​Annie Robinson
1st class Stewardess, 40, Survivor
By Maria Cisneros Toth

            One year before I signed on as First Class Stewardess with the RMS Titanic, I worked on the Canadian Pacific’s Lake Champlain. On one sailing, from Liverpool to Montreal, she struck an iceberg. There was little damage then, the one thousand people aboard were safe.
            But with the Titanic, the wreck was much more serious.
            As soon as I learned we had struck an iceberg, I dressed and rushed out in the lighted passageway. A postal clerk brushed past then returned with the Captain and Purser McElroy. At the stairwell near the squash racket courts, leading to the post office and mail room below, the men joined the shipbuilder, Thomas Andrews. After a brief inspection, as they headed back along the corridor, I overheard Andrews say, “Well, three have gone already.”
            Three what? I wondered.
            Purser McElroy stood beside me as I stole a glimpse down the steps. I could not believe my eyes.  Two mail sacks and a man’s Gladstone bag floated in the rising seawater. It had only been half an hour since the collision and the water had already climbed within six steps of reaching E Deck. Imagine six steps from this deck! And most of my passengers are still asleep in their cabins!
             I knew I had duties to fulfill. Gathering my wits, I rapped on stateroom doors, alerting the seven first-class women in my charge.
             As other stewards and I gathered blankets and lifebelts from unoccupied rooms, I met with Mr. Andrews again. “Put your lifebelt on,” he said, “and walk about and let the passengers see you.”
            I said, “It looks rather mean.”
            Mr. Andrews told me, “Well, if you value your life, put your belt on.”
            I slipped on the cumbersome life preserver and led the ladies and their servants to the A-deck, on the Starboard side, and helped them into Lifeboat 11. I was surprised when the officer allowed me and several other crew members to enter the emergency craft.
            Our life boat was crowded, forcing some to stand. A steward stumbled over the deck rail and into the boat while assisting a hysterical woman. Another woman on deck pleaded with the officer to let her join her small children already on the boat. He let her pass. Hardly a minute later, her other daughter appeared on deck and tried to enter, but the officer insisted the boat was full. Her mother frantically shouted for her to hurry and catch the next one. The little girl sprinted off.
            I hoped she got there in time.
            The raft lowered and the davit ropes were yanked roughly, rocking the creaking boat at perilous angles.  Just as we neared the ocean, a powerful stream of water burst from the ship’s side.  With their combined strength, crew members grunted as they pushed their oars against the hull while other men sliced the ropes, freeing the boat.
            For about three quarters of an hour, we rowed away from the ship. Most of her lower decks had already submerged beneath the waves. Still, I did not want to believe she could truly sink. Stunned, I sat in silence as the great ship broke in two. First, the bow disappeared beneath the ocean. Then the stern stood on end and like a sharp knife plunged into the sea.
            I froze in disbelief; all went eerily quiet.
            Suddenly, an eruption of heart-wrenching cries rose from the poor souls tossed into the waves. Oh, how I desperately wished I could have saved them—every last one.  I could not fathom it when I learned 693 of my crew mates did not survive. How can that be? Why am I still here?
            Three months after the sinking, in Liverpool, I was introduced to King George V and Queen Mary. His Majesty prodded me for more details about the disaster. I politely expressed that it was too terrible to talk about.
            The following two years, a shroud of gloom followed me everywhere. To escape, I embarked on a voyage to visit my only daughter, Gladys, in Boston. Toward the end of my journey, the Leyland Liner’s Davonian navigated through a thick curtain of fog towards New York Harbor. Feeling rather skittish, I slipped into the dining saloon.
            It was late, about half past ten, when a shrill whistle caused me to leap out of my chair. “There must have been an accident!”
            “Only the ship’s whistle, ma’am,” a steward replied, his voice as calm as mine must have sounded on that other awful night.
            I covered my ears with my hands, but the dreadful clamor persisted. All at once, the haunting cries of fifteen hundred souls echoed in my mind, and I rushed out into the foreboding fog and onto the deck. At every maddening turn, I could not flee the horrific echoes from the past.
            Ghosts chained up in the torture chamber of my memory called out, “Help us! Please, help us!”
            Their despairing pleas beckoned me toward the deck’s railing. How can I abandon them again?
            “Hold on,” I called back. Lifting my skirt, I clumsily climbed over the rail then leaped forward into the ghostlike mist—and their cries ceased.