Gurshon ‘The Cat’ Cohan
Third-class, 18 years old, Lifeboat 12
I was a printer out of work, and New York had plenty of jobs.
A relative loaned me the sum for a third-class ticket aboard the Tuetonic,
though my orthodox father forbade me to sail on a Jewish holiday,
so I rebooked my passage on the next ship to leave Southampton--
the unsinkable RMS Titanic.
The day I left home,
Mother gave me a pair of gloves to keep my hands warm while at sea
and Father saw me off at the White Star dock.
The Titanic was enormous.
I shared my assigned cabin on the lower-deck with five fellow Englishmen.
While at sea, we played games of chess,
and I even made a lucky guess on the ship’s daily run.
And the strongest drink I had was lemonade.
But mostly my mind was preoccupied with starting my own business,
and saving enough money to send for my sweetheart, Hettie,
so we could get married.
On the Sunday evening before our scheduled arrival in New York,
the temperature dropped and the air felt intensely cold.
I told a woman that there must be icebergs in the area
She laughed and said I was just imagining things.
Later that night, at half=past ten o’clock,
my bunkmates and I turned out the electric lights.
I lay in bed, thinking of my new life in America.
But a little more than an hour later, a crash jarred us awake.
We felt certain a boiler had ruptured in the engine room below.
Then just as we had gone back to sleep,
the Master-at-Arms came by and instructed us to put on our lifebelts.
I dressed in my suit, put on my woolen cap and coat,
and left our cabin to investigate the situation.
On the starboard fore-well deck I came across a lot of ice.
“We hit an iceberg,” a chap said as he kicked at the frozen lumps.
Others joined in on the fun.
It wasn’t until the ship began to slope at a noticeable angle
that I realized I’d better gather my valuables.
As I headed back to my cabin,
one of the crewman from the engine-room walked past and advised,
“You better get up, boy, we’re flooded below!”
I started toward the topside of the ship, briefly pausing at the dining room
where a group of Catholic Irish girls kneeled with their rosaries and prayed.
I’ll pray when I am rescued!
I found an alleyway used by the crew called Scotland Road.
And with some luck, I reached the second-class deck.
Making my way to first-class, I entered an abandoned stateroom.
Taken aback, I stared at its rich paneling and luxurious furnishings.
I quickly found a lifebelt and tied it on loosely.
As soon as I reached the top deck,
I pulled the gloves from my coat pocket and tugged them on.
I knew Mother would be terribly sad if I drowned.
“Are there any more women and children?” a crewman called out.
I attempted to climb into the wooden boat but was ordered away.
My situation appeared hopeless.
Leaning over the deck rail, I watched as lifeboats pulled away from the ship.
A crew member in one of the small boats shouted, “Jump!”
Climbing onto one of the davits, I crawled across and grabbed one of its ropes
and slid to its end, then splashed into the freezing water.
Hands reached out of the lifeboat and pulled me from the ocean.
Dripping wet and nearly frozen, a sailor handed me an oar.
As I began to row, I was thankful for Mother’s gift.
Without the gloves, my hands would have been shredded from rope burn.
After Titanic dove beneath the dark waves,
we heard the screams of the drowning—men, women, and children.
And their desperate cries would never leave my ears.
We pulled a few people from the water, but several died from exposure.
All through that long night, we rowed aimlessly in the dark.
And just as the sun began to rise,
we spotted the burning lights of a ship—the Carpathia.
After our rescue, I searched the ship for my bunkmates.
None of them survived.
In America, my uncle met me at the dock and I found a job in New York.
I led a charmed life until a few years later when Europe declared war,
and I returned home and joined the British Army.
In battle, I was shot twice in the same day by the enemy.
The head wound left me blind in my left eye.
Still I was grateful to be alive.
Years later, I dodged a deadly case of rheumatic fever.
I wasn’t expected to live—seven months passed and I was back to work.
During the Second World War, just minutes after I locked up my business,
German bombs blew the building to bits.
Once again, I lived to tell the tale.
And through the decades, there were more close calls.
During a wartime blackout,
I survived a nasty fall off a train—yet sustained only bruises.
And I escaped with a fractured skull when a drunk struck me on a London Street.
Friends said I escaped death by a whisker.
They laughed at my uncanny streak of luck and nicknamed me The Cat.
But even a cat only lands on its feet only so many times.
Perhaps, Death became bored toying with me like a mouse.
In the end, I did not die a dramatic death at sea,
nor a heroic one on the battlefield.
And I did not suffer an unfortunate ending on a busy London street--
This Cat simply curled up and died of old age.
Note: Gurshon “Gus” Cohen was born in Whitechapel, London, England, on December 31, 1893. He married his longtime sweetheart, Hettie, in 1917, and worked as a cloth buyer. The couple had no children. And Gus never let his close calls with death keep him from living a full and happy life. He and his wife enjoyed going on cruises until Hettie suffered a debilitating stroke in the 1960s. Widowed in 1974, Gus died on August 4, 1978, at age 85.
Third-class, 18 years old, Lifeboat 12
I was a printer out of work, and New York had plenty of jobs.
A relative loaned me the sum for a third-class ticket aboard the Tuetonic,
though my orthodox father forbade me to sail on a Jewish holiday,
so I rebooked my passage on the next ship to leave Southampton--
the unsinkable RMS Titanic.
The day I left home,
Mother gave me a pair of gloves to keep my hands warm while at sea
and Father saw me off at the White Star dock.
The Titanic was enormous.
I shared my assigned cabin on the lower-deck with five fellow Englishmen.
While at sea, we played games of chess,
and I even made a lucky guess on the ship’s daily run.
And the strongest drink I had was lemonade.
But mostly my mind was preoccupied with starting my own business,
and saving enough money to send for my sweetheart, Hettie,
so we could get married.
On the Sunday evening before our scheduled arrival in New York,
the temperature dropped and the air felt intensely cold.
I told a woman that there must be icebergs in the area
She laughed and said I was just imagining things.
Later that night, at half=past ten o’clock,
my bunkmates and I turned out the electric lights.
I lay in bed, thinking of my new life in America.
But a little more than an hour later, a crash jarred us awake.
We felt certain a boiler had ruptured in the engine room below.
Then just as we had gone back to sleep,
the Master-at-Arms came by and instructed us to put on our lifebelts.
I dressed in my suit, put on my woolen cap and coat,
and left our cabin to investigate the situation.
On the starboard fore-well deck I came across a lot of ice.
“We hit an iceberg,” a chap said as he kicked at the frozen lumps.
Others joined in on the fun.
It wasn’t until the ship began to slope at a noticeable angle
that I realized I’d better gather my valuables.
As I headed back to my cabin,
one of the crewman from the engine-room walked past and advised,
“You better get up, boy, we’re flooded below!”
I started toward the topside of the ship, briefly pausing at the dining room
where a group of Catholic Irish girls kneeled with their rosaries and prayed.
I’ll pray when I am rescued!
I found an alleyway used by the crew called Scotland Road.
And with some luck, I reached the second-class deck.
Making my way to first-class, I entered an abandoned stateroom.
Taken aback, I stared at its rich paneling and luxurious furnishings.
I quickly found a lifebelt and tied it on loosely.
As soon as I reached the top deck,
I pulled the gloves from my coat pocket and tugged them on.
I knew Mother would be terribly sad if I drowned.
“Are there any more women and children?” a crewman called out.
I attempted to climb into the wooden boat but was ordered away.
My situation appeared hopeless.
Leaning over the deck rail, I watched as lifeboats pulled away from the ship.
A crew member in one of the small boats shouted, “Jump!”
Climbing onto one of the davits, I crawled across and grabbed one of its ropes
and slid to its end, then splashed into the freezing water.
Hands reached out of the lifeboat and pulled me from the ocean.
Dripping wet and nearly frozen, a sailor handed me an oar.
As I began to row, I was thankful for Mother’s gift.
Without the gloves, my hands would have been shredded from rope burn.
After Titanic dove beneath the dark waves,
we heard the screams of the drowning—men, women, and children.
And their desperate cries would never leave my ears.
We pulled a few people from the water, but several died from exposure.
All through that long night, we rowed aimlessly in the dark.
And just as the sun began to rise,
we spotted the burning lights of a ship—the Carpathia.
After our rescue, I searched the ship for my bunkmates.
None of them survived.
In America, my uncle met me at the dock and I found a job in New York.
I led a charmed life until a few years later when Europe declared war,
and I returned home and joined the British Army.
In battle, I was shot twice in the same day by the enemy.
The head wound left me blind in my left eye.
Still I was grateful to be alive.
Years later, I dodged a deadly case of rheumatic fever.
I wasn’t expected to live—seven months passed and I was back to work.
During the Second World War, just minutes after I locked up my business,
German bombs blew the building to bits.
Once again, I lived to tell the tale.
And through the decades, there were more close calls.
During a wartime blackout,
I survived a nasty fall off a train—yet sustained only bruises.
And I escaped with a fractured skull when a drunk struck me on a London Street.
Friends said I escaped death by a whisker.
They laughed at my uncanny streak of luck and nicknamed me The Cat.
But even a cat only lands on its feet only so many times.
Perhaps, Death became bored toying with me like a mouse.
In the end, I did not die a dramatic death at sea,
nor a heroic one on the battlefield.
And I did not suffer an unfortunate ending on a busy London street--
This Cat simply curled up and died of old age.
Note: Gurshon “Gus” Cohen was born in Whitechapel, London, England, on December 31, 1893. He married his longtime sweetheart, Hettie, in 1917, and worked as a cloth buyer. The couple had no children. And Gus never let his close calls with death keep him from living a full and happy life. He and his wife enjoyed going on cruises until Hettie suffered a debilitating stroke in the 1960s. Widowed in 1974, Gus died on August 4, 1978, at age 85.
