Salt to the Sea (12 page)

He was beautiful.

The knight was beautiful, handsome when he smiled.

He didn't want anyone to see it.

He didn't want to acknowledge it himself.

But for a brief moment, I saw him. The real man inside of him, not the one tortured by secrets and pain.

And he was beautiful.

I wanted August to meet him. They were so alike. Quietly strong.

I wished Mama could meet August. She would seat him at our dining room table and serve him thick cuts of bread with sticky marmalade. The belly of the teapot would be warm, full of raspberry tea. Red poppies in the center of the table would give a friendly wave from their glass jar. Mama would remove her apron before sitting down next to August. Then she'd reach across, put her hand on top of his, and tell him—
Tak się cieszę, że tu jesteś.
I am so glad you are here.

Joana still had her mother. Reuniting with her mother was her motivation. She would slay dragons to get to her. Mother was anchor. Mother was comfort. Mother was home. A girl who lost her mother was suddenly a tiny boat on an angry
ocean. Some boats eventually floated ashore. And some boats, like me, seemed to float farther and farther from land.

I forced my mind toward happy thoughts—August, warmth, storks, home—anything to distract myself from the swelling pressure inside me. I walked with the others in search of the movie house. With each step, the truth drew closer.

I could not make it much longer.

The military presence in the harbor was even heavier than I expected. That meant the Red Army was close. For once I was grateful to be within the group. I kept my head down and walked with them surrounding me. The scenes were agonizing.

A woman nearby fell to her knees, sobbing. “They say I can only choose one child for the ship. How can I choose? Please don't make me choose.”

The feeling of desperation was so physically present I could have shoveled it off the dock. Germany needed any and all men for service. SS squads would be on patrol. I had forged courier papers, but an officer could easily ask me to abandon my mission and drive a tank instead.

The woman with the goat had said everything was disorganized. She was wrong. Things were chaotic, yes, but the Germans were always organized. Meticulous. They had systems for everything.

Nazi Party officials, local leaders, and their families would have priority passage on the departing ships. Officers and wounded soldiers would also be granted passage. After the priority travelers and military personnel were loaded, the Germans would choose refugees. Women with children would
be allowed first. Young single men like myself would not be allowed. At all.

I might finally be forced to reveal that I was hiding a wound greater than a piece of shrapnel. If so, I would need the nurse's help. The strategy was one I had hatched days ago. But it wouldn't work if she was mad at me. By grabbing the nurse I had saved her life. Why was she angry? It bothered me that she was mad. It bothered me even more that I cared.

But I needed her help.

So I had to say I was sorry.

But I didn't have to hold her hand.

Darling Lore,

The tension grows with each hour that passes. Tomorrow morning, ambulance trains will be arriving from the East, full of wounded soldiers. I was initially assigned to the hospital ward but I will find a replacement, of course, as they will surely discover my talents are better suited in other areas.

As a child my Mutter would shield my eyes from sickness and deformity. She was quite right to do so. There is so much ugliness and imperfection in the world. We know it exists but we create further trauma by being forced to look at it. Some things are better ignored.

• • •

“Frick, snap out of it!”

I turned toward the voice that addressed me.

“This area will be for limbless soldiers and amputees. But we can't take all of them. Tomorrow, when the ambulance trains arrive, we will examine the wounded. Only soldiers with a strong chance of survival will be embarked.”

Examining wounds? No, that wouldn't do at all.

“Excuse me, sir,” asked another sailor. “You said those with a chance of survival will be embarked. What about our men who are more gravely injured?”

“They will be left behind,” replied the officer.

“Quite wise.” I nodded. “Leave the browned cabbage in the basket. It makes no sense to save a head with only a few good leaves.”

“Shut up, Frick,” they said in unison.

The town of Gotenhafen bloated with refugees and military. The shoe poet scavenged through abandoned luggage as we walked. He found two pairs of boots. The wandering boy quickly shined them. By the time we reached the movie house, Poet had traded the boots for a large bucket of hot porridge.

“Useful skills can always be bartered. You see, your expertise is valuable,” he told the wandering boy. The boy beamed.

We approached the small movie house. “We'll sit down soon,” I assured Emilia. She looked as if she might collapse. We walked to the back door but found it locked.

The shoe poet turned to the German. “Perhaps you can find a way in, friend?”

“Perhaps.” He nodded. “Gather around me.” We did as he asked. He removed a small jackknife from his pocket and within seconds had opened the door. We slipped inside and he locked the door behind us.

“We should leave it open,” I told him. “Others will need a place to stay too.”

Others were already inside. Sitting in the chairs, lying on the floor.

“I see the goat mother made a few coins selling her information,” said Eva.

“Where shall we make our camp?” asked the shoe poet, looking around.

“We should take the projector room,” said the German. “Upstairs.”

“I don't want to walk up the stairs,” said Eva. “I'm tired. Let's just sit and eat this porridge before it gets cold.”

I agreed. The day had been so long. The boat ride, the ice, Ingrid.

Ingrid.

I felt a tremor in my throat.

“So,” said Eva, “who's hiding the blackberries and carrots from the dead house?”

After a quiet meal I laid Emilia down and elevated her legs on a suitcase. The wandering boy was asleep in seconds. Eva also fell asleep quickly, her huge frame the length of two wandering boys. She snored, sputtering growls each time she exhaled.

I pulled my medical bag from my suitcase, preparing for those who might need help.

“Hey,” said the German quietly.

I looked over to him.

“There are several ships. Tomorrow we'll all be split up at registration,” he said.

Emilia looked at me. I hadn't thought of that. “But we should try to stay together,” I whispered to him.

“Well, what's your story for her?” he said, pointing to Emilia.

“I guess the same, with the Latvian's papers.”

He shook his head. “It will be tougher here. Everyone wants to get on a boat.”

“I'll explain that she's pregnant. She'll open her coat and they'll see.”

“But she doesn't look old enough to be the Latvian. She doesn't speak any Latvian,” he said. “They're strict here. There are senior officers in charge, not just young recruits.”

Emilia reached out and touched the German's knee. “
Bitte,
” she said.

“I'm sorry, I can't take you on,” he told her. “But she can.” He pointed to me.

“I can?”

“Yes. Like the old man said, skills are valuable. The larger ships will have hospital wards. They'll need you. Present yourself for work, but tell them you want to bring your patients with you.”

Emilia looked at him. “You are patient too,” she said.

“Maybe. I do have”—he hesitated—“a medical condition,” he said.

The shrapnel. I had nearly forgotten. “Oh, I haven't even asked. You seemed well. How is your wound?”

“It's not that. It's something else,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

Emilia patted her left ear and then pointed to the German.

He stared at her, shocked but laughing. “What are you, a little witch or something? How did you know?”

“What is it?” I repeated.

He leaned in, over Emilia. “My left ear has been damaged,”
he whispered. “I have papers, an important assignment. I need to get on a boat. But there's a chance they'll ask me to stay and fight instead. I'd have a stronger case with a medical testimony. You could say that I'm recovering from a wound along with losing my hearing.”

What was he asking me to do?

“I'm not a doctor,” I told him.

“But I was your patient,” he said. “Please, just think about it.” He grabbed his pack and pointed up to the projection room. “I'm going to find my way up there.”

He walked off. He had spoken more to me in the last five minutes than he had since he joined our group.

The shoe poet was still awake, listening. He raised his eyebrows at me, then rolled over to sleep.

I stared at the envelope from Mutter. It had arrived two months ago. I decided to open it.

My dear Alfie,

I am so very worried. Despite my many letters, I have heard nothing from you. Please send a few words to let your Mutti know that you are safe. Are you eating well? How is your stomach?

Heidelberg is fairly quiet relative to the rest of the country. I am grateful that we are insulated. I clean your room, in hopes you shall soon return home. Last week, while dusting in your closet, I discovered all of the butterflies pinned to the back wall. Imagine my surprise. So many, yet you never mentioned them. How long have you had them, Alfred, and why?

All is the same as in my last letter. The Jägers' house is still lonesome. Frau Henkel always mentions you when she speaks of the Jägers. I think you admired little Hannelore, did you not? I wonder if there is something you haven't told me? Do not be frightened to share your secrets. I will not tell your father. When the war is over there will be a “right side” to land upon. The “wrong
side” could have grave consequences. Your father is aware of that. I hope you are too.

Remember to wear two pair of socks. It will protect your bunions.

With loving thoughts always,

Mutti

• • •

I grabbed a pen and paper.

Dear Mutter,

Your letter has just arrived. I am in
Gotenhafen. I am fine and very busy. I am working
on the ship Wilhelm Gustloff and am too occupied in
duty to write often. Do not touch my butterflies and
please refrain from entering my room. I know nothing of
the Jägers.

Your son,

Alfred

I knew it. The nurse would want to see my ear. I watched her make her way through the aisle, looking for the stairway. Would she find it? I sat down and began cleaning my nails with the knife.

She opened the door. “I'm surprised it's unlocked.”

“I knew you would come up.”

“How did you know?” she asked.

I shrugged. “You're exceedingly responsible. You have this terrible need to heal people.” I looked up from my jackknife. “Why is that?”

“You're one to ask questions. You barely speak. I've asked your name several times and you won't reply. Do you know what I call you?” she asked. “The German.”

“I'm Prussian.” I looked down at my knife. Should I have told her that?

“Okay, so now you're the Prussian.” She knelt in close. “Let me look at your ear.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a small light, and peered into my ear.

I could feel the warmth of her face near mine. An amber pendant rested in the hollow of her throat. “Nice necklace. Do you like amber?” I asked, thinking of the priceless swan.

“I'm Lithuanian. Of course I like amber. Your eardrum has ruptured. This is recent. How did it happen?” she asked.

“The explosion. Same time as the shrapnel,” I told her.

She pressed around my ear. Her fingertips brushed against my earlobe. I twitched.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

I shook my head. No, it didn't hurt. I was half-deaf but I wasn't numb. The nurse's face was inches from mine. Her mouth was close and her breath was in my ear. I closed my eyes, fighting like hell to hold off the shiver. She was testing me.

She leaned back on her heels, grinning.

“Are you satisfied?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes.” She smiled. “You must be deaf in that ear.”

“I know you said something. I could feel it. I just couldn't hear it.”

“Well, I'd like you to hear this. I'm Joana. You should call me by my name. Not nurse, not girl. Joana.”

“That might be impolite,” I told her. “You're older than me. I should probably call you ma'am, or maybe madame?”

She rolled her eyes. “Lie down. I want to check the dressing on your wound.”

I lay back and folded my arms behind my head. I had to ask.

“Or maybe you're a Mrs.?” I said.

“No, I'm not a Mrs.,” she said, inspecting my wound. “Do you have a Mrs.?”

I flinched. “That area you're touching now. It still hurts,” I said.

“That's normal. If it were infected, you'd have a fever and
discoloration.” She had no problem returning to medical chat. She softly swept back my overgrown hair and laid her palm against my forehead. Her hand was warm. “You don't have a fever.” She paused and cleared her throat. “So I've been thinking about what you said. We could all be split up tomorrow. I need to stay with Emilia.”

“You need to?”

She peeled my soiled bandage back farther. “Yes. Her time is near and despite the brave face she's putting on, she's probably quite frightened.”

Are you frightened?
I wanted to ask. Was a soldier waiting somewhere for her? I thought of the song “Lili Marleen” that she had mentioned. Maybe a guy was waiting under a lamppost back in Lithuania.

“So you want to help the Polish girl. Are you like that English nurse, the one who carried her lamp through the dark to save all of those sick people?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I'm no Florence Nightingale. It's just—Emilia reminds me of someone.”

I realized that telling the truth might be the ammunition I needed. “She reminds me of someone too,” I said. “I have a younger sister.”

It worked. Her head snapped to me.

“You do?”

I nodded. “She's nearly sixteen now, like the Polish girl. My father sent her up north near the Danish border for safety. I haven't heard from her in over three years. I'm going to find her.”

Her expression softened.

“Are your parents still alive?” I asked.

Her hands stopped. Her fingers rested lightly on my chest. She stared off into the corner. “I hope so.” She sighed.

Family. I had hit the nerve. I was exactly where I needed to be to convince her, but suddenly I felt bad. She was genuinely a nice girl. And why did she have to be so pretty? Why couldn't she have a mustache like that giant, Eva?

“I try so hard not to think negatively,” she said. “My mother is in a refugee camp in Germany, but my father and brother are still in Lithuania. Mother thinks they're fighting in the forests. I've heard that Stalin has done unspeakable things to Lithuanians. And then I think of the family upstairs at that estate.” She paused. “Are you absolutely sure they were all dead? I keep thinking that maybe one of the children was alive, that I could have helped.”

I didn't want to describe it for her. “They were dead.”

She looked straight at me. “I did something stupid.”

I stared back at her, waiting. The curtain to her guard was sliding down. Her truths were there for the taking. A soft curl slipped from beneath her ear onto her cheek. That curl. It was killing me.

“I wrote the family a note, saying that I borrowed their sewing kit. It didn't feel right taking something of theirs. That was before I knew they were all upstairs, of course. I signed my name on the note and left it in the kitchen. Now my full name is in that house. What if the relatives return to find the dead family and my name?”

“Sure, you slaughtered the family and then left a borrow
note for a sewing kit. That's a real calculated killer.” I laughed.

The curtain flew back up. I had pushed too far. “Killers aren't always assassins. Sometimes they don't even have blood on their hands.” She gathered her bag, leaving my shirt open.

“Your stitches should be removed in a couple days. I don't know if they will accept me on a ship. If they do, I may think about vouching for your ear and your wound. But I have to know more. I can't take the risk. Either give me your name, show me your papers, or tell me what you're hiding in your pack.” She stood up and looked down at me.

I raised myself onto my elbows but said nothing. I really wanted not to like this girl, but was failing miserably.

“You think you're sly,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you took something from my suitcase. I want it back, by tomorrow.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you'd better check your suitcase again.”

“Oh, you're good, but you're not that good,” she said. “And trust me, you're not the only one with secrets. Good night, Prussian.” She closed the door.

I lay back down on the cold tile floor. I reached into my pocket and pulled out her note about the sewing kit. What sort of girl leaves a promissory note in the midst of a bloodbath?

An honest one.

I stared at her pretty handwriting, memorizing it and tracing over her signature with my finger. I had slipped the drawing back into her suitcase. Yes, I was that good.

Good night, Joana.