I only vaguely remember how I arrived on the deck of the Carpathia. I had a burning sensation as I clung to the rungs of a rope ladder with a rope curled around my waist. I felt the rough pressure of the seaman’s hands as he pushed me upward, and the sharp pain in my knees as I fell on the rough, splintered wooden deck. One thing I do remember clearly was my fight to hold on to my satchel, even though the seaman shouted at me to let it go. Instead, I cradled it to my chest, my arms tight around it. I was never so determined about anything before. The satchel contained all that was left of my and Nora’s old life. Without it, I would always be a stranger—even to myself. I now believe that I would have risked drowning rather than let go of it.

I must have passed out after the rescue. When I awoke, I didn’t know where I was, but I fought off the panic that threatened to engulf me. I looked down at myself and saw I was wrapped in a blanket. I looked from side to side and saw other passengers—some sleeping, some wailing, some stunned into silence—some huddled together, others lying in lines across the deck as if in a dormitory. A young seaman was passing among them offering mugs of hot tea. I took a mug, grasping it with shaking hands, and gulped down the hot, sweet liquid. It did little to calm my shivering limbs. In a sudden panic, I looked around for the satchel I had clung to throughout the disaster. I couldn’t lose it now. When I felt it beside me, I picked it up and stroked it like a child. Inside this bag was my identity, my proof of who I was and where I had come from. But it was not just the papers themselves that I treasured, it was the memories they held, the comfort of knowing I had a past.

* * *

By the second day, thanks to the constant rounds of hot tea and soup brought by the crew and passengers, and the wool blanket I was wrapped in, warmth began to seep back into my body, and I was able to stand up and walk about. The fog cleared from my brain and I was bombarded with images of Nora. What if I’d been wrong? What if she was on the ship somewhere? I began running around the deck, examining the face of every woman. Below deck, knocking on cabin doors, I shoved Nora’s identity photo at them. “Please tell me if you’ve seen her,” I begged. “Her name is Nora Sweeney.” No one had.

A ship’s officer came to me with a logbook. He was collecting the names of all rescued passengers, he said. I almost tore the logbook out of his hands.