A Letter from the Atlantic Dear Hannah, I’ve never seen so much water before—everywhere I look, all I can see around me is placid blue. I’m grateful for the calm water today because it enables me to ascend to the top level of the SS Frisia and look at the Atlantic Ocean that stretches before us until it meets the horizon. I feel the warm air on my face and smell the salty sea air, but there’s a pit in my stomach when I think about how different life in New York will be. When we first set sail on August 21st, I watched until Hamburg became a miniscule speck in the distance. When I squinted and couldn’t see the familiar buildings with their smoke spewing into the air anymore, Papa told me to look the other way. “You can’t look back,” he said as he walked me to the other side of the ship, his strong arm supporting my shoulders. “Home is there now.” He pointed to a place that was shimmering waves of blue, and I had a hard time visualizing a home that was 6,000 kilometers of water. He told me to close my eyes and picture the skyline that would soon materialize on the horizon. I couldn’t even fathom 6,000 kilometers of water, just like I couldn’t fathom that our new home wouldn’t be Hamburg anymore. Most of the days at sea have been turbulent; tall waves reach up from the bottom of the sea and smack into the ship, sending us to the ground whenever we are standing. We are jettisoned from one side of the ship to the other like billiard balls; we emigrants glance off one another before moving in separate directions. It was entertaining at first, but now the ship’s rocking motion makes me feel sick, so I descend back to the bottom level where my family’s room is. Through the tiny oval porthole, I watch as the rough water laps the glass. We play games and read and sleep to pass the time—sometimes there’s violin music that drifts into our room at night. My brother and I step out into the hallway in our socks and dance to the fast beat together, and it makes the boat’s rocking seem bearable. Most nights, we practice som