Salt to the Sea (9 page)

The sound of children screaming, wood splintering, and life departing roared from behind. I tried to run toward the crowd but the soldier grabbed me and threw me off the road. I crawled through the snow toward the pink of Emilia's hat and draped my body over hers.

The explosions finally ceased and the soldier yelled at us to move quickly into the village.

“But I can help them back there. I have medical training,” I argued.

“It's no use. Move along, Fräulein, now!” the soldier commanded, waving us forward. Our group reassembled and trudged toward Frauenburg. But one person was missing.

The young German was gone.

Who was he? Whatever was written in the letter commanded great respect from the soldier on the road.

Emilia was inconsolable, turning in all directions to find the German. She wailed and tried to leave. It took four of us to get her back into the cart. The bombing propelled everyone forward at a quicker pace, anxious to reach Frauenburg and possible shelter. I didn't want to move forward. I needed to go back, to help the injured. But they would not allow it.

“What good will you be, my dear, if you are injured?” said
the shoe poet. “You must preserve yourself in order to help others.”

Poet didn't know the truth. I had already preserved myself. I had left Lithuania and those I loved behind.

To die.

What an enormous vessel, the
Wilhelm Gustloff
. Walking her length was more exercise than I cared for. I found it preferable to conserve my energy. Sometimes this conservation involved stealing away to the lavatory to sit for an hour. Maybe two. On occasion, while sitting, I'd remind myself that fitness was important to a healthy physique. I wanted to quell my crawling rash. After all, I had been told that a squad of Women's Naval Auxiliary were on their way to join the voyage. More than three hundred young naval cadets. They would of course require my assistance.

I'd tell the pretty ones they could call me Alfred. But just the pretty ones.

I stood in the ship's stately ballroom, imagining the dancing figures it used to hold.

Oh, hello there, Lore! Lovely to see you. Would you care to dance?

“Come on, Frick, all of this furniture has to go,” instructed my superior. “Everything must be removed to create space. Carry the furniture out onto the dock. Take the tablecloths up to the arbor on the sundeck. They're organizing a hospital ward up there.”

“What will this ballroom be used for?” I asked.

“For refugees. Once we remove the furniture, we'll line this ballroom with mattresses.”

I looked at the dance floor, trying to imagine it covered with spongy mats.

Hannelore was a very good dancer. How I enjoyed the private recitals through the window.

My rash began to itch, chasing away my one weakness that was Hannelore Jäger. Somewhere inside, I reminded myself of the necessary truth.

Hannelore might be dancing for someone else now.

He was gone.

I tried to look for him but Joana demanded I stay in the cart.

“Let her go,” said Eva.

Big Eva was scared of me, more concerned with her own survival. But Joana had won. Her importance to the group was evident. She was trusted. She was wanted.

“We'll approach the checkpoint and register,” instructed Joana. “We can't cross now, the planes shot through the ice. It will refreeze overnight. We'll wait here in the village and cross in the morning.”

The German Empire had renamed the cities. They called the village Frauenburg. The old name had been Frombork. Father told me it was once the home of the astronomer Copernicus, who proved that the earth rotated around the sun.

“
Per aspera ad astra
, Papa,” I whispered. Through hardship to the stars. It was a Latin phrase he used whenever I complained that something was difficult. Where was my father now? Could he ever have imagined things would be this difficult? I looked up at the sky, wondering if the stars would be pretty here.

Joana whispered with Eva. I heard her say something about
refugees in the ice. She was trying to be stoic, a medical woman, but I could tell that she was upset because the soldier hadn't allowed her to help the injured on the road.

Joana climbed up into the cart. “Here,” she whispered. “Take this.” She handed me an identity card. “It's from a young Latvian woman who died on the road,” she explained. “I was going to give the papers to the Red Cross for their registry. This woman was slightly older, but she had blond hair. Take your braids out and keep your hat pulled down.”

I quickly began to unthread my braids.

“Open your coat so your pregnancy is revealed. They will assume you're older. I'll explain that you are Latvian and don't speak German.”

So that was the plan. Would it really work? What would happen if they realized I wasn't a dead Latvian woman, but a young Polish girl with no papers?

Birds squawked overhead, issuing a warning.

I knew the legends of the birds. Seagulls were the souls of dead soldiers. Owls were the souls of women. Doves were the recently departed souls of unmarried girls.

Was there a bird for the souls of people like me?

I held the paper, waiting to approach the checkpoint. I stared at the type.

Sonderausweis
.

Special pass. It looked real. Perhaps my best work ever. The soldier on the road didn't question. He saluted me for the special mission that the pass defined. My attitude had to match the level of the forgery. If I appeared confident, they wouldn't inspect. But if Dr. Lange had discovered the missing piece, he may have wired ahead. If so, they would be waiting for me. My confidence would hold no currency.

I looked at the ledger in front of the soldier. Did the book include an arrest order for treason? I had used my real name on the pass. There wasn't time to forge new identity papers.

It had started as a dare. My friend Kurt wanted to attend a soccer match with the rest of our group, but all tickets had been sold. “Come on, Beck, use those skills to create some tickets,” chided Kurt. I accepted the challenge. Using a friend's ticket and restoration supplies, I forged a couple.

“I guess we'll need your special tickets for the finals,” Kurt joked on our way home. But we didn't make it to the finals. Kurt was a few years older than I and was drafted. At
Christmas, I went to visit his mother. She opened the door dressed in black, her eyes pillowed and heavy with grief. Kurt had died in service, an honorable death.

If I died, who would say the same of me?

• • •

The woman in front of me left the table. I was finally alone, no longer burdened by the young Pole and the pretty nurse. I approached the soldier with an air of superiority and thrust out my papers. “I need to cross now.”

“No one's crossing now. Unless you want a cold bath,” said the soldier as he opened my papers. He read the special pass and looked up at me. He lowered his voice.

“My apologies, Herr Beck. I can get you across first thing tomorrow morning.” He logged my details in the registration ledger. “We can find lodging for you this evening here in Frauenberg,” he said.

“No, I have arrangements,” I told him. I didn't need any eyes on me.

“You may cross in the morning, then. As long as there aren't any further attacks. Heil Hitler!” he said.

“Heil Hitler,” I responded, swallowing the bile that rose when I spoke the phrase.

Our group approached the village registration point and the soldiers. Emilia pulled her pink hat low over her eyes. Eva clenched her jaw and the wandering boy held Poet's hand.

How closely would they inspect our papers? Could they assess refugees like I diagnosed patients? If so, they'd note the following about me:

Homesick.

Exhausted.

Full of regret.

It wasn't fair to think of myself. The stakes were so much higher for the others.

What would they do to Emilia if they discovered the truth? And Ingrid? She'd be sent to one of the walled-in killing facilities in Germany or Austria.

“Tell me something about the inspection soldier,” whispered Ingrid.

“He's our age. Blond. His left foot is propped on a wooden box. Blue scarf.”

The soldier rubbed his gloved hands together, suffering in the cold. He scanned our group and cart as we advanced toward his table. His eyes stopped on Ingrid.

“What's wrong with your eyes, Fräulein?”

“Glass shards from an explosion,” recited Ingrid.

“Come closer,” he commanded. “Approach the table.” His eyes journeyed from her face to her feet.

Panic pounded at my throat.

“Joana.” Ingrid smiled. “Help me forward so I don't fall and embarrass myself in front of the soldier.”

I steered Ingrid forward.

“My eyes are improving,” Ingrid told him. “Today I can see through the gauze a bit. I . . . like your scarf,” she said quietly. “Blue is my favorite color.”

The soldier stared at Ingrid. His silence was elastic, slowly curling a rope around her neck. He looked at our group and put a finger to his lips, demanding silence. He reached up and pulled the scarf from his neck.

He then held the scarf out to Ingrid.

He waited.

The ends of the scarf fluttered in the freezing wind.

I couldn't breathe.

Slowly, Ingrid's gloved hand lifted, trembling, tentative.

“Yes.” He smiled, nodding. “Take it, Fräulein.” He quickly pushed the scarf into her hand. His voice dropped in volume. “You're lucky. My youngest brother was born blind.”

“I see your left foot is hurting, isn't it, lad?” interrupted the shoe poet.

“Like the devil,” replied the soldier. “That's why I'm sitting at this stupid table.”

“I'm a shoemaker. Let me have a look.” Poet was a star, with skills as good as any cinema actor. He examined the soldier's foot and ankle.

“You need a heel cup,” said Poet. “Finish up with our group here and give me your boot. You'll feel better in no time.”

“Really?” asked the soldier.

“Why, yes, it's the least I can do for the Reich, isn't it? But I don't want to hold up my group. That wouldn't be fair.” Poet chatted to him nonstop about the relief he would soon feel. The soldier scanned our papers and logged our registration quickly, barely looking at Emilia. Poet and the wandering boy stayed behind for the boot adjustment. “We'll catch up with you,” Poet said with a wink.

Ingrid stood facing the soldier, clutching his scarf to her chest. She smiled. He smiled back. I gently steered her away by the elbow. She was shaking.

• • •

We settled into the crowded cathedral on the hill with the other refugees. I walked through the clusters of people, trying to help where I could while also looking for supplies. An old woman offered to trade some herbs for a pair of socks. I reorganized my suitcase after the transaction, looking for paper to write a letter to Mother. I was one step closer to her, closer to finding out where my father and brother were. I sorted through the personal items in my case, reflecting on how much I had left behind. I used to complain that family dinners lasted too long, that we were forced to sit at the table when I needed to study for exams.

“Enough studying, Joana. Sometimes living life is more instructive than studying it,” my father used to tease.

War had rearranged my priorities. I now clung to memories more than goals or material things. But there were a few irreplaceable items that buoyed my spirit and fight for life. It was at that moment that I realized.

Something was missing from my suitcase.

Dearest one,

Your tender ear is probably full of news now, listening to reports of the Russians plundering this region. So vulgar, those Bolsheviks, interested in nothing but schnapps and wristwatches. “Urri, urri,” they say, demanding men surrender their timepieces. Do they report that in Heidelberg, Lore? Likely not. Many fine points of detail are overlooked by the average man. It is up to people like me—documentarians of the military—to report them. Yet I fear I will upset your fragile nerves by telling you these truths of atrocities, like the fact that six hundred Russian babies were born in Stolp alone last month, after the Russian barbarians invaded last year. Such an insult to our Führer. Yes, best to avoid mention of such things.

Instead I shall direct your attention to this marvel of a ship, the Wilhelm Gustloff. I know you enjoy the undisclosed details we share, so I shall risk including them. Of course secrets are safe with you, dear Hannelore. How you do love keeping secrets. But perhaps you had best throw this letter onto the fire after reading it.

The ship's chimney, or funnel, as sailors call it, is thirteen meters high. But we both know appearances can deceive. The impressive-looking chimney is false. It is not a working chimney at
all. How do I know, you ask? Well, a man of my status has access to these special details. I discovered the chimney just this week while on patrol. The inside has a nice iron ladder to a ledge where I can sit and peer out over the decks. While looking out, I have observed some of the soldiers doing things they should not. I note this information and keep it at hand in the event I need to use it to my advantage later. I quite enjoy the feeling of finally being the one who holds the cards.

We have removed all of the furniture from the ship's common areas, every last chair and table, in order to accommodate refugees. I am told they will sit shoulder to shoulder on mattresses in every room and corridor. U-boat officers and Germans of priority will of course take lodging in the ship's passenger cabins.

My Mutter always lamented my lack of friends in Heidelberg, but here each day I am introduced to someone new. Just today I met Eugen Jeissle, the ship's head printer, responsible for creating the boarding passes, the coveted pieces of paper that will allow passage to freedom.

“These will be more valuable than bars of gold,” Jeissle told me.

When he left for the toilets I decided it would be best to take a stack of the passes for posterity. I'm sure he wouldn't mind.

So, dearest, that is the news of the day. Hopefully these details of consequence will soothe the strain of my absence.

• • •

I ended the mental letter but left out one detail.

The
Gustloff
only had twelve lifeboats. The other ten were missing.