Salt to the Sea (4 page)

The giant woman, Eva, told me that the nurse girl was Lithuanian. Her name was Joana. She seemed kind, but how could I be sure? If she was going to treat the knight I felt I should stand watch. I owed him a debt now, didn't I?

He told me to go away. His voice was another in the chorus of those who wanted the Poles to disappear. Forever. After fleeing through Nemmersdorf, I met an old woman from Lwów on the road, her eyes stormed with death. She told me the Nazis had killed thousands of Polish Jews in Lwów.

“The Weigels?” I asked.

“Gone.”

My voice fell to a whisper. “The Lempels?”

“Why do you keep asking? I told you, they're all dead. Probably hundreds of thousands.”

Why was I asking? Because Rachel and Helen were my friends. When Father sent me away to East Prussia, they sneaked over the night before and brought me sweets and gifts.

Dead.
How could she say it with such finality? I didn't want to believe it.

The pretty Lithuanian girl, Joana, had told me to find a large stick. I walked outside the barn. Wind and snow lashed
my face. Every movement felt awkward in my layers and bulky coat.

Should I confide in Joana? Maybe she could help me. But I knew what would happen. She would be disgusted.

I heard a noise and looked up. That's when I saw it. Perched on top of the barn was the largest nest I had ever seen.

Hello, dear Hannelore!

How writing or just thinking your name alters my mood. Sometimes I lie on my cot and whisper it oh so slowly into the darkness. Han-ne-lore. Little Lore.

It is late evening. I imagine you at home, finger twirling in your hair while reading one of your beloved books. Perhaps the snow falls there as it does here?

Home in Heidelberg feels so very far away. Buffered by distance, I feel compelled to share a secret. Perhaps it is naughty of me to mention, but did you ever realize that your kitchen window stands opposite our lavatory window on the main floor? I could often smell your mother's duck in the oven from our bathroom. Yes, I frequently watched you eating your breakfast before school. Oh, do not be embarrassed, Lore. Neighbors share close quarters. We of course shared more. Those memories, they are the coals that shield my heart from frost.

But time for reflection is scant. Relaxation is nonexistent for a brave man of the Kriegsmarine. As you know, I am quite an accomplished watchman. Attention to detail has always been one of my great strengths, hence I am making note of everything to report to you. There is word of a massive naval evacuation and
we are preparing at the port. I will finally be at sea, traversing the waterways into the oceans, like the adventurers you so love to read about in your precious novels.

And it will be an adventure, Lore. People are already arriving at the port to stand in line for one of the big ships. Some have carried all of their earthly belongings with them, piled high upon horse-drawn carts and sleds. Expensive rugs, clocks, china, chairs, they have brought it all. Certainly there won't be space enough and some items will be denied. I saw a lovely crystal butterfly on a cart today. It brought you instantly to mind—how your dark, silken hair floats like wings of gossamer. If the butterfly is not permitted on board, I have decided I will keep it. Redistribution to those who are worthy makes the most sense.

Your kind heart would break if you saw the people at the port. They are weary and filthy from their long treks. Some have escaped from countries as far away as Estonia. Can you imagine? Stalin has stolen more than land, Hannelore, he has stolen human dignity. I see it in their forlorn eyes and broken posture. It's all the fault of the Communists. They are animals.

And now Stalin's army is closing in and people are panicking. No, no, fear not. I am quite confident and assured of my abilities. After all, a human being cannot be trained for these situations, he must be born for them. And thanks be to God that I was.

I rolled over and slid my duffel out from beneath the cot. I reached inside for my well-worn copy of Hitler's book,
Mein Kampf
, and spotted the writing paper Mutter had given to me. Perhaps tomorrow I would actually put pen to paper.

I lit a match to sterilize the scalpel and began talking. The doctor in Insterburg taught me that talking to patients often calmed them. “When Stalin occupied Lithuania, my family fled,” I said. “My mother had German heritage, so Hitler allowed us to repatriate and come to Germany. I only got as far as Insterburg.”

“Insterburg is East Prussia,” he said. “So Hitler, he's your savior?”

He didn't say more, but his sarcastic snort spoke for him. He was either critical of the Nazi Party, critical of me for repatriating, or both. I didn't need his criticism. I carried enough guilt on my own. I had done everything wrong. I had the highest marks in school but couldn't master common sense.

“I know it's cold, but let's remove your coat entirely and have you lie on your stomach,” I told him.

As I pulled off the sleeve, his pale green identity card peeked out from his interior jacket pocket. Perfect. If he wouldn't tell me his name, I'd take a look for myself.

“I'm going to press the surrounding area of the wound to see how far the infection has spread.” He didn't respond. “Tell me when it hurts.” I gently pressed around the perimeter of his wound with one hand, making note of tender areas. With my
other hand, I tried to wriggle the papers from his coat pocket.

“Stop.” The ferocity of his command made me jump. “Hand me my papers.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now.”

He reached back and I placed the identity card in his hand.

“And the folded paper. It's also in the pocket,” he said.

I pulled out the cream sheet of paper, trying to get a look at it. I couldn't see through the fold. He snatched it and slid both under his chest.

Emilia returned, carrying a stick, white flakes glistening atop her pink hat.

“It's snowing again?” I asked. She nodded. That would inhibit our progress tomorrow.

“Let's get this over with,” said the patient.

His tolerance for pain exceeded anything I had seen. He bit the stick, not out of necessity, but in defiance.

Emilia was an attentive assistant, anticipating both my needs and his. But she appeared fatigued so I sent her back to her corner to rest. She didn't sleep. She watched my every move.

The final piece of shrapnel was lodged deep. My knuckles disappeared as I reached inside the wound for it. I was concerned about gangrene but didn't mention it. The pain was enough for him to contend with. I leaned down and whispered, “I think I got it all. It was deep and the wound is wide. I'm going to wake the shoemaker and have him sew it up. He's probably got a tighter stitch.”

He spit out the stick. “No, you do it.” He paused. “Please.”

I looked at the open wound. Poet sewed a lot of leather and would seam it cleaner than I could, but if blood and flesh bothered the old man, it would only make things worse.

I sewed and dressed the wound. “So I didn't see your papers, but I did spy cigarettes in your pocket,” I told him, wiping my hands.

“You didn't tell me there was a fee.”

He looked up at me, eyes flickering like gas lamps. His face spoke of pain—physical pain like I had seen in the hospital but also emotional pain, like I had seen in my parents. He stared at me, his eyes slowly traveling over my face.

“There are matches in the same pocket,” he finally said.

I pulled out a cigarette and ran it through my fingers, trying to straighten it. I lit the end and sucked a grateful drag. The hot smoke warmed my cold chest. I leaned toward him and gently put the cigarette to his lips, allowing him to inhale. The glow of the tip illuminated his face. There were hints of handsome beneath the bruises and dirt.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Save the rest. They're hard to come by,” he said, exhaling.

I stubbed the cigarette out against my shoe and returned it to his pocket. “Do you want to see the shrapnel I removed? This big piece is nearly the size of a bottle cap.” I reached over to show it to him. He grabbed my wrist.

“Don't ever try to steal from me,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?” I said, trying to pull away.

His grip tightened. “You saw my papers.”

“No, I didn't. Stop, you're hurting me.”

“You know something about me, this wound.” His voice was weak but carried concern. Or was it delirium? He mumbled for a while and then said, “Tell me something about you.” He released his grip slightly.

“You want to know something about me?” I asked.

I stared at his tired face. He waited, eyelids beginning to droop. They fluttered closed and his fingers softly released my wrist. I watched him breathe for a while, his identity papers still tucked under his torso. He wanted to know something about me. I leaned over and put my mouth to his ear. It was barely a whisper.

“I'm a murderer.”

Thoughts of the nurse girl followed me through sleep and lingered after I awoke. Did I dream that I spoke with her? It made me angry. With each day that passed the threat mounted. Had they made the discovery in Königsberg yet? I couldn't let a pretty girl sidetrack me.

The barn was still dark, hollow with the emptiness of the displaced people it housed. My wristwatch said it was approaching 4:00 a.m. I pulled myself to a sitting position, gritting my teeth to fight the pain. My pack was untouched, my papers still beneath me. I returned the documents to my jacket and got to my feet.

I took a couple of steps toward the barn door and the blind girl sat up, her milky eyes blinking. The nurse slept next to her, her suitcase open, pretty brown hair scalloped around her face. What did she say her name was? No, it didn't matter. She was ugly. That's what I told myself.

I knelt and rummaged through the nurse's suitcase. The blind girl's nose rose toward the roof. She rotated her head and stared straight at me. What could she see? Were her eyes frosted over like an icy window, allowing light and dark to filter through? Or was her world curtained black? My hands silently sifted through the nurse's belongings. What was I doing? This
girl had possibly saved me, saved me for a single drag of a cigarette. I told myself it wasn't stealing. It was protection.

I sorted through clothes, a medical book, the fork she had eaten the potato with, and then I pulled out something unexpected. I looked at the nurse's loose brown curls for a moment, slipped the item into my jacket pocket, and left.

There were Russians in the woods. I knew that already. Most likely scouts or drifters who had been separated from their unit. I could handle one soldier. But how long before full troops swarmed the area? Originally, I'd had two weeks to get to the port. That was the plan. I'd get on a ship, sail to the West, and the mission would be accomplished. Once outside the barn, I reorganized my pack. I saw the letter with my identity card and couldn't brush it from my mind.

Dr. Lange.

Dr. Lange was the director of the museum in Königsberg. He had hired me as a restoration apprentice, trained me, even sent me to the best school. I looked up to him and wrote detailed letters from the institute, sharing all of my thoughts on art and philosophy. Dr. Lange claimed I was brilliant. He said that my talents would provide Germany with a great service, one that would bring the Führer's dream of a national art museum in his hometown of Linz to fruition. Then Dr. Lange introduced me to Gauleiter Erich Koch. Koch was the leader of the regional branch of the Nazi Party.

He was also a monster.

When the belted crates of art started arriving at the museum, Dr. Lange's enthusiasm was infectious. Some pieces made him
weep. At times, I had to steady him as a new addition was unveiled. He would put me to work immediately when each crate arrived. Sometimes I'd work through the night on a restoration so Dr. Lange could report to Koch the very next day. I went without sleep, without eating, even missed my father's birthday to complete the tasks and please Dr. Lange. “We make a great team, don't we, Florian?” he would say, grinning.

One morning Dr. Lange sent me searching for a roll of misplaced twine. While looking, I found all of my letters to him from the institute, carelessly thrown in a bottom drawer with ink and supplies. My letters were unopened. He hadn't even cared enough to read them.

• • •

A voice rose behind me in the dark, pulling me from my thoughts. I grasped my pistol and reeled around.

“Wait. Please!”

The Polish girl, pink and out of breath, ran toward me in the snow.

I could not trust the people in the barn. The giant woman recoiled when she learned I was Polish, so I willed my legs to move faster, telling myself that once I told the knight my story, he would understand. He would know what I had done for his country. He would protect me.

My stomach complained. Would the hunger ever fade, retreat in a kind and gentle way and stop its constant knocking? I couldn't remember not being fearful and hungry, when my stomach didn't feel pulled with yearning. My mental pictures of Lwów seemed to be fading, like a photograph left outside in the sun.

Lwów, the city that always smiled, a place of education and culture in Poland. How much of Lwów would survive?

The knight's silhouette came into view and inspired me to move faster. I called out and he turned, gun aimed.

“Wait. Please,” I said. “I'm coming with you.”

He turned away from me, then continued on his path.

I followed his fresh tracks in the snow and felt stronger, the January morning air sharp and crisp in my nostrils. I kept walking, following. After several meters he stopped and turned, furious. “Go away!”

“No,” I protested.

“It's safer for you to stay with the others,” he said.

Safer? He didn't realize.

I was already dead.