Salt to the Sea (25 page)

“The ship, it's under,” said Joana, her teeth chattering. Her voice was barely a whisper.

I counted nearly fifty people in our large lifeboat. We could have fit more.

The shoemaker.

The Polish girl.

Gone.

The cold on the open water would kill us. I called out to the little boy and pulled him onto my lap. I turned my body and straddled the bench in the boat. “Do the same,” I told Joana. “We'll put the kids between us. Put the baby under your blouse and coat, against your skin.”

She turned toward me, holding the baby. I moved as close as I could. I wrapped my arms around her, sheltering the children from the elements. Our heads touched.

“Can you hear me?” Joana whispered. Her voice sounded thin, frightened.

I nodded and turned my good ear toward her.

“It's so cold. Will anyone come for us?” she asked.

The air was black. The moon hid behind the clouds, unable to stomach the wretched scene. I looked out across the water, thousands of corpses floating silently. So many children. The
girl I had pulled into the boat was already dead. She lay blue and lifeless at our feet. How would the Nazis report the news of the sinking? But then I realized.

They wouldn't report it at all.

“Will anyone come for us?” repeated Joana.

“Yes,” I lied. “Someone will come for us.”

With the threat of Russian submarines in the area, most ships would probably detour to avoid us.

Everything I ran with was in my pack—my papers, the forged documents, my notebook, and the swan. All the running, the hiding, the lies, the killing, for what? The endless circle of revenge: answering pain by inflicting pain. Why did I do it?

The strange sailor had not made it to a lifeboat. There were none left. I looked down at my boots. My heel was still intact. Had the map and key survived? Did it matter? Water slowly crept through a crack in the bottom of our boat. The precious treasure would end up at the bottom of the Baltic.

So would I.

Maybe the Amber Room truly did carry a curse.

During my weeks on the run I had imagined every scenario. I had counted all of the ways I could die. They were gruesome, frightening. I had carefully planned how I would defend myself, what weapon I would use. But this, I had never imagined. How do you defend yourself against the prolonged, insufferable agony of knowing you will surrender to the sea?

The black water lapped against the side of the boat. Snow drifted down around us. In the quiet dark, Florian began telling me things. He told me of his mother, how he missed her, how he mourned the mistakes with his father. He spoke of many people and places.

He was telling me things now because he knew we were going to die.

I thought of my mother, waiting patiently for me to arrive, worrying about her only daughter, perhaps her only surviving family member. How would she hear the news? Everyone knew the story of the big ships,
Titanic
and
Lusitania
. I looked toward the thousands of corpses floating in the water. This was so much larger. More than ten thousand people had been on board the
Gustloff
. The gruesome details of the sinking would be reported in every world newspaper. The tragedy would be studied for years, become legendary.

I sat, wrapped up with a handsome thief, an orphan boy and a newborn baby between us. I thought of Emilia standing on the deck of the
Gustloff
in the freezing wind, handing her baby to Florian. She had looked down at us in the lifeboat, her blond hair blowing beneath her pink hat.

“One more.”

That's what the sailor had said.

Most would have fought to be “the one.” They would have insisted they ought to be “the one.” But Emilia had pushed the wandering boy into the boat, sacrificing herself for another. Where was she now? Had she gotten into a boat? I thought of frightened yet brave Emilia, and I started to cry.

I wanted my mother. My mother loved Lithuania. She loved her family. The war had torn every last love from her life. Would she have to learn the grotesque details of our suffering? Would news make it to my hometown of Biržai, to the dark bunker in the woods where my brother and father were thought to be hiding?

Joana Vilkas, your daughter, your sister. She is salt to the sea.

We floated in the blackness, bobbing along the waves. A woman in the boat announced the time every thirty minutes. There was no more splashing in the water, only the quiet echoes of crying. We sat, snow falling from an infinite sky.

We waited.

We drifted.

And then I felt Florian's face in my hair. He was kissing me. He kissed my head, he kissed my ear, he kissed my nose. I looked up at him. He took my face in his hands.

“There's a light. A boat is coming,” he whispered.

Dear Hannelore,

The news is grim, the night so very cold. To warm myself I think of summer in Heidelberg. I see you there. I can see you here now, your dark hair against your snug red sweater. I saw a lot of things back home, but most did not credit me for my observant nature. Instead people, like my naïve Mutter, insisted I was suited for bakery work. “How doth we judge a man . . .” I can't recall the rest at this time. People knew I had thoughts, but never wanted to hear them from me. I had more than thoughts. I had theories, plans. Do you remember on the sidewalk when I began to tell you of them? You were so enlightened you ran away, probably to share them with others.

Hitler, he understands my theories. And I, his. Protection of the sick, weak, and inferior is not sensible. That is why I told the Hitler Youth boys about your Jewish father. Do you understand that I was trying to help, Lore? Your mother is not Jewish. I thought surely you would have had sense enough to tell the officers that your mother was a gentile, that you would have aligned yourself to the greater being inside you.

But you decided otherwise.

And now, years later I am still confused by our final
conversation. Do you remember it? I remember it so clearly. I ran out onto the sidewalk as they were taking you away. I told them that half of you was part of the master race. You stopped in your tracks and whirled to face me.

“No,” you yelled. And then you screamed so very loud.

“I am Jewish!”

Your words echoed between the buildings and bounced down the street.

“I am Jewish!”

I am certain everyone heard your proclamation. It almost sounded like pride. And for some reason those words are now caught, like a hair, in the drain of my mind.

“I am Jewish!”

We tossed for such a long while. At times I thought I saw tiny faint lights in the distance, but the waves had carried us too far to tell. Where was the Russian submarine that had torpedoed the ship? Was it underneath us? I clutched the knight's pack in front of my body to shield me from the wind. Having his pack made me feel close to him. He was a good man. Thoughts of him made me warmer. I just needed to wait until sunrise. How long would that be? Perhaps seven or eight hours?

I could make it.
I'm coming, Halinka.

The sailor alternated between talking and heaving over the side of the raft. He was pointing his finger at me, speaking of Hitler. He kept calling me Hannelore. It frightened me. He frightened me. There was a look behind his eyes. I had seen it in the port. Frau Kleist had the same disapproving look.

His speech became slow and slurred from the cold. He was delirious. He threw his hands in the air, repeating the word
Jewish
. It made me think of my sweet friends Rachel and Helen from Lwów. How we used to sing as we collected mushrooms in the forest when they visited me. How we'd be covered in flour and sugar after rolling plum dumplings. How I missed them.

The sailor began talking about a medal. His medal. He then insisted that the medal was in the knight's pack.

“Did you take my medal? Are you a thief?” he asked, deranged from the cold. He crawled over to me and started grabbing at the pack. I swatted his hands away. He became more insistent.

I shouted at him. His face pinched at my words.

I hadn't realized: I was speaking Polish. I was so tired of the game. What did it matter now? “
Nicht Deutsche,
” I yelled. “
Polin.
”

He stopped and wobbled in front of me, confused. “What? You are Polish?”

“I am Polish!” I yelled.

He wagged a delirious finger at me. “Filthy Pole. You liar! Finally, I will serve my country. I am a hero, Hannelore.
Einer weniger!
” he bellowed.

Einer weniger.
One less.

He leaned over and tried to shove me into the water. I kicked him with all of my remaining strength. He fell backward on the raft, chanting and repeating, “Hero, hero.” He pulled himself to a crouch, then leaned in, eyes narrowed. He began reciting. Or was he singing?

“
Poles, Prostitutes, Russians, Serbs, Socialists.
”

He took a breath, tightened his lips, and spit on me, then resumed singing.

“Stop, please,” I begged.

He did not stop. He grabbed at me. I fought and clawed as he sang.

“
Spanish Republicans, Trade Unionists, Ukrainians . . .
”

He paused and then jumped to his feet.

“
YU-GO-SLAV!
”

His shoeless foot slipped on the icy surface and he dropped, his forehead smashing against the steel corner of the raft. He lay still, motionless. Then slowly he began to move. He pulled himself up, his face covered in blood, eyes wide with momentary inquisition. He parted his lips to speak. His mouth formed a small smile as he whispered.

“But-ter-fly.”

His torso swayed. He was gravely injured. I reached to steady him but he jerked away, violently recoiling from my touch.

He lost his balance and fell backward into the water.

There was brief splashing. The freezing water quickly strangled his screams.

And then it fell quiet. I waited, listening for a long while. The sailor, the self-professed hero, he was dead.

I was alone.

Again.

I hugged the pack and sang songs to Halinka in the darkness. Once in a while I saw something float by. After a time, the waves calmed slightly and cradled me up and back in their arms. I dozed a bit and wondered how many hours were left until sunrise. I imagined the sun warming me and showing me where I was.

Just a little longer now.

It was very dark. My body felt relaxed but heavy.

I was so tired.

My breathing slowed, quiet. Never had I felt so drowsy.

Then I saw something. I blinked softly. It was still there. Yes. It was coming closer, cutting through the water toward me, gradually becoming brighter.

Light.

Florian was right. The light was a ship. The passengers in the boat with remaining strength waved their arms to be seen by the searchlight scanning the water. Florian moved to row us toward the rescue ship.

The baby stirred. The wandering boy looked up at me. “A boat has come to pick us up,” I told him.

“Is Opi on the boat?” he asked.

Sailors unfurled a large knotted net down the side of the ship. I didn't know if I had the strength to climb up. My hands were numb with cold.

“Are you a good climber, Klaus?” Florian asked the wandering boy.

The boy nodded.

The lifeboat swung up next to the ship, bobbing frantically. Florian kept his feet in the boat and held on to the nets. Two sailors scrambled down to help people up.

“We've got a newborn baby,” Florian told them. The sailors took the baby from me and carried her up. The children were brought up next, and then all of the adults. I tried to check the pulse of those who remained in the boat. Five, wet and without coats, were dead of hypothermia.

Soon Florian and I were the only two left.

“You first,” he said. “I'll be behind you.”

My fingers were too frozen. I couldn't move them. I had to climb by putting my elbows in the ropes of the net and pushing up with my legs. I was nearing the top. My foot suddenly slipped on the slick rope and kicked back, hitting something.

I heard Florian yell. I screamed and felt a heavy jerk on the net.

The sailor on deck reached over and grabbed me. “Keep climbing,” he commanded. “Don't look down.”

“Florian!” I screamed. There was no reply. “Florian!”

The sailor leaned over the edge, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pulled me onto the swaying deck of the ship. I turned to look down.

Florian was gone.

I was falling, the black, frothy water coming at me. I grabbed for the net. My body wrenched. My shoulder popped and separated from the socket.

I felt my grip slipping.

Slipping.

My fingers released and I plunged into the sea. The freezing water carved into me like knives puncturing my skin. Pain surged in my chest and traveled across my arm. My body pulled down and down.

I was disoriented.

Everything was dark.

Which way was up? Where was the surface?

I was losing breath, my head spinning.

And then I heard her voice, calling to me from above the water.

“Kick! Kick your feet!”

She was yelling to me. The voice was suddenly close, warm and present, in both of my ears. “Kick your feet!”

Propel myself upward. Yes, okay.

Up.

My head rose above the water. I gasped, choking as I pulled air into my lungs.

“There!” yelled a sailor. My shoulder screamed with pain as they pulled me onto a raft.

The sailors had him on a raft.

“Florian!” I screamed. I tried to climb over the side.

“Stay where you are,” insisted the sailor. “They've got him.”

Florian looked up. He motioned for me to remain on deck. The two brave sailors who had jumped into the water after him were boosting him up the net. They pushed him over the side and he collapsed in a heap.

The wandering boy threw himself onto Florian, sobbing and crying.

“I'm okay, Klaus. Just a little cold and wet.”

“We have to get him warm immediately,” I said.

We followed the sailors as they moved him belowdecks. I quickly stripped off his icy clothes and wrapped him in a big blanket.

“Not exactly how I envisioned that part,” he said quietly, with a grin.

“Hush.” I pulled the blanket tight and kissed him. The sailors gave him some dry clothes.

People ran in front of us, shrieking and crying for those they had lost. One man went mad, tearing at his hair, talking nonstop of chickens and the chicken car.

A sailor walked among the passengers.

“What vessel is this?” Florian asked him.

“You've been picked up by
T-36
, a German torpedo boat.”

An explosion detonated beneath the boat. People screamed.

“Stay calm,” said the sailor. “We're releasing depth charges. There are still Russian subs prowling the area.”

Submarines. We were still in danger.

They gave us hot drinks and soup. The warmth brought tingling and pain. The wandering boy cried of aches in his legs and feet. And he cried for Opi. The baby whimpered for Emilia. We settled onto the floor with piles of blankets, huddling together for warmth.

Florian reached down and took my hand. “I heard you,” he whispered.

“What?”

“When I was underwater. I heard you telling me to kick my feet. Thank you.”

I looked up at him.

What was he talking about?