anti-Semitism, as well. In fact, the Tree of Life shooter cited Jewish support for refugees as motivation for his crime, which became the deadliest attack against Jewish people on American soil.
These last few years have shown clearly that Jewish safety and security are bound up in the fight for other historically oppressed and marginalized groups. As we reflect on the 81st anniversary of the St. Louis, let’s remember that our struggle for security in a thriving, tolerant multi-racial democracy is ongoing and it grows more crucial by the day. Let’s acknowledge that the fight against anti-Semitism is inextricably bound to the fight against all racism and bigotry. Let’s remember that the true meaning of “Never Again” means “Never Again for anyone” — and that the ongoing fight against structural racism and anti-immigrant policy is essential, both to the historical legacy of our ancestors and to the safety and security of Jewish people in the United States today.
Jonathan Taubes is the Social Justice Associate at the Workers Circle, a Jewish social justice organization in New York City.
