Salt to the Sea

  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.

  emilia

  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.

  florian

  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.

  joana

  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.

  emilia

  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.

  florian

  We approached the embarkation officer, the wandering boy between us.

  “Well, hello, there.”

  The officer spoke directly to the boy. Smart. Children spill the truth.

  “Hallo, I’m Klaus.”

  “Give me your papers, please, Klaus.”

  The shoemaker handed over the boy’s papers along with his own. I thrust mine out as well.

  The officer opened the old man’s papers and looked at his pass. He leaned over and specifically addressed the boy. “And, Klaus, who is this?” he asked, pointing to the shoemaker.

  “Opi,” replied the little boy.

  Grandpa. Yes, he was like a grandpa. That was a good reply.

  “And this gentleman?” He pointed to me.

  My name. No one knew my name, except Joana. What if he called me what the others did—the Prussian? Or the spy?

  “Onkel.” The boy smiled.

  “And what is Uncle’s name?” the officer asked.

  The little boy turned to me and saluted, as he had on the road. “Herr Beck.”

  The officer laughed.

  The wandering boy thrust out his rabbit. “Mein Freund.”

  “Looks like your friend lost an ear in battle. Might have to send him to the infirmary.” The officer turned to me and gestured to my shirt. “Looks like you lost some blood in the war yourself.”

  I nodded. “Shrapnel.” I buttoned up my coat to escape the cold.

  “Do you have a medical exemption?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He handed back our papers. “Proceed to the next embarkation point.”

  He had looked at my papers, but only glanced at my boarding pass. We walked into the harbor.

  Every inch of the dock was covered with soldiers, supply trucks, passengers, and luggage. There were entry lines for each ship and additional lines for each gangway.

  The boy bounced on his toes.

  “Yes, it’s quite exciting,” said the shoe poet. “And I believe that ship, in basin number nine, the very big one, is ours.”

  The Gustloff was the most imposing ship in the harbor. Her build was clearly that of a leisure cruise ship. Several decks, lots of places to hide. I spied anti-aircraft guns positioned on the deck. The ship was armed.

  “Hey! Hey, you,” the giant woman yelled, and gestured to us through the crowd.

  “Well, hello there, Eva!” The shoe poet waved.

  “Boy, you’re lucky ducks. I was just about to throw your bags off.”

  The little boy ran and grabbed the shoemaker’s carpetbag.

  “Well done, Eva. Thank you,” said the old man.

  “You have no idea how I suffered for this stuff, waiting in the cold. And why? None of you cared enough to wait for our wagon.”

  “Enough about the luggage. Did you get registered for a ship, dear?” asked Poet.

  “Yes, yes. I’m on that one. Hansa,” she said. “Which one are you on?”

  The little boy pointed to the Gustloff.

  Eva looked at me and laughed. “You too, huh? I wonder how you managed that. I’m going to board. I’m freezing and it stinks like rotten death. Here, take Joana her suitcase. I know she’ll want it. Tell her I said good-bye. She was the only one of you that I liked. Sorry.” She set the case at my feet. “Well, nice knowing you.”

  “Wait.” I grabbed her by the coat. “What are the next lines for?” I asked.

  “Inspection,” she said. “They’re examining everyone’s luggage.”

  joana

  Emilia pretended to sleep. I had to raise her spirits. The baby would need to nurse. She had to hold and feed her baby. If she didn’t, the doctors might become suspicious. If they figured out she wasn’t Latvian, Dr. Richter would report her. I would be held responsible for smuggling her on. My stomach turned.

  A woman approached. “Excuse me, miss. There’s someone in the hallway who would like to speak with you.”

  The sailor Alfred paced through the corridor.

  “Hello, Alfred.” I decided to ask: “Have you seen my patient today, the one from the movie house?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I’ll keep an eye out for him,” he said.

  “Please let me know if you see him.”

  He shifted from one foot to another, rubbing the tangle of raw meat that was his hands.

  “Oh, Alfred, your hands,” I said.

  “Actually, I didn’t come about my hands. I came—well, what I wanted to say . . . I have been informed that you have a suitor, but I’m well acquainted with the long-distance love affair. You would do well to take a stroll with me on the promenade deck later this evening. We can discuss our sweethearts back at home.” He grinned. “Tell me, do you like butterflies, Fräulein?”

  What was he talking about? Was he asking me on a date? Oh, no. Kissing Alfred would be like chewing a mouthful of crackers. I shook off the thought.

  “Well, Alfred, I think we’ll all be extremely busy before we sail. I don’t think I’ll have time to take a walk. Honestly, I’d be surprised if you had time either.”

  Dr. Richter approached. “Joana, could you assist me
, please? The girls have just arrived from the sanatorium. We need to determine where to put them. Perhaps you could help them get settled?” The doctor looked at Alfred. “What are you doing here?”

  “Documenting the medical procedures of the evacuation, sir,” said Alfred. “Someone must verify that work is actually being done.” He turned on his heel and strode off.

  florian

  The temperature hovered near zero, but I was sweating.

  Luggage inspection.

  I watched the flow of passengers approach the front of the line. Most of the discussions were about items too large to take on board: antiques, furniture, expensive carpets. And then I saw them. Wooden crates, similar to so many I had carefully belted and fastened, stood in stacked rows, surrounded by armed guards. Of course. The Nazis were not only boarding passengers, they were loading their looted art and treasure onto the ships. My curiosity burned. What was in the crates?

  People cried when their large items were refused. I carried only Joana’s small suitcase and my pack. The little boy had no luggage, the shoe poet only a carpetbag and his shoe-repair kit. I was about to give Joana’s suitcase to Poet when an armed sentry corralled us into line.

  “Step ahead. Make room, please.”

  German efficiency worked against me. They were fast. Before I could finalize a plan we were at the front of the line with our papers. The guard behind the table was older, seasoned. He flipped through the identity papers, examining our photos against our faces. Another soldier walked around us, examining our belongings. The older guard behind the desk then looked at our boarding passes. He pointed to the shoemaker and the boy.

  “You two. Proceed to the gangway.” He then pointed at me. “You, proceed to the table behind me. Additional inspection.”

  Additional inspection. My heart punched in my chest. I had forgotten to open my coat, to display my wound. I acted like I was reaching for papers and released the buttons. Brittle cold rushed in around my torso. I hoped it would mask my perspiration, my desperation. I prayed the inspection officer would be a booby like the sailor I had duped.