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was young and her skin very white against the dark frame of her hair.
    She was wrapped in a large, bulky shawl, but from their collision he knew how light—almost fragile—she was.
    “Is the sea always this rough?” she asked seriously, looking up at him with bright, luminous eyes.
    Did he detect apprehension in her voice? “Sometimes it is much worse than this. Nothing to worry about.”
    She peered over the rail into the black, churning water. “I cannot swim.”
    “So swimming is not part of your tour package.” He smiled.
    She gazed at him for a moment without acknowledging his attempt at humor, then turned to watch the shoreline. “That is it, isn’t it?
    Palestine?”
    “Yes,” he answered. “Palestine-England. Under the control of His Majesty’s forces.”
    “So close,” she said sadly. “Will they come for us?”
    “Possibly,” Moshe answered. “If they catch wind …”
    “I cannot swim,” she said again. “I will not be taken.”
    “You should go below with the others,” he insisted, becoming anxious about what she might do if a gunboat appeared on the horizon.
    “Please,” she begged, gripping the rail with a firm resolve. “I cannot. It is so close, so crowded down there. Just give me a minute to breathe free air.”
    Moshe backed away from her a step and stood in silence, wondering what agonies this young woman must have passed through. “Our landing site is only a few miles to the north. Your home, your new home, is a kibbutz not far—”
    “I am going to Jerusalem,” she interrupted. “I have family there. I am not the only one left. I have family—not like the rest of them!” She spat out the last words. Somehow, by her angry tone, she managed to separate herself away from the other eighty-three human beings who hoped for the Promised Land.
    “I see,” said Moshe doubtfully. “You are lucky, then.”
    “Lucky,” she repeated flatly. “I had forgotten there was such a word.” Staggering against the roll of the ship, she disappeared down the hatch.
    Moshe scanned the horizon once again, then followed the young woman down the stairs.
    Young and old sat crammed together on the floor of the hold. A small child cried and an old woman tried to comfort him, but the rest were silent. A dim lantern swung from the center beam, casting evil shadows on their gaunt faces. Every eye turned hopefully toward Moshe as he appeared on the ladder—all except the eyes of the young woman he had met on the deck.
    Braced in a corner, she held herself apart from the others. Damp wisps of her long, dark hair clung to her face. She is very beautiful, Moshe thought fleetingly. Her nose was straight and aquiline above soft, full lips, remarkable in such a thin face. She gazed at the floor, steadfastly refusing to look at the man who had called her “lucky.”
    She was, indeed, not like the others. Distractedly, she rubbed her fingers over the inevitable tattoo of her identification numbers on her forearm. As if she hopes to rub them off. A wave of compassion swept over Moshe. The young woman suffered still.
    A ragged vagabond of a man followed Moshe’s gaze to the young woman, then asked, “Have you news for us, sir?” bringing Moshe back to reality.
    “We are—,” Moshe began, swallowing the lump in his throat— “we are very near to our destination.” He smiled at the light that transformed the weary faces before the murmurs of joy rippled through the group.
    Only the beautiful young woman remained unresponsive.
    “How soon?” was the first question. Then, “What of the British?”
    and “When will we land?”
    “Maybe an hour,” answered Moshe. “We have been traveling under radio silence. So far it does not seem that the British have got wind of us. Be hopeful. We are almost home.” Moshe glanced one more time at the young woman’s downcast face before he turned on his heel to resume his topside vigil.
    A welcome blast of wind struck Moshe full in the face as he came out of