Salt to the Sea (8 page)

The pressure woke me from a shallow sleep. I had to go to the bathroom. Again.

I adjusted my hat. The pretty house was warm inside. The fire still crackled and glowed, throwing shadows across the bundled heaps on the floor. How funny some people looked and sounded when they were asleep.

But not the knight.

He was strong, handsome and fine-featured, even as he slept. I watched him from my corner, his face relaxed. Did he ever laugh or smile? The blind girl had bandages over her eyes. What did blind people see in their dreams? Could she dream of a flower if she had never seen one in real life?

The nurse, Joana, was kind. I had been certain she would be angry or disgusted by me, but she wasn't. Her hands and voice carried a gentle calm, like my mama's. When she touched my stomach she smiled and nodded. She often looked directly into my eyes and that made me wonder if she saw everything. But when she sat alone her face looked cheerless and forlorn, full of tears waiting patiently to fall.

And then the noise erupted.

Screaming.

It filtered from above, shadowed between the walls. And
then it descended, clearer, sharper, drawing closer. The sound lifted the latch of memory. My shoulders began to tremble.

The wind howled down the hallway. A door slammed. The knight was awake, on his feet, gun drawn. He looked first to Joana and then to me. He moved quickly to the door but before he reached it, Eva burst into the room, wild with panic.

“Dead in their beds! They're all dead in their beds!” she shrieked.

Eva's face was so white it looked blue. A stuffed rabbit dangled from her massive hand. One of its ears was missing.

There were many possibilities. I pieced together this one.

The family had been eating their dinner. They were alerted of a Russian approach—maybe someone at the door or a sound from outside. The older gentleman, probably the grandfather, instructed everyone to go upstairs and get in bed. He then walked to his room and dressed in his uniform from the Great War. Honor lost was everything lost. He would not allow his family or legacy to be stripped from their land. They would die with dignity. Shoulders square, rows of medals adorning the left side of his chest, the old man walked in and out of each bedroom, taking life yet sparing honor. He then marched to his own room, stood by the window watching the hills beyond, and pulled the trigger.

And now they lay lifeless, their legacy frozen with cold.

• • •

No one could go back to sleep. We left the estate before the first morning light appeared.

The shoemaker held the little boy's hand.

The boy held the earless rabbit.

What a sorry group we were, brutalized and bandaged, yet luckier than most; certainly more fortunate than the dead family upstairs. The giant woman wouldn't stop talking about it,
describing the scene in morbid detail for the others. I wanted to hit her with a brickbat.

“Sorry, but you didn't see it, the blood, the children,” she said. “Thank God it was so cold up there. Even so, the smell.”

We walked down the long drive and just before we reached the road, the giant started in about the Polish girl. “Get her out of the cart. She can't come with us. We can't be caught with a runaway Pole and a deserter. We'll end up slaughtered like the family upstairs.”

“Shut up,” I told her. “I'm not a deserter.”

“Eva, she's showing signs of early labor. She should rest,” said Joana.

“Well, she made it this far, I'm sure she can make it the rest of the way. We don't want her in our group, Joana. The others just aren't brave enough to tell you.”

The Polish girl looked to me from the back of the cart. I wanted to give the annoying woman a piece of my mind. The nurse stepped in front of me.

“All right, Eva. Perhaps you've forgotten that the horse is mine? I'll take Emilia on horseback and ride ahead on my own. You can all pull the cart yourselves.”

The nurse girl was even prettier when she was stubborn.

“Joana, please don't leave us. Please,” begged the blind girl.

The small boy clutched the maimed rabbit and began to cry.

“Really, Eva, at this point it makes no difference,” said the shoe poet. “We'll reach the ice soon and—”

The blind girl threw her hand in the air. The arguing ceased.
Noise, voices, and other sounds slowly emerged through the trees.

Someone was on the road.

I darted through the snow and peered out from behind a tree. A massive procession of people and carts created a long column, as far as the eye could see.

So it had happened.

Evacuation orders had been issued. Germany was finally telling people what they should have said months ago.

Run for your lives.

Hello, my Lore,

I woke this winter morning with memories of sweeping your sidewalk at springtime. Perhaps you noticed the vigor I applied toward your walk in particular? I smile and must bite my lip when I think of how often I overexerted myself on your behalf.

I'm really much too busy to be writing such a letter today, but I know you are probably thinking of me. You see, Hannelore, I am generous with my spirit, not only my broom. Your father could have used a good man like me at his furniture factory. I believe I once mentioned that to him, but he ignored me. No matter, I haven't time to dwell on such inconsequence.

The port, you see, is in imminent danger of attack by Allied planes. Evacuation orders were posted last night and millions of people in this region of East Prussia will now flee to me for help. The refugees will line up at the port and I will assign them to a ship that will take them to safety. Yes, it's a very important task, but I am supremely capable. You might recall my keen evaluation ability. I am the cat who contemplates both the mouse and the cheese. I know instantly which one will satisfy the craving.

These months mark the longest we have ever been separated. Perhaps you are marking each day on a calendar with a large red
X? I see you on the front step, waiting and longing for my letters. I express myself to you as I express myself to no one. Perhaps through these letters we might share our secrets. After all, war births litters of them. I suppose it is no secret, however, that my private thoughts of you soften the clutch of combat.

Sadly, Heidelberg feels quite far away now. To bring you closer, I picture the dark evenings in my mind. I see the warm, honey glow behind your bedroom curtain, your shadow dancing on the wall as you gently fold your red sweater and bend to lacquer the small nails on your toes.

Yes, the nights at home were dark and still. It was in that darkness that duty called and I made my decision. But really, my sweet, what choice did I have?

Where had they all come from? This endless stream of humanity clogging the small field road—did they suddenly crawl out of a hole? Had they been waiting in the forests as we had? Young women, elderly grandparents, and too many children to count. They dragged sleds, drove carts with mules, and walked with belongings slung over their backs in sheets.

A little boy and his sister straddled an ox, gripping a frayed piece of rope tied around the animal's neck. “Please, Magnus, hurry!” coaxed the little boy, thumping his heels into the ox. His sister's thin ankles were exposed and black with frostbite.

“Let me help you,” I called to them, but they didn't hear me. He slapped the ox and trotted away. A few carts, with well-rested horses, clucked by us quickly, leaving only a glimpse of the prominent family name painted across the back of the carriage. Some people were tired, despondent, others panicked and full of terror. An old man with a wooden leg thumped back and forth across the road, clutching his temples and announcing to everyone who passed, “They shot my cow.”

Eva lumbered through the crowds, badgering people for information and updates. “Which way did you come from? What have you heard?”

Reports were that Germany was buckling. Although they
had finally allowed people to evacuate, for many it was too late.

“Joana!” Eva called out to me. “This one here is Lithuanian.”

I made my way through the mass of people to the old woman.

“
Labas,
” I said. “Where are you from?”

“Kaunas,” she said. “And you?”

“Biržai, originally. I've been gone for four years. But my cousins are from Kaunas. How are things there?”

She shook her head, barely able to speak. “Our poor Lietuva,” she whispered. “We shall never see her again. Hurry child, keep moving.” She patted my arm and walked off.

What was she talking about? The war would end. We would all go home.

Wouldn't we?

• • •

The temperature plunged well below zero. I thought of the warm fire back at the estate and the cold bodies upstairs in the beds. As we left the property I had taken one last look. I couldn't shake the image of the upstairs corner window, pierced with a bullet hole and covered in blood. Zarah Leander's voice lived in my head, whispering the words,
It's not the end of the world.

I hoped she was right.

The wandering boy and the shoe poet marched in front of our cart. Poet entertained the boy by assigning shoe types.

“That one there, he has narrow feet. We would put him in an oxford. But that man, the one with the short boots, he'll
have a heel bruise within the next kilometer. We'd put him in a loafer, to be sure. You know, Klaus, if you can't get a fingerprint, you would do just as well to get a foot draft from a man's shoemaker. It will tell you more than an identity card.”

I stood next to Ingrid, whose eyes were bandaged. She insisted on walking and gripped the rope that hung behind the wagon. Emilia sat nestled in heaps of bundles on the back of our cart, her pink hat a blink of color among the endless blacks and grays. Emilia's eyes stayed fixed on the German boy who walked behind me, his cap pulled low over his eyes. I slowed my step and allowed him to catch up to me.

“Ingrid thinks we'll reach the ice tomorrow. She smells the coast,” I told him.

“We should try to reach the ice tonight,” he replied.

“Everyone will be exhausted and it will be too dark. We won't see a thing.”

“Exactly. If it's dark, the Russians won't be able to see us. We'll be open targets during the day. Sort of like we are now,” he said.

I hadn't thought of that.

“The ice will be stronger at night, when it's colder,” he whispered. “Look at all these people. When they march across the ice, it will weaken it. They shouldn't be carrying so much baggage.”

“It's precious to them; it's all they have left. Just like that pack of yours. It seems pretty important to you.”

He said nothing.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I'm fine.”

We trudged on in silence. I stared down at the icy road.

His breath was suddenly close. “The girl. She doesn't have papers.”

Papers.

He was right. Emilia had no identity card. I had forgotten that. Germany required all civilians to legally register and carry documentation that contained our name, photograph, nationality, race, birth, and family details. The regime then assigned identifiers on the cover of the cards. My identity card said
Resettler
, indicating that Germany had allowed me to repatriate from Lithuania. We were required to show our identification to any official or soldier who requested it. Our papers determined our fate.

I looked up at her, balanced in the bundles. She smiled and gave me a small wave.

Emilia had no papers.

No papers, no future.

It was nice to sit in the wagon, but it felt unfair that I got to ride while the others had to walk. From my place in the cart I could see a long string of dark coats, farm carts, animals, and sleds behind us. The line snaked far back, until the people were just tiny specks.

Joana walked alongside the knight, her pretty brown curls peeking out from beneath her hat. He wouldn't look at her when she spoke. But whenever she looked away, his eyes quickly shifted to her.

He wanted to tell her things.

She hoped he would tell her things.

But he would not.

I could feel the blackberry seeds still stuck in my teeth from the preserves he had given me. Blackberries and black currants reminded me of Father. When I was a tiny girl, he would send me out to the bushes on the edge of our property with a small tin pail to collect them. Each time I returned with a full bucket he greeted me with hugs and smiles. There were no hugs or smiles on the farm he sent me to in East Prussia. There were stables, cowsheds, a piggery, a chicken house, and two large barns with haylofts. And then there was the cold storage cellar, standing quiet, alone behind the barn. Steps led
down into the dark underground room. That's where I would take the beetroots, turnips, dried mushrooms, and barrels of soured cabbage. I blinked and rubbed my eyes.

My stomach twitched. It used to feel like a butterfly flapping or big bubbles popping in there. But now, when I put my hand on my stomach, I could feel a bumping against my palm. That bumping. It grew stronger.

Dawn became day and soon became afternoon. We traveled faster knowing evacuation was permitted.

The road clogged as we neared Frauenburg. Up on a hill sat a redbrick cathedral. As we approached, so did a frenzy of activity and a number of German soldiers.

I shifted my pack. Another test. I would have to register at the checkpoint without raising suspicion. My father's words hung heavy on my conscience:

“Don't you see? Lange doesn't want to train you—he wants to use you, Florian.”

“You don't understand,” I had argued. “He's saving the treasures of the world.”

“Saving them? Is that what you call it? Is that how easily he's duped you? This greedy imposter fills your head with rubbish and you become a traitor?”

“I am not dishonoring Germany. Just the opposite.”

“No, son,” pleaded my father. “Not a traitor to your country. Much worse. A traitor to your soul.”

A traitor to your soul.
Those were the last words my father said to me. Not because he was finished, but because I stormed out of the house and refused to listen. When I returned months later, panicked and in need of his counsel, it was too late.

So now I risked everything, confronting fate and the knowledge that I had authored my own demise. But only if I failed.

A young German soldier stopped our group. I pretended to be on my own and continued walking. The Polish girl tried to scramble out of the cart after me.

“Halt!”

I stopped.

The soldier marched toward me. “You. Papers.”

A muscle tremored just below my ear. I slowly unbuttoned my coat and withdrew my identity card from the pocket. He grabbed it. I moved close to him and discreetly displayed the folded paper. He snapped it out of my hand, impatient. I turned slightly. The eyes of our group were upon me, closely watching the interaction.

The soldier scanned the papers. He handed them back to me, quickly snapped his heels together, and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”

Relief flooded my every pore. I returned the salute. “Heil Hitler!”

The soldier caught sight of my shirt through my open coat. “Are you injured, Herr Beck?”

“I'm fine. But I have to keep moving.”

“Are you traveling with this group?” he asked, looking over our ragged assembly. From the corner of my eye, I saw a dot of pink wool slide behind the front wheel of the cart.

The shoe poet stared at my boot. The wandering boy smiled and gave me a salute.

“Are they with you?” the soldier asked again. His gaze traveled back and landed on the nurse. His eyes widened.

“She—”

My words were clipped by shrieks amidst the crowd. The searing buzz of aircraft echoed from above.

“Off the road!” yelled the soldier.

A cluster of human beings behind us exploded with a bomb.