They all thought he was a deserter. My mind flashed to him snapping the identity card and letter from my hand. “I’m surprised he felt well enough to move on so early.”
“His boots were military issue, but modified,” said the shoe poet. He sighed, shaking his round head of white hair. “This war . . . do you realize that young people are fighting on tiny islands in the Pacific Ocean and marching through the deserts of North Africa? We are freezing and they are dying of heat. So many unfortunate children. The young Polish girl was exhausted. Her feet were swollen, rising like yeast buns in those boots. But sadly, it’s probably for the best. We don’t want them caught among our group. If my mind still serves as well as my feet, we’ll come upon the estate before nightfall. No one will let us in with a deserter and a Pole.”
“Of course it’s for the best,” said Eva. “A deserter and a Pole? I’m sorry, but they’ll be dead on the road in a day.”
“Oh my, you’re a blister, Eva. A sour little blister.” The shoe poet laughed and shook his walking stick at her.
alfred
The morning sky draped cold shadows over the dock. Was my beloved Deutschland losing her footing? Was such a thing possible? Lübeck, K?ln, Hamburg. Reports said they were all rubble.
The U.S. Army Eighth Air Force had bombed the harbor a few months prior. More than a hundred American planes dropped steel suppositories exploding into Gotenhafen. The ship Stuttgart was hit and sunk.
They had bombed before. They would do it again. Three air-raid alerts had been established in a tier of severity. I memorized them:
Rain.
Hail.
Snow.
In the event of attack, I imagined I’d fire back into the air, wildly shaking a fist of ammunition at them. In my mind, I scaled such mountains of combat often.
But in the meantime, I employed my keen powers of observation rather than beastly force. The Führer insisted on meticulous record keeping. I had every intention of proving myself worthy of promotion to documentarian. After all, I was a watchman. Noting and repeating my observations only sharpened my mental catalog. My recitations seemed to bother my fellow sailors, but could I really blame them for being jealous of my archival facilities?
I had a secret device. To keep track of the Reich’s racial, social, and political enemies, I had put the Führer’s list to melody. It was easier to remember when I sang it, similar to a child reciting a lesson in song. It was a rather catchy tune:
Communists, Czechoslovaks, Greeks, Gypsies, Handicapped, Homosexuals
—insert breath here—
Jews, Mentally ill, Negroes, Poles, Prostitutes, Russians, Serbs, Socialists
—insert breath here—
Spanish Republicans, Trade Unionists, Ukrainians and
—insert breath for big ending here—
Yu-go-slavs!
The Yu-go-slav finale was my favorite. Three syllabic punches of power. I mentally sang my melody while performing my other duties.
A formal operation was in progress at the port, but specific details had not yet been revealed. Conversations were fraught with nerves and fear. I listened carefully.
“Don’t just stand there eavesdropping, Frick, move! You want to be blown up by a Russian plane?”
“Certainly not.” I balanced the stack of blue life jackets and peeked out from the side. “Where am I taking these?” I asked.
The officer pointed to an enormous slate-gray ship that matched the menacing sky.
“That one,” he said. “The Wilhelm Gustloff. ”
florian
“Leave! Go away!” I was annoyed. Angry. Why wouldn’t she leave? Walking clearly exhausted her.
“I follow far behind. You don’t see me,” she said in her broken German.
“I can’t protect you.”
“Maybe I protect you,” she said, her face earnest.
“I don’t need protection.”
“Then why you’re not taking the road?” She kicked at the snow that had turned to ice overnight. “Road is much faster. More chance of food. Countryside prettier, but takes longer. You don’t want to be seen?” She pulled her pink hat farther down over her ears.
What I didn’t want was to waste time. I turned from her and resumed walking. I heard her speaking Polish, talking to herself. Eventually she would get tired and have to stop. Her weary body wouldn’t carry her far. Thoughts of my younger sister pecked at me, and finally, I turned. As soon as I stopped, she stopped, lingering to rest against a tree. I reached into my pack and retrieved the Russian soldier’s gun. I walked back to her.
“Take this. If you need to use it, hold it with two hands when you pull the trigger. Do you understand? Now go away.”
She nodded but I was certain she didn’t understand. The gun looked huge in her knitted glove.
I walked away. Was I crazy? Three steps back was a Pole with a Soviet gun, following me—a Prussian carrying enough secrets to blow up the kingdom. My wound cried out and so did my judgment. If I didn’t report to a checkpoint soon, it would all be over.
joana
We trudged along the road, the sky gray and heavy. I looked up at the clouds.