Salt to the Sea, Page 2

  The old man spoke of nothing but shoes. He spoke of them with such love and emotion that a woman in our group had crowned him “the shoe poet.” The woman disappeared a day later but the nickname survived.

  “The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet.

  “Not always,” I countered.

  “Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.”

  I paused in the center of the frozen road and watched the stubby old cobbler shuffle ahead of me. The shoe poet was right. Mother had sacrificed for me. When we fled from Lithuania she rushed me to Insterburg and, through a friend, arranged for me to work in the hospital. That was four years ago. Where was Mother now?

  I thought of the countless refugees trekking toward freedom. How many millions of people had lost their home and family during the war? I had agreed with Mother to look to the future, but secretly I dreamed of returning to the past. Had anyone heard from my father or brother?

  The blind girl put her face to the sky and raised her arm in signal.

  And then I heard them.

  Planes.

  florian

  We had barely crawled out of the potato cellar when the Polish girl began to cry. She knew I was going to leave her.

  I had no choice. She would slow me down.

  Hitler aimed to destroy all Poles. They were Slavic, branded inferior. My father said the Nazis had killed millions of Poles. Polish intellectuals were savagely executed in public. Hitler set up extermination camps in German-occupied Poland, filtering the blood of innocent Jews into the Polish soil.

  Hitler was a coward. That had been one thing Father and I agreed upon.

  “Proszę . . . bitte,” she begged, alternating between Polish and broken German.

  I couldn’t stand to look at her, at the streaks of dead Russian splattered down her sleeve. I started to walk away, her sobs flapping behind me.

  “Wait. Please,” she called out.

  The sound of her crying was painfully familiar. It had the exact tone of my younger sister, Anni, and the sobs I heard through the hallway the day Mother took her last breath.

  Anni. Where was she? Was she too in some dark forest hole with a gun to her head?

  A pain ripped through my side, forcing me to stop. The girl’s feet quickly approached. I resumed walking.

  “Thank you,” she chirped from behind.

  The sun disappeared and the cold tightened its fist. My calculations told me that I needed to walk another two kilometers west before stopping for the night. There was a better chance of finding shelter along a field road, but also a better chance of running into troops. It was wiser to continue along the edge of the forest.

  • • •

  The girl heard them before I did. She grabbed my arm. The buzzing of aircraft engines surged fast and close from behind. The Russians were targeting German ground troops nearby. Were they in front of us or beside us?

  The bombs began falling. With each explosion, every bone in my body vibrated and hammered, clanging violently against the bell tower that was my flesh. The sound of anti-aircraft fire rang through the sky, answering the initial blasts.

  The girl tried to pull me onward.

  I shoved her away. “Run!”

  She shook her head, pointed forward, and awkwardly tried to pull me through the snow. I wanted to run, forget about her, leave her in the forest. But then I saw the droplets of blood in the snow coming from beneath her bulky coat.

  And I could not.

  emilia

  He wanted to leave me. His race was his own.

  Who was this German boy, old enough to be in the Wehrmacht, yet dressed in civilian clothes? For me he was a conqueror, a sleeping knight, like in the stories Mama used to tell. Polish legend told of a king and his brave knights who lay asleep within mountain caverns. If Poland was in distress, the knights would awaken and come to the rescue.

  I told myself that the handsome young man was a sleeping knight. He moved forward, his pistol at the ready. He was leaving.

  Why did everyone leave me?

  The swarm of planes strafed overhead. The buzzing in my ears made me dizzy. A bomb fell. And then another. The earth trembled, threatening to open its jaws and eat us.

  I tried to catch up to him, ignoring the pain and indignity beneath my coat. I had neither the time nor courage to describe why I couldn’t run. Instead I told myself to walk as fast as I could through the snow. The knight ran ahead of me, darting in and out of the trees, clutching his side, wrenched with pain.

  Strength drained from my legs. I thought of the Russians approaching, the pistol on my neck in the earthen cellar, and I willed my feet to move. I waddled like a duck through the deep snow. Then suddenly, the sweet sound of Mama’s nursery rhyme began to sing in my head.

  All the little duckies with their heads in the water

  Heads in the water

  All the little duckies with their heads in the water

  Oh, such sweet little duckies.

  Where were all the duckies now?

  alfred

  “Frick, what are you doing?”

  “Restocking ammunition, sir.” I pretended to fumble with something on the shelf.

  “That’s not your assignment,” said the officer. “You’re needed at the port, not in a supply closet. The order will be issued. We have to be ready. We’ll be assigning every available vessel. If we get stuck here, some murderer from Moscow will make you his girlfriend. Do you want that?”

  Certainly not. I did not want a glimpse of the Soviet forces. Their path of destruction lay large and wide. Panicked villagers spilled stories in the street of Russian soldiers wearing necklaces made from the teeth of children. And now Russia’s army was headed right for us with their allies, America and England, blowing wind into Stalin’s sail. I had to get on a ship. Remaining in Gotenhafen meant certain death.

  “I said, do you want to become Moscow’s girlfriend?” barked the officer.

  “No, sir!”

  “Then take your things and get to the port. You’ll receive further instruction once you get there.”

  I paused, wondering if I should pilfer anything from the supply closet.

  “What are you waiting for, Frick? Get out of here, you pathetic slug.”

  Why, yes, Hannelore, the uniform, it suits me quite well. If time allowed I would have a photograph made for your bedside table. But alas, leisure time proves scarce here for valiant men. On the topic of heroism, it seems I will soon be promoted.

  Oh, certainly, darling, you can tell everyone in the neighborhood.

  joana

  The wandering boy found a deserted barn a ways off the road. We decided to settle there for the night. We had been walking for days and both strength and morale waned. The bombs had set nerves on edge. I moved from body to body, treating blisters, wounds, frostbite. But I had no treatment for what plagued people the most.

  Fear.

  Germany had invaded Russia in 1941. For the past four years, the two countries had committed unspeakable atrocities, not only against each other, but against innocent civilians in their path. Stories had been whispered by those we passed on the road. Hitler was exterminating millions of Jews and had an expanding list of undesirables who were being killed or imprisoned. Stalin was destroying the people of Poland, Ukraine, and the Baltics.

  The brutality was shocking. Disgraceful acts of inhumanity. No one wanted to fall into the hands of the enemy. But it was growing harder to distinguish who the enemy was. An old German man had pulled me aside a few days earlier
.

  “Do you have any poison? People are asking for it,” he said.

  “I will not administer poison,” I replied.

  “I understand. But you’re a pretty girl. If Russia’s army overtakes us, you’ll want some for yourself.”

  I wasn’t sure how much was exaggeration and how much was true. But I had seen things. A girl, dead in a ditch, her skirt knotted high. An old woman sobbing that they had burned her cottage. Terror was out there. And it chased us. So we ran west toward parts of Germany not yet occupied.

  And now we all sat in an abandoned barn, trying to create a fire for warmth. I removed my gloves and kneaded my chapped hands. For four years I had worked with the surgeon at the hospital in Insterburg. As the war raged and the staff dwindled, I moved from stocking supplies to assisting him in surgery.

  “You have steady hands, Joana, and a strong stomach. You’ll do well in medicine,” he had told me.

  Medicine. That had been my dream. I was studious, dedicated, perhaps overly so. My last boyfriend said I preferred my studies to him. Before I could prove it wasn’t true, he had found another girl.

  I tried to massage warmth into my stiff fingers. My hands didn’t concern me, but the supplies did. There wasn’t much left. I had hoped the dead woman on the side of the road might have something—thread, tea, even a clean handkerchief. But nothing was clean. Everything was filthy.

  Especially my conscience.

  We all looked up when they entered the barn, a young man carrying a pistol, followed by a short blond girl in braids and a pink hat. They were both haggard. The blond girl’s face was red with exertion. The young man’s face was also flushed.

  He had a fever.

  florian

  Others had beaten us there. A teetering collection of weathered horse carts was tucked beyond the brush, a sober portrait of the trek toward freedom. I would have preferred an abandoned site, but knew I couldn’t continue. The Polish girl pulled at my sleeve.

  She stopped in the snow, staring at the possessions outside the barn, evaluating the contents and whom they might belong to. There was no evidence of military.

  “I think okay,” she said. We walked inside.

  A group of fifteen or twenty people sat huddled around a small fire. Their faces turned as I slipped in and stood near the door. Mothers, children, and elderly. All exhausted and broken. The Polish girl went straight to a vacant corner and sat down, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest. A young woman walked over to me.

  “Are you injured? I have medical training.”

  Her German was fluent, but not native. I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to speak to anyone.

  “Do you have any food to share?” she asked.

  What I had was no one’s business.

  “Does she have any food?” she asked, pointing to the Polish girl rocking in the corner. “Her eyes look a bit wild.”

  I spoke without looking at her. “She was in the forest. A Russian cornered her. She followed me here. She has a couple potatoes. Now, leave me alone,” I said.

  The young woman winced at the mention of the Russian. She left my side and headed quickly toward the girl.

  I found a solitary spot away from the group and sat down. I lodged my pack against the barn wall and carefully reclined on it. It would be warmer if I sat near the fire with the others but I couldn’t risk it. No conversations.

  I ate a small piece of the sausage from the dead Russian and watched the young woman as she tried to speak with the girl from the forest. Others called out to her for help. She must have been a nurse. She looked a few years older than me. Pretty. Naturally pretty, the type that’s still attractive, even more so, when she’s filthy. Everyone in the barn was filthy. The stench of exertion, failed bladders, and most of all, fear, stunk worse than any livestock. The nurse girl would have turned my head back in Königsberg.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to look at the pretty girl. I needed to be able to kill her, kill them all, if I had to. My body begged for sleep but my mind warned me not to trust these people. I felt a nudge at my feet and opened my eyes.

  “You didn’t mention she was Polish,” said the nurse. “And the Russian?” she asked.

  “He’s taken care of,” I told her. “I need to sleep.”

  She knelt down beside me. I could barely hear her.

  “What you need is to show me that wound you’re trying to hide.”

  emilia

  I thought of the carts outside the barn. They towered with the belongings of refugees. Trunks, suitcases, and furniture. There was even a sewing machine like Mama’s.

  “Why aren’t you making any dresses?” I remembered asking Mama from my sunny perch in our kitchen.

  Mama turned to me from her sewing machine. “Can you keep a secret?”

  I nodded eagerly and moved toward her.

  She put her hands on her wide belly and smiled. “I think it’s a boy. I just know it’s a boy.” She hugged me close, her warm lips against my forehead. “And you know what? You’re going to be the best big sister, Emilia.”

  And now I sat in a freezing barn, alone, so far from home. These people had time to pack. I wasn’t able to pack, had left my entire life chewed to pieces. Who was using Mama’s sewing machine now?

  The knight hadn’t wanted to come inside. What was his name? Who was he running from? I had examined the carts and belongings, evaluating the items and their potential owners to determine if it was safe to enter. But we had no choice. Sleeping outside meant certain death.

  I sat in a corner and stuffed straw into my coat for warmth. Once I stopped moving, the pain subsided. I buried my face in my hands.

  A hand touched my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I looked up to see a young woman above me. She spoke in German, but with an accent. Her brown hair was pulled behind her ears. Her face was kind.

  “Are you injured?” she asked.

  I tried to control it.

  I fought it.

  And then a single tear rolled down my cheek.

  She moved in close. “Where does it hurt?” she whispered. “I have medical training.”

  I pulled my coat tight around me and shook my head. “No. Danke.”

  The girl cocked her head slightly. My accent had given me away.

  “Deutsche?” she whispered.

  I said nothing. The others stared at me. If I gave them my food perhaps they’d leave me alone? I pulled a potato from my coat pocket and handed it to her.

  A potato for silence.

  joana

  The arrival of the German and the young girl made me uneasy. Neither spoke openly. The girl’s eyes darted with trauma and her shoulders trembled. I walked over to Eva. Eva was in her fifties and giant, like a Viking. Her feet and hands were larger than any man’s. Some in our group called her Sorry Eva because she often said appalling things, but inserted the word sorry before or after, as if to soften the sting.

  “Eva, you speak a bit of Polish, don’t you?” I whispered.

  “Not that you know of,” she replied.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone. That poor girl is suffering. I think she’s Polish. Will you try to speak to her? Convince her to let me help.”

  “Who’s the German she came in with and why isn’t he in uniform? We don’t have permission to evacuate. If Hitler’s henchmen find us with a deserter we’ll all be shot in the head. Sorry,” said Eva.

  “We don’t know that he’s a deserter. I don’t know who he is, but he’s injured. He found the girl in the forest.” I lowered my voice. “Cornered by a Russian.”

  Eva’s face blanched. “How far from here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Please try to talk to her. Get some information.”

  Eva’s husband was too old to serve in the military but had been recruited into the Volksstur
m, the people’s army. Hitler was now desperate and had called up all remaining men and boys. But somehow, the young man on the other side of the room had not been part of the recruitment. Why?

  Eva’s husband insisted that she trek to the west. He was certain Hitler was going to lose and that Russia would occupy East Prussia—and destroy everything in the process.

  In school we were told that East Prussia was one of the most beautiful regions, but it had proven treacherous for those of us fleeing. Bordered to the north by Lithuania and to the south by Poland, it was a land of deep lakes and dark forests. Eva’s plan was the same as the rest of ours—trek to unoccupied Germany and reunite with family after the war ended.

  For now, I tended to people in the barn as best I could. Many had fallen asleep as soon as they sat down.

  “Their feet,” the shoe poet gently reminded as I passed him. “Make sure to treat their feet or all is lost.”

  “And what about your feet?” I asked. Poet’s short frame was concave, like he had caught a large ball and never put it down.

  “I could walk a thousand miles, my dear.” He grinned. “Excellent shoes.”

  Eva pulled me aside.

  “You’re right—Polish. Her name is Emilia. She’s fifteen, from Lwów. But she has no papers.”

  “Where’s Lwów?” I asked.

  “In southeastern Poland. The Galicia region.”

  That made sense. Some Galicians had blond hair and blue eyes like the girl. Her Aryan look might protect her from the Nazis.

  “Her father is some sort of math professor and sent her to East Prussia where she might be safer. She ended up working on a farm.” Eva lowered her voice. “Near Nemmersdorf.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  Eva nodded. “She wouldn’t talk about it. Just said she fled through Nemmersdorf and has been on the run.”