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, Fr?ulein, 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?