I’m really much too busy to be writing such a letter today, but I know you are probably thinking of me. You see, Hannelore, I am generous with my spirit, not only my broom. Your father could have used a good man like me at his furniture factory. I believe I once mentioned that to him, but he ignored me. No matter, I haven’t time to dwell on such inconsequence.
The port, you see, is in imminent danger of attack by Allied planes. Evacuation orders were posted last night and millions of people in this region of East Prussia will now flee to me for help. The refugees will line up at the port and I will assign them to a ship that will take them to safety. Yes, it’s a very important task, but I am supremely capable. You might recall my keen evaluation ability. I am the cat who contemplates both the mouse and the cheese. I know instantly which one will satisfy the craving.
These months mark the longest we have ever been separated. Perhaps you are marking each day on a calendar with a large red X? I see you on the front step, waiting and longing for my letters. I express myself to you as I express myself to no one. Perhaps through these letters we might share our secrets. After all, war births litters of them. I suppose it is no secret, however, that my private thoughts of you soften the clutch of combat.
Sadly, Heidelberg feels quite far away now. To bring you closer, I picture the dark evenings in my mind. I see the warm, honey glow behind your bedroom curtain, your shadow dancing on the wall as you gently fold your red sweater and bend to lacquer the small nails on your toes.
Yes, the nights at home were dark and still. It was in that darkness that duty called and I made my decision. But really, my sweet, what choice did I have?
joana
Where had they all come from? This endless stream of humanity clogging the small field road—did they suddenly crawl out of a hole? Had they been waiting in the forests as we had? Young women, elderly grandparents, and too many children to count. They dragged sleds, drove carts with mules, and walked with belongings slung over their backs in sheets.
A little boy and his sister straddled an ox, gripping a frayed piece of rope tied around the animal’s neck. “Please, Magnus, hurry!” coaxed the little boy, thumping his heels into the ox. His sister’s thin ankles were exposed and black with frostbite.
“Let me help you,” I called to them, but they didn’t hear me. He slapped the ox and trotted away. A few carts, with well-rested horses, clucked by us quickly, leaving only a glimpse of the prominent family name painted across the back of the carriage. Some people were tired, despondent, others panicked and full of terror. An old man with a wooden leg thumped back and forth across the road, clutching his temples and announcing to everyone who passed, “They shot my cow.”
Eva lumbered through the crowds, badgering people for information and updates. “Which way did you come from? What have you heard?”
Reports were that Germany was buckling. Although they had finally allowed people to evacuate, for many it was too late.
“Joana!” Eva called out to me. “This one here is Lithuanian.”
I made my way through the mass of people to the old woman.
“Labas,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“Kaunas,” she said. “And you?”
“Biržai, originally. I’ve been gone for four years. But my cousins are from Kaunas. How are things there?”
She shook her head, barely able to speak. “Our poor Lietuva,” she whispered. “We shall never see her again. Hurry child, keep moving.” She patted my arm and walked off.
What was she talking about? The war would end. We would all go home.
Wouldn’t we?
• • •
The temperature plunged well below zero. I thought of the warm fire back at the estate and the cold bodies upstairs in the beds. As we left the property I had taken one last look. I couldn’t shake the image of the upstairs corner window, pierced with a bullet hole and covered in blood. Zarah Leander’s voice lived in my head, whispering the words, It’s not the end of the world.
I hoped she was right.
The wandering boy and the shoe poet marched in front of our cart. Poet entertained the boy by assigning shoe types.
“That one there, he has narrow feet. We would put him in an oxford. But that man, the one with the short boots, he’ll have a heel bruise within the next kilometer. We’d put him in a loafer, to be sure. You know, Klaus, if you can’t get a fingerprint, you would do just as well to get a foot draft from a man’s shoemaker. It will tell you more than an identity card.”
I stood next to Ingrid, whose eyes were bandaged. She insisted on walking and gripped the rope that hung behind the wagon. Emilia sat nestled in heaps of bundles on the back of our cart, her pink hat a blink of color among the endless blacks and grays. Emilia’s eyes stayed fixed on the German boy who walked behind me, his cap pulled low over his eyes. I slowed my step and allowed him to catch up to me.
“Ingrid thinks we’ll reach the ice tomorrow. She smells the coast,” I told him.
“We should try to reach the ice tonight,” he replied.
“Everyone will be exhausted and it will be too dark. We won’t see a thing.”
“Exactly. If it’s dark, the Russians won’t be able to see us. We’ll be open targets during the day. Sort of like we are now,” he said.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“The ice will be stronger at night, when it’s colder,” he whispered. “Look at all these people. When they march across the ice, it will weaken it. They shouldn’t be carrying so much baggage.”
“It’s precious to them; it’s all they have left. Just like that pack of yours. It seems pretty important to you.”
He said nothing.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
We trudged on in silence. I stared down at the icy road.
His breath was suddenly close. “The girl. She doesn’t have papers.”
Papers.
He was right. Emilia had no identity card. I had forgotten that. Germany required all civilians to legally register and carry documentation that contained our name, photograph, nationality, race, birth, and family details. The regime then assigned identifiers on the cover of the cards. My identity card said Resettler, indicating that Germany had allowed me to repatriate from Lithuania. We were required to show our identification to any official or soldier who requested it. Our papers determined our fate.
I looked up at her, balanced in the bundles. She smiled and gave me a small wave.
Emilia had no papers.
No papers, no future.
emilia
It was nice to sit in the wagon, but it felt unfair that I got to ride while the others had to walk. From my place in the cart I could see a long string of dark coats, farm carts, animals, and sleds behind us. The line snaked far back, until the people were just tiny specks.
Joana walked alongside the knight, her pretty brown curls peeking out from beneath her hat. He wouldn’t look at her when she spoke. But whenever she looked away, his eyes quickly shifted to her.
He wanted to tell her things.
She hoped he would tell her things.
But he would not.
I could feel the blackberry seeds still stuck in my teeth from the preserves he had given me. Blackberries and black currants reminded me of Father. When I was a tiny girl, he would send me out to the bushes on the edge of our property with a small tin pail to collect them. Each time I returned with a full bucket he greeted me with hugs and smiles. There were no hugs or smiles on the farm he sent me to in East Prussia. There were stables, cowsheds, a piggery, a chicken house, and two large barns with haylofts. And then there was the cold storage cellar, standing quiet, alone behind the barn. Steps led down into the dark underground room. That’s where I would take the beetroots, turnips, dried mushrooms, and barrels of soured cabbage. I blinked and
rubbed my eyes.
My stomach twitched. It used to feel like a butterfly flapping or big bubbles popping in there. But now, when I put my hand on my stomach, I could feel a bumping against my palm. That bumping. It grew stronger.
florian
Dawn became day and soon became afternoon. We traveled faster knowing evacuation was permitted.
The road clogged as we neared Frauenburg. Up on a hill sat a redbrick cathedral. As we approached, so did a frenzy of activity and a number of German soldiers.
I shifted my pack. Another test. I would have to register at the checkpoint without raising suspicion. My father’s words hung heavy on my conscience:
“Don’t you see? Lange doesn’t want to train you—he wants to use you, Florian.”
“You don’t understand,” I had argued. “He’s saving the treasures of the world.”
“Saving them? Is that what you call it? Is that how easily he’s duped you? This greedy imposter fills your head with rubbish and you become a traitor?”
“I am not dishonoring Germany. Just the opposite.”
“No, son,” pleaded my father. “Not a traitor to your country. Much worse. A traitor to your soul.”
A traitor to your soul. Those were the last words my father said to me. Not because he was finished, but because I stormed out of the house and refused to listen. When I returned months later, panicked and in need of his counsel, it was too late.
So now I risked everything, confronting fate and the knowledge that I had authored my own demise. But only if I failed.
A young German soldier stopped our group. I pretended to be on my own and continued walking. The Polish girl tried to scramble out of the cart after me.
“Halt!”
I stopped.
The soldier marched toward me. “You. Papers.”
A muscle tremored just below my ear. I slowly unbuttoned my coat and withdrew my identity card from the pocket. He grabbed it. I moved close to him and discreetly displayed the folded paper. He snapped it out of my hand, impatient. I turned slightly. The eyes of our group were upon me, closely watching the interaction.
The soldier scanned the papers. He handed them back to me, quickly snapped his heels together, and saluted. “Heil Hitler!”
Relief flooded my every pore. I returned the salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The soldier caught sight of my shirt through my open coat. “Are you injured, Herr Beck?”
“I’m fine. But I have to keep moving.”
“Are you traveling with this group?” he asked, looking over our ragged assembly. From the corner of my eye, I saw a dot of pink wool slide behind the front wheel of the cart.
The shoe poet stared at my boot. The wandering boy smiled and gave me a salute.
“Are they with you?” the soldier asked again. His gaze traveled back and landed on the nurse. His eyes widened.
“She—”
My words were clipped by shrieks amidst the crowd. The searing buzz of aircraft echoed from above.
“Off the road!” yelled the soldier.
A cluster of human beings behind us exploded with a bomb.
joana
The sound of children screaming, wood splintering, and life departing roared from behind. I tried to run toward the crowd but the soldier grabbed me and threw me off the road. I crawled through the snow toward the pink of Emilia’s hat and draped my body over hers.
The explosions finally ceased and the soldier yelled at us to move quickly into the village.
“But I can help them back there. I have medical training,” I argued.
“It’s no use. Move along, Fräulein, now!” the soldier commanded, waving us forward. Our group reassembled and trudged toward Frauenburg. But one person was missing.
The young German was gone.
Who was he? Whatever was written in the letter commanded great respect from the soldier on the road.
Emilia was inconsolable, turning in all directions to find the German. She wailed and tried to leave. It took four of us to get her back into the cart. The bombing propelled everyone forward at a quicker pace, anxious to reach Frauenburg and possible shelter. I didn’t want to move forward. I needed to go back, to help the injured. But they would not allow it.
“What good will you be, my dear, if you are injured?” said the shoe poet. “You must preserve yourself in order to help others.”
Poet didn’t know the truth. I had already preserved myself. I had left Lithuania and those I loved behind.
To die.
alfred
What an enormous vessel, the Wilhelm Gustloff. Walking her length was more exercise than I cared for. I found it preferable to conserve my energy. Sometimes this conservation involved stealing away to the lavatory to sit for an hour. Maybe two. On occasion, while sitting, I’d remind myself that fitness was important to a healthy physique. I wanted to quell my crawling rash. After all, I had been told that a squad of Women’s Naval Auxiliary were on their way to join the voyage. More than three hundred young naval cadets. They would of course require my assistance.
I’d tell the pretty ones they could call me Alfred. But just the pretty ones.
I stood in the ship’s stately ballroom, imagining the dancing figures it used to hold.
Oh, hello there, Lore! Lovely to see you. Would you care to dance?
“Come on, Frick, all of this furniture has to go,” instructed my superior. “Everything must be removed to create space. Carry the furniture out onto the dock. Take the tablecloths up to the arbor on the sundeck. They’re organizing a hospital ward up there.”
“What will this ballroom be used for?” I asked.
“For refugees. Once we remove the furniture, we’ll line this ballroom with mattresses.”
I looked at the dance floor, trying to imagine it covered with spongy mats.
Hannelore was a very good dancer. How I enjoyed the private recitals through the window.
My rash began to itch, chasing away my one weakness that was Hannelore Jäger. Somewhere inside, I reminded myself of the necessary truth.
Hannelore might be dancing for someone else now.
emilia
He was gone.
I tried to look for him but Joana demanded I stay in the cart.
“Let her go,” said Eva.
Big Eva was scared of me, more concerned with her own survival. But Joana had won. Her importance to the group was evident. She was trusted. She was wanted.
“We’ll approach the checkpoint and register,” instructed Joana. “We can’t cross now, the planes shot through the ice. It will refreeze overnight. We’ll wait here in the village and cross in the morning.”
The German Empire had renamed the cities. They called the village Frauenburg. The old name had been Frombork. Father told me it was once the home of the astronomer Copernicus, who proved that the earth rotated around the sun.
“Per aspera ad astra, Papa,” I whispered. Through hardship to the stars. It was a Latin phrase he used whenever I complained that something was difficult. Where was my father now? Could he ever have imagined things would be this difficult? I looked up at the sky, wondering if the stars would be pretty here.
Joana whispered with Eva. I heard her say something about refugees in the ice. She was trying to be stoic, a medical woman, but I could tell that she was upset because the soldier hadn’t allowed her to help the injured on the road.
Joana climbed up into the cart. “Here,” she whispered. “Take this.” She handed me an identity card. “It’s from a young Latvian woman who died on the road,” she explained. “I was going to give the papers to the Red Cross for their registry. This woman was slightly older, but she had blond hair. Take your braids out and keep your hat pulled down.”
I quickly began to unthread my braids.
“Open your coat so your pregnancy is rev
ealed. They will assume you’re older. I’ll explain that you are Latvian and don’t speak German.”
So that was the plan. Would it really work? What would happen if they realized I wasn’t a dead Latvian woman, but a young Polish girl with no papers?
Birds squawked overhead, issuing a warning.
I knew the legends of the birds. Seagulls were the souls of dead soldiers. Owls were the souls of women. Doves were the recently departed souls of unmarried girls.
Was there a bird for the souls of people like me?
florian
I held the paper, waiting to approach the checkpoint. I stared at the type.
Sonderausweis.
Special pass. It looked real. Perhaps my best work ever. The soldier on the road didn’t question. He saluted me for the special mission that the pass defined. My attitude had to match the level of the forgery. If I appeared confident, they wouldn’t inspect. But if Dr. Lange had discovered the missing piece, he may have wired ahead. If so, they would be waiting for me. My confidence would hold no currency.
I looked at the ledger in front of the soldier. Did the book include an arrest order for treason? I had used my real name on the pass. There wasn’t time to forge new identity papers.
It had started as a dare. My friend Kurt wanted to attend a soccer match with the rest of our group, but all tickets had been sold. “Come on, Beck, use those skills to create some tickets,” chided Kurt. I accepted the challenge. Using a friend’s ticket and restoration supplies, I forged a couple.
“I guess we’ll need your special tickets for the finals,” Kurt joked on our way home. But we didn’t make it to the finals. Kurt was a few years older than I and was drafted. At Christmas, I went to visit his mother. She opened the door dressed in black, her eyes pillowed and heavy with grief. Kurt had died in service, an honorable death.
If I died, who would say the same of me?
• • •