“Enough,” says Father.

“Now is the time!”

And so he has bought

tickets for passage on a ship

that will take us away,

away to America.

It has a lovely name—

the Aquitania—

and it is so lovely,

so special,

that it is known as

“The Ship Beautiful.”

Father has purchased

tourist-class tickets,

which means, he tells me,

beautiful rooms

(called cabins on ships),

one for him and Mother,

another for Ruth and me.

“We will travel in style,” he says.

“If we can’t take our money with us,

we will spend it on the journey.”

Father makes it sound

like a big adventure.

Mother is beginning to pack

bed linens and dishes,

shipping boxes now

so we will have something

old in a new land.

Yet at night I hear

my parents whispering,

because there is still

this one little problem:

We have tickets on a ship beautiful,

but we have no American visas—

and without them,

that ship will sail

without us.