Salt to the Sea (16 page)

What was I going to do? Should I run? My panic seemed to increase the pain and cramping below my waist.

“Don't worry,” insisted Joana. “I'll think of something.”

I hated the ship. It was steel, lifeless, and hollow inside. I would rather be in a small wooden boat carved from an old tree, or even a floating nutshell. I detested steel birds and boats. These sterile boats were not made to appreciate the sea. Boats of steel were boats of war. Part of me hoped they would send me away, tell me that I didn't belong, that I should run back to the forest and the birds.

Joana said the
Wilhelm Gustloff
was a KdF ship. I knew what that meant. August had told me.

KdF—
Kraft durch Freude.
“Strength Through Joy.”

KdF was a national German organization that was supposed to make leisure activities available to the masses, regardless of social class. Hitler said KdF brought opportunity for everyone, all were equal. But how could all be equal if some were favored?

Like Hitler, August's mother believed in a master race. I was Polish, so in her opinion, I was not part of it. Somewhere behind the locked door in my mind, I heard the echo of Erna Kleist's stringent voice:
Not that one. This one is prettier.

The
Wilhelm Gustloff
was pregnant with lost souls conceived of war. They would crowd into her belly and she would give birth to their freedom. But did anyone realize? The ship was christened for a man, Wilhelm Gustloff. My father had told me about him. He had been the leader of the Nazi Party in Switzerland.

He was murdered. The ship was born of death.

I barricaded entry to the projection room, wedging items under and against the door so it could not be opened. The movie house was now overrun with refugees seeking warmth and shelter. Many had ventured upstairs and I turned them away. My pistol sat loaded and ready. If I was going to forge a pass, I couldn't be disturbed.

The Polish girl knew. I approached her when she entered the movie house and she handed me her pass without a word. I memorized the Gothic style of the writing the hue of the ink, traced the stamp, and made note of the terms used. Joana's pass was slightly different from the girl's due to her assignment. It was helpful to see both.

My father was overjoyed when I showed drafting and visual memory aptitude. As a small boy I could briefly look at his maps and then draw them myself. But as I grew older, my interest wasn't in creation, but duplication. I loved the challenge of trying to precisely re-create Father's maps so he couldn't distinguish the original from the copy.

He acknowledged and praised my talent, but wanted me to produce instead of reproduce. “You are so talented, Florian, why not create something of your own, something that comes from your imagination? As the philosophers say, ‘Life is short,
but art is long.' Contribute a piece of art instead of copying others, son.”

But I wasn't interested. I loved the idea of restoring old treasures and pieces of art. And once in a while, I liked copying them too.

The handwritten parts of the boarding pass were black. The ink stamp was black. The pass would be simple to forge.

Hello, sweet girl. How your patience must fray waiting for my letters.

There are no more leisure hours or breaks on the ship. I am told that we will work around the clock until we sail. I am carefully noting and recording all details. The temperature is steady at minus ten degrees Centigrade but the maritime office predicts it will dip even lower. The railings and decks on the top level of the Gustloff are encased in ice, which we are continually ordered to scrape. Fortunately, we will not be using the top deck during the voyage.

Hitler calls for every German to fulfill his duty and make sacrifices. Have others made as many sacrifices as I have, Hannelore? I nearly suffocated in my vapor bath while trying to strengthen my lungs prior to deployment. You will be relieved to know that the eternal thunderstorm that once lived in my chest has finally eased.

Yes, Lore, my main affliction now is simply a malady of eagerness. I feel quite empowered wearing this uniform. I am confident I shall soon receive the documentarian post I deserve. The watchman will prevail.

Following this initial voyage, I look forward to returning to my own territory. This region of East Prussia is quite strange. The
East Prussians themselves are a different Germanic breed altogether, very unlike the Deutschen we know.

Some of the Prussian squirearchy are now making their way to the port. One Prussian sailor told me that his family will not come. They refuse to abandon their estate. Instead, they have sent their servants toward the ships for safety. The family members have dug graves for themselves in their garden. Should the Russians arrive, they will step into the dirt pits and take their own lives. Can you imagine? The Führer is offering a means of escape and they refuse to leave their lands. That speaks not of sacrifice but of stupidity. It is annoying, yet somehow quietly satisfying to think of them in the cold ground.

The hot cloth felt glorious on my face. The
Wilhelm Gustloff
had fifty bathrooms, one hundred showers, and one hundred and forty-five toilets. Dr. Richter gave me a white pinafore apron and suggested that I “freshen up.”

The woman in the mirror was frightening, especially when I realized that she was me. My face was caked with soot, my eyes ringed with grief from the things they had seen. I had lived for twenty-one years, but the recent months had changed me. I scrubbed at the dried blood and grime beneath my fingernails, thinking of the remorse I would never be able to wash down a sink.

To assist others, to help and heal, it was a good distraction. But what would I do about Emilia? In the privacy of the bathroom, alone and unseen, the weight of the experience pressed down upon me. I missed my family, questioned the fate of my country, and feared for my cousin Lina.

Survival had its price: guilt.

Vilnius, Kaunas, my birthplace of Biržai. What were the Lithuanian people experiencing? I longed to speak Lithuanian instead of German. To sing Lithuanian songs. Everything I ever loved I had been forced to leave behind.

Someone knocked on the door. I didn't respond. Some part
of me did not want to leave the small steel bathroom. I wanted to stay locked away from the pain and destruction. I didn't want to be strong. I didn't want to be “the smart girl.” I was so very tired. I just wanted it all to be over.

Four awful years rose to the surface.

And I started to cry.

The ink was dry. I slid my brushes and supplies into the leather case and returned them to my pack. I jotted some remarks in my notebook, where I had practiced the forgery.

I had two options.

I could board early and risk the officers deeply analyzing my pass and papers. Or I could wait until the boat was already full and board with the last rush of passengers. If I boarded early, I could find a place to conceal myself for the voyage. I would get extra sleep. But I would probably need the toady sailor to help me. Was it worth the risk?

I looked at the paper. My pass was an excellent forgery. A wave of adrenaline hit me. I wanted to try it. Would it work or would they apprehend me on the gangway?

Hitler might lose the war, but he wouldn't be willing to surrender all the art he had stolen. Especially not the Amber Room.

“The Führer is a talented watercolorist. He applied to art school”—Dr. Lange had lowered his voice—“but the school did not accept him. Oh, how they will regret it.”

So instead of creating art or collecting it, Hitler stole it. Large albums with photos and lists of the items he targeted for his museum were assembled. Two such albums had been
delivered to Dr. Lange. Some of the art listed was in private homes, owned by Jewish families. Other pieces, like the Julian Falat painting, were in museums. The Czartoryski Museum in Kraków had been pillaged. Masterpieces by da Vinci, Rembrandt, and Raphael now hung in the private apartments of Nazi officials.

Other stolen pieces were hidden in salt mines, abandoned factories, castle ruins, and the basements of museums. Dr. Lange estimated that over fifty thousand pieces of art would be “reassigned” from Poland to Germany alone. He found this completely acceptable.

But the Amber Room was the greatest treasure of all. Six tons of pure glistening amber, a jeweled chamber that glowed like golden fire. The panels were backed with gold leaf, the fronts inlaid with shimmering diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and jade. And in the center of the room, in a small oval alcove, sat the prized piece—the amber swan.

I looked down at the small box in my pack. Hitler would look for the swan first. I thought of the twenty-seven crates hidden far below the castle in the secret cellar. The labyrinth of tunnels would make it impossible to find the secret chamber.

Lange knew where it was.

Koch thought he knew where it was.

I not only knew where it was, I had a map to the location and a key.

They were sealed in the hollow heel of my boot.

Dr. Richter evaluated Emilia's condition. “She seems a bit traumatized,” he commented.

I tried to agree with him without raising suspicion. “Yes,” I whispered. “I thought so too. She speaks constantly of her husband, August, a German who's fighting at the front. She's desperate to get to him since being separated from her parents. She fears he is dead.”

He nodded. “You mentioned you have maternity experience?”

“I assisted at the hospital in Insterburg. I delivered several on my own without complication.”

“I don't know how many expectant mothers we'll have. I have a couple of nurses and one medical orderly. I'll need you to help the wounded soldiers in the other ward as well,” he said.

“Yes, of course. I was shocked when I saw the men this morning,” I told him. “We didn't see injuries of that severity in Insterburg.”

The doctor lowered his voice to a whisper. “I fear the condition of the men speaks loudly of Germany's fate. It's a short voyage. Let's do what we can to make them as comfortable as possible. Have you lost many?”

I've lost my family, my language, and my country. I've lost it
all,
I wanted to say. But I knew what he meant. “I lost a friend crossing the ice just yesterday. And you?”

“Too many to count,” he replied. “Tomorrow more wounded will be the first to board. I'm told we'll also have a group from a sanatorium—German girls who fell into the hands of the Russians. I suggest you get some sleep tonight. The coming days will be long.”

I dragged my cot over to Emilia's and settled in next to her. We were finally surrounded by protection and comfort. Sheltered from the snow, the cold, and Russian soldiers, I finally felt safe. The ship had anti-aircraft guns affixed to the deck. Tonight I would sleep on a cot in a warm room, out of harm's way.

I lay face-to-face with Emilia, who was still wearing her pink hat. She smiled at me. I thought of the summers in Nida with my cousin. At night we'd lie close, noses nearly touching, whispering and giggling. Emilia reminded me so much of Lina. She had the same blond hair and sea-blue eyes, deep with strength and secrets.

The temperature dropped further. I decided it was far too cold to collect life vests and floats. Instead, I marched through the passageways of the ship chanting my melody. I found that if I kept my pace at an urgent clip, no one would stop me to assign a task. So I walked and walked, oxygenating my lungs and mentally documenting all that was going on.

All furniture had been cleared from the main rooms. The floors of the dining halls, the ballroom, and the music room were lined with thin mattress pads for refugees. I ran my fingers across the smooth wood of the grand piano in the music room. I then marched down the long teak walkways of the promenade decks. They were enclosed by glass and wrapped around the ship. I made my way down to E deck, near the bottom of the ship. There was a lovely swimming area on E deck. The pool, now drained, was still beautiful. White columns surrounded the edges of the pool under an opaque glass ceiling. At the head of the swimming room was a large mosaic depicting Neptune and mermaids swimming with fish. I liked the look of those mermaids, held captive in the tile.

Hundreds of men from the U-boat service were on their way to the ship, preparing to man submarines once we reached Kiel on mainland Germany. They would be assigned to cabins on B
and C decks. Party officials and important Germans would also share cabins.

I marched toward the galley to see what they might be cooking. We had been told that each passenger would receive one hot meal per day. My stomach felt full of empty gas. It appeared that pea soup was to be the menu staple.

“What do you need?” asked a sailor who was counting food supplies.

“Just observing. I am a documentarian,” I said, scribbling in the air.

“What's wrong with your hands?” the sailor asked with disgust.

“Nothing really. Just a bit of an irritation.”

“Is it contagious?” he asked.

“Me, contagious? How dare you.”

“Watch the attitude and go to the infirmary. We don't need to be infected.”

The infirmary for my hands. I could spy on the pretty nurse. Why hadn't I thought of that?

Joana fell asleep quickly.

The pain began first in my lower back and then moved up through my core. It was similar to the cramping I had experienced for the past few days, but more severe. I lay on the cot for several hours. It came in intervals. Just as I would fall asleep, I'd wake again with the intense pressure and pain.

I pulled off my hat and wound my fingers through the pink crocheted holes in the yarn. I sang through
All the little duckies
in my head. A sharp pain came. I clenched my hat and teeth to keep from crying out. The pain spread, splitting through my abdomen. And then, amidst the agony, the locked door in my mind suddenly opened and I was no longer on a cot in the ship's infirmary.

I sat on the cool wooden floor outside Mama's bedroom, a bowl of black currants resting quietly in my lap. When it was over, I would sit on the edge of the bed and feed them to her. I would finally have a baby brother or sister. I had been waiting, asking for years.

Papa paced the floor of the hallway. At times, Mama would yell, trying desperately to bring my sibling into the world. It went on for hours. I became hungry. And then, just as I raised a fistful of berries to my lips, the sounds changed. Her screams
of labor became screams of terror. Papa ran into the room. I sat frozen to the spot on the floor, paralyzed by the sound of Mama's voice.

Then it was quiet. The midwife began crying.

A clatter on the roof announced the departure of the stork. And then the midwife came into the hall to announce the departure of my mama.

I didn't believe it was happening. I thought it was a dream. I closed my eyes and opened them.
Wake up, Mama. Wake up. Please don't leave me!
I screamed. The berries dropped down the front of my dress and rolled across the floor.

And now, from my cot, I spoke to my mother. “Am I going to die too, Mama?”

Joana stirred next to me. “Emilia?”

I looked above at my mother and asked again: “
Umrę, prawda?
” “I'm going to die now, aren't I, Mama?”

Joana flew off her cot and stuffed pillows behind my head and back. Her reaction confirmed my fear.

Yes, I would die now.

But unlike Mama, I would not go to heaven. My secrets padlocked the gates. I'd be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.

A searing pain ripped through me. Death hacked at me with its sickle, tearing, chopping, unbearable. Then the hurt subsided. “Joana.” I reached out for her, but she was hard at work below me.

She quickly looked up and put her hand on my knee. “I'm right here, Emilia.”

“Listen. Please. Listen to me,” I begged.

“Yes. Think of August, Emilia.”

Another pain came, torturing me for my lies. It grew sharper, deeper, lynching my breath. I bit down and felt my teeth puncture the skin of my lip. The sickle was inside me, twisting and stabbing.

You must tell, Emilia.

Clear your conscience. Free your soul.

The pain retreated.

Tears fell onto my cheeks.

“Don't cry,” said Joana. “This will soon be over. Think of August, Emilia. Think of how happy you will all be.”

She was right. This would soon be over. A ripping slice burned through me. I screamed in agony.

You must tell, Emilia.

My conscience, my shame, it all boiled over. I looked at her and shook my head, barely able to speak through my tears.

“There is no August,” I whispered. “There is no August.”