Read the letter. 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 some English words with one another peppered in with the German that I will soon use less and less. “I am from Germany,” I practice over and over again, elongating my mouth around vowels that are pronounced differently in English than in German. I still think in German, dream in German, feel German words fly off my tongue with a comfort and speed that I worry I’ll never feel when I speak English. What will happen to me if the English all around me displaces the German of my youth?

There are people on this ship from everywhere: The Kowalski family in the room next to ours is from Poland, while the Ivanov family on the other side is from Russia. We practice basic English with one another: “Good morning. How are you?” Behind the closed doors of strangers’ rooms, I hear unfamiliar consonant sounds making up the lyrics to lilting songs. I can only imagine that these melodies are about feeling adrift; though we come from different places, nostalgia and homesickness know no borders or boundaries.

When I write these letters to you, I wonder where you are and what you are doing. Are you still walking along the canals of the Speicherstadt the way we used to after school? Do you still hear the bells of St. Michael’s Church resounding through the air? Does the bakery on the corner still serve our favorite Brötchen when it comes right out of the oven?

I miss you more than I can say in this letter. Say hello to everyone for me and tell them that my family is doing well. By the time I get on land to mail this letter, I will be at Ellis Island!

Love,

Liesl

What is Liesl's viewpoint in "A Letter from the Atlantic"?

She was excited about taking the journey on a ship but has become bored with the monotony and wants it to be over.

She misses her life and her friends in Germany and feels apprehensive about what awaits her in New York.

She is annoyed with her father for telling her to not look back at her life in Germany, but she's unhappy about the move.

She feels out of place with the other passengers on the boat who speak languages she doesn't understand.