Salt to the Sea (10 page)

I crouched near the cathedral altar, carefully watching the Polish girl. She was looking for me. When she turned her head I made my move, quickly darting to the small entry. I crawled inside and pressed my back against the tiny door to keep anyone from entering. As a small boy in Tilsit, I once found my way inside the pipe organ of a local church. It was a perfect hiding spot. The organ was my target as soon as I saw the cathedral. Adults wouldn't bother me, only bored children who might be exploring.

The cramped space left little room to move, but I didn't care. I was alone, out of the cold, and one step closer to completing my mission. I watched the group from behind the pipes. The Polish girl's pink hat bobbed like a candy egg amidst hundreds of gray faces all so tired and drawn, they looked like boiled meat. The nurse continually scanned the cathedral. Was she looking for those who might need help? Was she looking for food? Or maybe, was she looking for me? I tried not to care.

Protected by privacy, I was finally able to open my pack. I took out the art supplies and my notebook. The small box was undisturbed. Had Dr. Lange peeked in the crate yet? At times, to fuel his artistic euphoria, Dr. Lange would open a crate to admire a panel from the precious Amber Room,
savoring the experience as others would enjoy a vintage bottle of brandy. Initially, I was so impressed by his emotional reaction. I thought it was passion for art. It wasn't. It was greed and power that excited him in a perverse way.

Originally created in Prussia and gifted to Peter the Great, the Amber Room was a glittering chamber of amber, jewels, gold, and mirrors. In 1941, the Nazis stole it from the Catherine Palace in Pushkin, near Leningrad. Packed into twenty-seven crates, the Amber Room was the culmination of Hitler's artistic dreams. He carefully strategized its safekeeping and after much deliberation the twenty-seven crates were secretly shipped to the castle museum in Königsberg.

Dr. Lange was responsible for its protection.

I worked for Dr. Lange.

Some in the art world claimed the Amber Room carried a curse. Dr. Lange wouldn't hear of that. He said the Amber Room was the greatest of the world's treasures. I was the only one he trusted to touch the treasure. He gave me special tailored gloves, fitted to my fingers.

“Can you even comprehend what we have here, Florian?” Lange's breath fluttered while admiring the sparkling jewels amidst the golden stones.

As the Russian forces approached, Dr. Lange assured me that moving the twenty-seven crates containing the Amber Room meant preserving the riches of the Reich. In reality, he and Koch had plans of their own. They were hiding the room for themselves and, in the process, implicating me in the biggest heist of all time. It was calculated and clever, putting an
unknowing young apprentice in the middle to blame later, if necessary.

When we sealed the crates to move them, I noticed that one was unlike the others.

“Why is this crate marked differently?” I had asked Lange.

He was all too eager to tell me. “Inside that one,” he breathed, “is another very small box. It contains the crown jewel of the Amber Room.”

“What is it?”

“A tiny amber swan.” Lange put his hand to his chest, practically over his heart. “It is the Führer's most favorite.”

We dug a secret bunker deep beneath the castle and locked the crates inside. I then painted the stone floor above the cellar to look aged. The door to the cellar was undetectable.

But I knew where it was.

I also had the key.

• • •

Hidden behind the organ, I carefully pulled the lid from the small wooden box and removed the top layer of straw. Even in the low light, the amber swan glistened and shimmered. People had fought for it, killed for it, died for it.

And I had it.

Had Dr. Lange gone looking for the key? Had he discovered my betrayal?

I carefully arranged the straw over the swan and slid the top of the small crate back into place. The key was my revenge against Lange. But the tiny crate with the swan was more important.

It held my revenge against Hitler.

The shoe poet woke early, rapping our feet with his walking stick.

“It is time to cross the iced lagoon,” he announced. “If it were summer, I would swim across. I am a very strong swimmer,” he told the wandering boy.

Poet said once we crossed the ice, we could walk down the narrow strip of land to one of the ports. There was no other option. The Russians surrounded us on all sides. But where was the knight? Had he walked across the ice alone?

I overheard Joana talking to Eva. “Do you have any cosmetics? It might make Emilia look a little older, like the Latvian in the papers. I can tell them she's on her way to meet her boyfriend.”

Boyfriend.

I thought of August and how hard he worked the family's land. He was so kind to come into the kitchen and apologize for his mother's cruel behavior.

“Don't pay any attention to her, Emilia. Someday she'll get a dose of her own medicine,” he'd said.

I learned things about him, just by watching. I knew which section of rabbit pleased him most, that he preferred autumn to spring, and that he would rather take his breakfast bread
alone in the stable than with his parents in the dining room.

I watched intently, remembering Mama's words:
If you observe carefully, dear, you won't have to ask.
Mama observed too. Visitors never had to ask for cream with their coffee or jam for their tea. She had noted their preferences long before.

Joana knew who was hurting and I knew secrets about the knight. But I felt certain that no one knew my secrets, except maybe the ravens that nested above the cold cellar.

My hips and back ached from sleeping on the cold stone floor. I had woken in the middle of the night and imagined I saw the German standing above me in the dark. When I blinked he was gone and I realized it was a dream.

I was concerned about his wound. That's what I told myself. But the truth poked at me. Why was I looking for him? His wound was healing well; he was stronger than most. I was embarrassed to admit it: I wanted to see him again, not to evaluate his wound but to discover his name, his mission, and why he had taken the drawing from my suitcase. Ingrid said he was a thief, but she thought he was stirred to know me, not to hurt me. I wanted to believe her. The war was full of brutality. Were there any nice young men still out there?

“He's probably here somewhere.” Ingrid smiled. “Watching.”

I had glanced around the crowded cathedral many times the night prior, wondering if she was right.

“Joana,” whispered Ingrid, reaching for my hands. “The Russians draw nearer each day. Without you . . . I can't bear to think what would have happened to me.”

“We just need to cross the ice,” I assured her. “We're close. The crossing point is only a short walk down the hill.”

We gathered our belongings. Ingrid spooled the soft scarf from the German soldier around her neck.

Emilia smiled at me behind red lipstick as we left the cathedral.

What a group we were. A pregnant girl in love, a kindly shoemaker, an orphan boy, a blind girl, and a giantess who complained that everyone was in her way when she herself took up the most room. And me, a lonely girl who missed her family and begged for a second chance.

• • •

We were among the first to cross. The expanse of ice looked enormous. “Fifty meters between each group,” instructed the soldiers. “We must not stress the ice all at once. Hurry.”

How could we hurry? The walk was kilometers long and the ice was slippery.

“Let me go first,” said Ingrid, her eyes still bandaged. “Alone.”

“Absolutely not,” I told her. “We'll go together.”

“I'll go with Ingrid,” said the shoe poet. “My walking stick can test more than soles.”

“No,” insisted Ingrid. “If I'm alone, I'll truly feel the ice. I'll let you know if it's sound. Then you can bring the cart along with the others.”

Ingrid walked several meters out onto the ice, eyes bandaged, hands in front of her. She took a step and stopped, listening.

She took another step.

The sun made its first appearance, throwing light onto
the lagoon. The ice in front of Ingrid was red, frozen with blood. She advanced, then snapped her foot back, as if sensing the stain. She stood perfectly still and breathed, alone on the frozen water. She took a careful step forward, over the icy blood. She took a few more steps, leaving at least twenty meters between us. I could not bear to see her, bandaged and by herself. I walked out to join her.

“I'm coming, Ingrid.”

“Yes, the ice is strong,” she called. “Come along.”

I stepped toward her. The rest of our group advanced slowly, carefully, yet desperate to move quickly across the jaws of ice.

Ingrid's body suddenly stiffened. Her back arched. “
No!
” she screamed. “Go back!”

Our group retreated. I was too far out to return quickly. And then I heard them: Russian planes strafing overhead. Desperate refugees on the bank erupted in terror. Soldiers dove into snowbanks. I dropped facedown onto the frozen surface. The sun brightened, shining through the ice to reveal the horror below. A dead horse and a child's mitten glared at me from beneath the frozen glaze. I closed my eyes, choking on the gruesome images.

High-pitched whizzings flew by my head, cracking and popping. Bullets tore through the ice. Frozen shards peppered my coat as screams filled my ears.

The firing ceased. I opened my eyes. Streaks of blood surrounded a solitary hole in the center of the ice.

“Ingrid!” I screamed.

Ingrid was gone.

Her gloved hand suddenly appeared, reaching out of the black water.

I crawled toward her.

Her hand bobbed and grasped frantically at the edge of the ice.

“Ingrid!” I wailed.

The ice broke.

The hole in the ice spread farther, sending a deep crack running directly toward me. Ingrid's hand flapped desperately.

A pair of hands tightened around my ankles. I began sliding backward along my belly to the frozen bank.

“Let me go!”

The gap in the ice widened. Water rolled toward me. Panicked screams roared from behind. “It's all cracking!”

Someone pulled me away. I tried to free myself, to fight my way back across to Ingrid.

“
No!
” I pleaded. “Ingrid!”

I looked out toward the dark watery hole. Ingrid's frantic hand suddenly went slack. Her fingers softened, slowly curled, and disappeared beneath the ice.

I followed secretly behind.

When the planes appeared, the Polish girl dropped from the cart and tried to scramble to the women on the ice. I pushed her away, then ran to the nurse, pulling her back toward me. The little boy grabbed my leg, trying to yank me to safety. He had the weight of a dry twig yet heaved with the ferocity of a bull. I dragged the nurse onto the bank, restraining her, fighting her.

“Let me go!” She kicked and screamed, desperate to save her blind friend. We fell in a heap. I pulled her onto my lap. She reached out to the ice.

“Ingrid,” she whispered, trembling. “Please, no.”

The nurse's neck fell limp, like a broken doll. Her chin dropped against my chest. She began to cry.

The broken shards of ice shifted. The blind girl's blue scarf suddenly appeared on the surface of the water.

The little boy buried his head against Poet's leg. “Make it stop! Please, no more.”

“Shh. There, there, Klaus,” said the shoemaker.

The nurse sobbed, clinging to me.

I sat, paralyzed, wanting to put my arms around her, but knowing I couldn't.

The Polish girl knelt beside us. She spoke quietly, stroking the nurse's hair and wiping her tears. Then, without a word, she lifted my arms and placed them around the nurse.

Dearest Hannelore,

Good morning from the port! It has become overwhelmingly crowded in Gotenhafen. Those fleeing from the region stand in line waiting for ship assignment. We must be cautious with registration, as there may be deserting German soldiers hiding among these refugees.

I pity the man who cannot overcome his cowardice, who cannot step on the neck of his own weaknesses. I know you saw the group of Hitler Youth come to my door, Lore. The boys teased that I was a coward, not strong enough to serve our country, but how wrong they were. I'm so pleased you know that. Yes, initially I was not part of Hitler Youth and my critical father was ashamed. But now here I am, called a bit later than most but only because they have finally realized that it takes a man to succeed where boys have failed. It is so gratifying. And where are the bullies of Hitler Youth? Perhaps dead, imprinted by the tread of a tank. Death, it seems, has a mind of its own.

Yes, I know it must all sound hostile, but this is war. Brave men are reduced to numbers. These numbers are engraved twice on an oval metal disc we wear around our neck. In the event of death, they shall snap the disc in half. Half will be buried with
my body, the other half turned in to Command with my papers and personal effects.

I am 42089.

• • •

I couldn't help but wonder: Did Hannelore have a number?

We waited on the bank for several hours but the planes did not return. The water froze again. So did our hands and feet.

The soldiers returned to their stations. They insisted we cross a different section of the ice. They rushed the groups of people, all eyes intent on the sky. I resumed my place in the cart. The knight held Joana by the elbow, worried that she might jump into the hole that had taken the blind girl from us. He was scared to touch her, but wanted desperately to touch her.

I held my breath as we crossed, quivering at the thought of our Ingrid frozen beneath. The ice ached and groaned, like old bones carrying too many years, brittle and threatening to snap at any moment. My nerves lurched with each sound. I held my hands across my stomach. The shoe poet walked ahead of the group, tapping the ice with his stick and nodding.

“The ice is arthritic, but no fractures yet,” he reported. “Hurry along, the top is melting slightly. We have kilometers to go.”

Kilometers to go.

The cramping and pressure resumed below my waist. I couldn't watch any longer. I lay back in the frigid cart, closed my eyes, and thought of August. In my mind, the warm sun
burned bright. The unfenced pastures rolled soft, like worn velvet. The window boxes puffed with flowers and the tree branches stooped heavy with ripe plums. August returned to the estate, slick with sweat after a long ride with his horse, Tabrez.

I heard the wheels of the cart churn and scrape beneath me. No one had asked, so I didn't mention it.

I did not know how to swim.