Salt to the Sea (17 page)

Gripped with pain and terror, Emilia spoke in fragmented German and Polish.

“No August. Frau Kleist. Prettier.”

She kept repeating “Frau Kleist, Frau Kleist.” It made no sense.

Things were moving fast. I wanted to run for Dr. Richter but couldn't leave Emilia. She was completely overcome with fear, consumed by pain.

The sailor from the port peered around the door.

“Alfred!”

“Oh, pardon me, Fräulein. I thought you might—” He stopped when he saw Emilia.

“Alfred! Run to the soldiers' ward. Get Dr. Richter. Quickly!”

Emilia gripped the edges of the cot. She screamed, her body vibrating, eyes bulging.

The sailor paled and looked rubbery.

“Alfred! Shore up! Go get Dr. Richter.”

He turned, as if in a trance, holding the door frame and talking to himself. And then he was gone.

“Come, Emilia, breathe with me,” I told her. We locked eyes, breathing rhythmically.

Emilia stopped, her mouth pulled with pain. She screamed,
words and blood pouring from her lips. “
Liar. Liar. Help me, Mama!
”

I had never seen such terror. Where was Dr. Richter?

I couldn't step away for the chloroform. Blood dripped from Emilia's lip. Her face was slick with sweat. She cried out again, louder, excruciating.

“MAMA!”

The baby's head suddenly appeared.

“Push!” I told her. What was the word for
push
in Polish? I tried to use expressions and gestures. She understood.

She pushed and screamed.

“Don't stop! Push!”

She bore down, her clenched fists shaking, the pain so intense it strangled her screams.

The tiny child met my hands.

“Yes, yes!” I told her.

I looked down. A perfect little bird had fluttered into my arms.

Emilia gasped for breath, then sobbed and covered her face. “Liar. Help. Mama.”

“It's over,” I told her. “It's all over. You have a baby girl, Emilia. A beautiful baby girl.”

I brought the shoemaker and the wandering boy up to the projection room to sleep. I cocooned the small boy in my long wool coat, folding the collar over as a headrest. He slept soundly with his rabbit and remained asleep after I woke.

The shoe poet was already awake, staring at my boots.

“You altered the heel yourself. You did a fine job. You are a craftsman?” he asked.

“Of sorts,” I said. If he knew, would he turn me in?

“Six years,” said the shoemaker. “This war has stolen six years from the world. I was born in Germany and have lived here my entire life. I have dear friends who are Russian. They tell me the Russian people are suffering terribly. Stalin, Hitler”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“there is no happy ending here.”

I nodded, reflecting upon his words. What would it mean to be German after the war? What would it mean to be Prussian? I checked my watch. “We should wake the little one.”

“I suppose, but I look at the boy and I envy his quiet sleep, his innocence,” said the old man.

“Where did he come from?” I asked.

“He wandered out of the woods. An address in Berlin was pinned to the front of his coat. But I wonder, who's waiting
for the little lad? What if the address is an orphanage? He told Joana that he was with his granny, but one day she didn't wake up.”

I could feel my face moving, betraying my desire to remain unaffected.

The old man nodded. “There's a saying, ‘Death hath a thousand doors to let out life; I shall find one.' We all have a door that waits. I know that. I accept it. But the children. That's what I struggle with.” He shook his head. “Why the children?”

“But the boy is the reason you were given a pass for a ship. He was too young to go alone.”

“Yes, yes, I've thought about that. Perhaps the children are little cherubs, looking after withered men like me.”

“Which ship will you be on?” I asked.

“The
Gustloff
. And you?” he asked.

“The
Gustloff
, ” I said.

We shared a quiet smile.

I stared at a jar of cotton balls on the metal table. Small white clouds trapped in glass. I wanted to lift the lid and let them fly away with my secrets.

I was still alive. Why?

The doctor cleaned and examined the baby while Joana tended to me.

“You did very well, Emilia,” she said, softly wiping the hair from my eyes.

I stared into the bright ceiling lights until my eyes hurt. Everything hurt. My strength dissolved into exhaustion.

Wasn't a person supposed to feel better after telling the truth? Perhaps there was no peace because Joana hadn't understood or hadn't heard me. Was it enough to admit the lie to yourself and the heavens, or did you have to tell someone who listened?

For months I had done so well. Most days I actually believed my own story. Yes, August Kleist existed. He visited the farm for a while during my stay. He carried wood for me, climbed the ladder so I didn't have to, shared his plums, and defended me in front of his mother. He did it all because he was a kind person. But I didn't exist for him the way he existed for me. He left before it happened.

It was a windless day in May when the Russians arrived at the farm. The air hung still and their boots echoed on the stones as they approached. Mr. Kleist had broken his own arm to avoid recruitment into the people's army. He claimed it was an accident, but I had peeked at his preparations in the barn. He was home in a sling the day the Russians arrived.

Mrs. Kleist and her daughter, Else, came outside as the soldiers approached. Mrs. Kleist quickly told Else to go inside. But Else didn't move. Her feet seemed attached to the ground. I had been picking mushrooms in the forest and was hauling my baskets to the cold cellar. I hid behind a large tree.

Mrs. Kleist carried the ax in the family, but I could see from my hiding place that her nerves were unsteady. Mr. Kleist talked too much when the Russians arrived. It annoyed them. They wanted food, vodka, wristwatches. And Else.

“
Urri
,
urri
, yes,” said Mrs. Kleist. “Martin, give them your watch. Immediately.”

A soldier took a step toward Else. Mr. Kleist began to whimper but his wife stepped in quickly to negotiate.

“No! This one
krank
,
krank
.” She was telling the soldiers that Else was diseased. “We have one who is much prettier.”

My blood thickened. My skin stung. No. She wouldn't.

“
Emilia!
” she yelled for me. She spotted my basket peeking out from behind the tree and commanded me forward.

“You see? So pretty. Very, very pretty. Take her instead.”

The soldiers looked at me with their dead faces.

A trail of mushrooms spilled behind me as they dragged me to the cold cellar.

• • •

Joana carried the tiny swaddled baby over to my cot, cooing and kissing her head.

The doctor approached as well. “She's quite small, but seems healthy. Have you chosen a name yet?”

A name? I shook my head.

“Ah, you understood! You do understand a bit of German. Wonderful. Well, you can think about a name. Good work, Joana.” The doctor left the room.

I was so tired. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of Death's key in the lock.

I would try to board early. A cute little boy and a hobbled old shoemaker might mask my arrival nicely. We left the theater and walked out into the road. The streets were alive, moving and swaying with hordes of people pushing toward the pier. Hungry dogs roamed and barked, abandoned by their masters because they weren't allowed on ships. Children, separated from their parents, wailed on the sidewalks, frantic and freezing. Some crouched in dark doorways of abandoned buildings, gnawing on moldy bread and the peels of sugar beets.

The small boy clung to the shoe poet, who was having difficulties navigating the shoving mob. He swatted people's ankles with his walking stick to clear a path.

“Up we go,” I told the small boy. A pain in my wound surged as I lifted the boy onto my shoulders.

“Yes, wonderful idea,” said the shoemaker. “Thank you.” The old man fell in step with another white-haired German. “What do you hear?” asked Poet.

“On Christmas Eve, a German sub sank a troopship in the English Channel. They say there were thousands of American soldiers on board who drowned.”

Were Americans dying by the thousands as well? Nazi
propaganda portrayed America as racially impure, a nation of mongrels,
The Land Without a Heart
.

The deep booming of an artillery shell rumbled in the distance. People in the crowd screamed and pushed forward. Women's faces were flaked with mud and ash, camouflage from the Russians they'd applied while trekking through the woods. Refugees rummaged through deserted sleds and luggage.

“Take those boots,” called the shoe poet to an old man picking through a pile. “They're better than your own.” The man nodded in acknowledgment.

Stories spread through the packs of people as we walked. A woman ran to a girl near us.

“Hurry! Russian planes dropped phosphorus on a mass of refugees. It blinded them and they had to roll in the snow.”

Whispers filtered that the Allies had cut off access roads and train routes. We were surrounded. The crowds became denser, more suffocating as we approached the port. Panicked refugees trembled as they lined up at registration stations. Babies were used as pawns, passed from one person to the next as they approached for registration.

A woman grabbed my arm. “How much for the kid? They won't let me on if I don't have a kid.”

The wandering boy's legs tightened on my shoulders.

“He's not for sale,” I told her.

“Everyone has a price,” she said.

“But clearly not everyone has a soul,” said Poet, raising his walking stick to the woman. “Step away from the child.”

There appeared to be several checkpoints. No one was allowed through without a boarding pass. I unbuttoned my coat, enduring the freezing temperature in order to allow the bloodstains on my shirt to be visible. I had another stain, of course. One that wasn't visible.

Sippenhaft.
Blood guilt. It was a law of the Nazi regime. If a family member had committed a crime or treason, his blood was considered bad. It was an old practice, holding family members responsible for the crime of a relative.

My father made maps for the men who attempted to assassinate Hitler. He was taken to Berlin and hanged in the gallows of Plötzensee prison. And now I was smuggling Hitler's most prized treasure, along with a map and key to the Amber Room in my boot heel. There was no question. Beck blood was bad.

We approached the entrance to the harbor, cordoned off by a line of armed guards.

A shiny black Mercedes slowly carved through the crowd. Soldiers moved a barrier and allowed the vehicle of well-dressed women and officers in uniform to pass.

No. It wasn't. It couldn't be. That wasn't Gauleiter Koch, was it? Anxiety played tricks with my mind.

A soldier marched up and down the line of waiting passengers. “Have your papers and passes ready for inspection, please.”

A vein began to pulse at the base of my throat.

Her words replayed in my head.

No August. Russians. Frau Kleist. Take her. She prettier.

My stomach rolled. How I hoped I was wrong. I looked over at Emilia, fast asleep on the cot. She had talked of August and the farm. Her face lit up when she spoke of him. But in the throes of labor she had also screamed
liar
and pleaded for her mother to help her.

I looked at the little bundle. She was perfect, asleep like her mama.

Three more pregnant women had arrived and were resting comfortably in the makeshift maternity ward.

Dr. Richter entered with another man in tow.

“Joana, this is Dr. Wendt. He just arrived from the Naval Medical Academy in Gdańsk. He'll be joining us for the voyage.” Dr. Richter gestured to the baby. “Joana handled our first delivery this morning.”

I shook the new doctor's hand. “I'm so glad you're here. I'm more comfortable assisting.”

“Looks like you did a fine job,” said Dr. Wendt.

“Boarding has begun and passengers are filing in as we speak,” said Dr. Richter.

“When are we expected to sail?” I asked.

“Quite soon,” he replied. “We'll have seven expectant mothers and a hundred and sixty-two wounded men. That could change, of course. If you see anything suspicious, we'll need to report it.”

Suspicious. A perfect description of handsome Florian Beck. Where was he now, I wondered.

I woke, disoriented. Joana wanted me to move, to walk a bit. I didn't want to. I was finally warm. No one would bother me for a while. And I was so tired. I pulled the sheet up to my nose.

She brought me pea soup and sat at my bedside. Whenever she left, she returned quickly. Joana looked at me differently now.

She understood.

She knew.

“The Prussian?” I asked, wondering about the knight.

“I don't know,” she said.

“You hope,” I told her.

She laughed.

Her smile suddenly faded and she looked straight at me. She leaned over my cot and took both of my hands in hers. Her eyes, filled with compassion, began to well up. Joana then whispered the words I had waited so long to hear. I knew Mama would say them if she could. But Joana spoke them, slowly and deliberately, clutching my hands between hers.

“Emilia, I am so very sorry.”

My chin began to tremble. My throat tightened. I nodded and warm tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she repeated, squeezing my hands.

“Me too,” I whispered.