Salt to the Sea (14 page)

I had read about these young recruits in spy journals. The Party identified them early and bestowed them with important missions. And this one—sent by Gauleiter Koch himself. He was worthy of my favor.

The knobby white-haired man with the little boy asked me to stop. “Please, wait for the rest of our group.”

The expectant mother, quite young, with tawdry lipstick, was crying and clinging to the young recruit.

“Don't cry,” the recruit told her. “I'll be on the ship later.”

“Ah, I see. She is carrying your child,” I said to him.

“
No,
” they both replied in unison.

“She's Latvian,” said the recruit. “A friend of the nurse. She's concerned because she doesn't speak German. She understands a bit, but is not able to speak.”

“Many in this evacuation share your handicap,” I assured her. “We have Croatian deckhands on the ship. They don't speak our language either, but somehow we communicate.”

“Remember, her condition is fragile. The doctor gave you specific instructions to get her on board,” the recruit said to me.

“We will watch over her,” said the old man, putting his arm around the young mother. He gently pulled her from the recruit, who disappeared into the crowd.

Tears streamed down her face. Such weakness. What was I to do with this crying woman? The little boy stood on one side, the old man on the other. The boy offered her an ugly stuffed rabbit. A feeling of pain and misery surrounded her entire spirit. It then occurred to me that this besotted and hormonal creature could present an opportunity.

Despite her tears, she was Aryan, a fine specimen of the master race.

She could be saved.

Yes, Hannelore. Amidst the grips of war, the beast of man emerges to conquer the ever-lurking infidel inside. My sword is drawn. Death to the man who tries to harm this Dulcinea.

Throngs of wounded were emptied from the cars. As the trains unloaded, a convoy of ambulances arrived. Soldiers, still wrapped in mud-encrusted field coats, had been brought straight from battle. They howled with pain, reaching for me, for anyone, with desperate eyes.

Some I could identify quickly—typhus, dysentery, pneumonia. Others required the opening of their coat to discover missing limbs, gunshot blasts, and tank treads.

Dr. Richter's instructions were explicit: “If you are certain they can survive the voyage, log them for registration. Only if you are certain.”

Many would not survive the voyage. They wouldn't survive the hour. Their bodies and voices trembled with the delirium of death.

“My son wants the book
Max und Moritz
for his birthday,” a soldier repeated, eyes closed, blood leaking from the sides of his mouth. “Please,
Max und Moritz
for his birthday.”

“How many do you have?” asked the doctor following our rapid examinations.

“Seventy-three to register. Two hundred and twelve unable.”

“Seventy-three? Then with my list, we're full. Are you sure they all have a chance?”

“Yes.”

I spoke without hesitation. I wasn't sure, but I was sure I wanted to try. I leaned down to tell the soldier that he would see his son and give him the book. He was already dead. The condition of the soldiers spoke to the fate of the Reich. The voice was clear.

Defeat.

But I would get these wounded men on the big ship.

The
Wilhelm Gustloff
would save them.

The knight was gone.

Joana was gone.

The sailor marched us to registration, quietly chanting the phrase
Yu-go-slav
. He was fidgety and blinked constantly. The knight thought he could dupe the sailor. Maybe he could. But what would that mean for me? We approached the registration area near the water. Lines of applicants snaked in endless turns. Wealthy Germans in luxurious clothing stood in one line, military personnel in another. The remaining lines were full of weary refugees and families.

“I'm not getting in line,” announced Eva. “I want to wait for our cart. All of my valuables are on that wagon. I don't want to leave without them.”

“But, Eva, dear, your shoes are carrying your most valuable possession—your life. Do not delay. Everything else can be replaced,” said the shoe poet.

“My mother's silver is on that wagon. I'm waiting,” she insisted.

The sailor continued on, completely unaware that one in our group had departed. He brought us into the line for Party officials. He then changed his mind and took us directly to
the front of the refugee line. Others, who had been waiting, protested.

Despite the bitter cold, I began to sweat. I opened my coat and took a deep breath. The soldiers in charge stopped the sailor and demanded an explanation for our jumping the line.

“I have four passengers, direct request from Dr. Richter.”

“I see only three,” noted the soldier. “Can't you even count?”

“I am quite good at math.” The sailor turned around. “Where is the huge gorilla woman? Well, I have three passengers. Direct request from Dr. Richter. And this one is with child.” He turned to the soldier and sneered. “So that makes four, doesn't it? Can't you even count?”

He pulled me up to the counter, squarely in front of the registration officers.

“There we are, Frau. Show them your papers,” he commanded.

I sat inside near the back door of the movie house. Had I pegged the sailor correctly or had I judged too quickly? Was there really a desperate hero inside of him or just a nervous skin condition? My mistake in trusting Dr. Lange plagued me; perhaps my judgment was unreliable.

From the very first day, Father saw Dr. Lange for the manipulative and evil human being he was. I made excuses for him, desperate to validate the reasons he chose to work with me. I wanted to believe his motivation was to save and preserve the treasures of the art world.

One stormy night last July, a large painting arrived via truck with armed guards. Dr. Lange was dining with colleagues and I accepted the arrival from the soldiers. I unpacked the piece to display for Dr. Lange, inspecting it to see if restoration or repair would be necessary. I recognized the winter hunting scene immediately. The artist was Julian Falat, a Polish painter. Falat's art was featured in books at the institute.

The painting was treasured by the Poles. It was the property of Poland.

The Nazis, under the greedy direction of Erich Koch, had stolen it.

A few days later, I found my letters unopened in Dr. Lange's
drawer. I felt ill. He had claimed we were a team, yet never bothered to open my letters, didn't care what I had to say. I sat on my bed for a full day, sick with dread that Father was right about Lange. I replayed every interaction in my head, analyzing them from all angles. The pieces of art cloaked under tarps, the whispers, the handshakes, the deliveries late at night. I wanted to be wrong, but I always came to the same conclusion: Koch and Lange weren't saving the treasures of Europe.

They were stealing them.

And, unknowingly, I had been helping.

The following day I left my small apartment near the museum and took a train to Tilsit. My father would know what to do. Together we would figure something out. I arrived home to find our front door hanging by one hinge. The house was ransacked. Our neighbor quickly emerged and whisked me into her cottage.

“I'm so sorry, Florian,” she said, crying. “Your father . . . you're too late.”

“Show them your papers,” commanded the sailor.

They weren't my papers. They were hers, the Latvian who had lost her life to winter and war on the side of a road. Perhaps she paused to rest and froze to death. What right did I have to pilfer her identity? And if I got on a ship, where would it go?

I wanted to go home.

“You, in the pink hat,” commanded the officer. “I don't have all day. Show me your papers.” He pointed to the identity card trembling in my hand.

I couldn't move.

He stood up to face me. “What's going on here?”

The shoe poet softly placed his hand on my shoulder. “Una, dear, are you all right?”

Una. How could I steal Una?

“As you can see, Una's quite far along,” said Poet. “And she appears to be ill.”

The sailor, Alfred, snapped the papers from my hand and handed them to the official.

The officer sighed. “I already had a kid get sick on my desk. Move her aside,” he said. Poet pulled me away from the table. The wandering boy petted my coat.

“Her nurse is assisting Dr. Richter at the ambulance train,”
said the sailor. “She asked me to bring the expectant mother for registration.”

“We're registering, but not boarding yet,” said the officer. “Everyone must be inspected first.”

The sailor looked toward me with an odd smile. “Oh, please do inspect her. Don't you see? The hair, the eyes,” he said. “An exquisite specimen. Her offspring shall no doubt be the same.”

“I can't,” I whispered to Poet. This wasn't right. I had no right.

“You must.” He nodded. “For your child.”

The officer reviewed the papers. Heat prickled up my cold neck. The sound of muffled crying floated nearby.

“Madame,” said Alfred to a tearful woman behind us. “What do you have there?”

“Nothing,” said the woman, pulling a bundle close to her chest. “She's sleeping.”

“Is the child ill?” he asked. “We cannot register those with contagion.”

The woman's tears turned to sobs. “No, she's not ill. She's sleeping.”

Alfred turned to face the woman and pulled back the blanket. He sneered. “She's not sleeping. She's dead! Officer, this child is deceased.” Alfred peered at the dead baby with studious fascination.

The mother's strength was no match for her grief. Her body quaked as she tried to speak, choking breaths between her words. “No. Please. She's just asleep. I swear. Don't take her from me.”

The officer whistled to a nearby sentry and motioned him over.

The woman sobbed, clutching the bundle. “No! Please. I can't leave her here. Don't take my baby. Please, don't take my baby!” Pandemonium ensued.

The shoemaker turned to me, his eyes full of tears. “Do you see, my dear? The proverbs are at play. ‘I wept because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.'”

I cried out, faking labor, and fell to my knees on the dock.

Hello, my Hannelore,

Such a trying day already and it's only just begun. Against all odds, I found a nurse for our ship's doctor, Dr. Richter. It was an impossible task, but like so many other occasions, I was able to make the impossible possible.

My first assignment was to register the nurse's patients for embarkation on the Gustloff. There was an old shoemaker (with the type of grotesque knuckles that distress me greatly), a small boy, and a young, pregnant Latvian who spoke awful German but had the favored features of the Reich. Once again, I drew my sword and laid my cape for Germany, helping the woman cross my cloak to safety. Yet another saved for the Vaterland!

Something else quite astounding took place this morning. I am assisting a young recruit on a very important mission for Gauleiter Koch. Perhaps you don't understand the significance Koch has in this war. He is the regional Nazi Party leader, second only to Hitler in this area. Koch successfully obliterated Ukraine. This young recruit has papers signed by Koch himself, indicating he is a courier carrying a valuable treasure for the Reich. Of course I'm handling the matter with the greatest discretion and not disclosing
even the slightest detail. After all, perhaps I shall have occasion to meet Koch myself.

My catalog of heroics is growing so rapidly I can scarcely keep track. I am enjoying a bit of quietude in my private toilet right now to strategize for the next undertaking. Duty calls as the young recruit awaits me. I have to be in my tip-top condition for such a mission.

• • •

It was so nice and warm in the toilets. I decided to stay a bit longer.

In a matter of hours the crowds had doubled in Gotenhafen. The stethoscope around my neck detained me as I walked. People saw it and ran out of bombed buildings and craters, begging for aid and medicine. I tried to help a woman whose face was blackened with frostbite.

“I used to be beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes vacant.

“The scars will fade,” I told her.

“Can you give me a cigarette?”

I shook my head. “I don't have any.” A cigarette was akin to gold.

Her fingers stroked the cracked, blackened skin on her chin. “I'm so ugly now. Do you have a cigarette?” she repeated.

I put the stethoscope in my bag and pushed my way through the swarm of people to the port. In my pocket I had the boarding pass that Dr. Richter had secured for me. Where was our group? Had the sailor registered them? If Emilia was having difficulty I needed to help her.

“Joana!” Eva's head towered above the throngs of people.

She walked toward me, alone. “Where are the others?” I asked.

“I haven't seen them.”

“You didn't register together?”

“No,” she said. “I walked hundreds of kilometers with that cart. My silver and dishes are in that wagon. I'm sorry, but I'm not letting some peasant family make off with all of those valuables.”

“Eva, there's no time. The Russians are upon us. They could invade this port at any moment.”

“Once the wagon comes, I'll register.”

“No, you must register now. The doctor told me the port will soon be overrun with nearly a million people. The
Gustloff
and other boats are leaving soon. Secure your passage now. Give the cart and horse to someone who needs it.”

She seemed to consider my urging.

“Have you seen the others?” I asked.

“I left them with that strange sailor.” She turned and began talking to another woman.

“Eva, wait. Did Emilia get through?” I pressed.

“I don't know. The sailor took her, the shoemaker, and the boy to registration. That was the last I saw of them.”

“And what about Florian?” I asked.

She looked at me, confused. “Florian? Who's Florian?”