I pity the man who cannot overcome his cowardice, who cannot step on the neck of his own weaknesses. I know you saw the group of Hitler Youth come to my door, Lore. The boys teased that I was a coward, not strong enough to serve our country, but how wrong they were. I’m so pleased you know that. Yes, initially I was not part of Hitler Youth and my critical father was ashamed. But now here I am, called a bit later than most but only because they have finally realized that it takes a man to succeed where boys have failed. It is so gratifying. And where are the bullies of Hitler Youth? Perhaps dead, imprinted by the tread of a tank. Death, it seems, has a mind of its own.
Yes, I know it must all sound hostile, but this is war. Brave men are reduced to numbers. These numbers are engraved twice on an oval metal disc we wear around our neck. In the event of death, they shall snap the disc in half. Half will be buried with my body, the other half turned in to Command with my papers and personal effects.
I am 42089.
? ? ?
I couldn’t help but wonder: Did Hannelore have a number?
emilia
We waited on the bank for several hours but the planes did not return. The water froze again. So did our hands and feet.
The soldiers returned to their stations. They insisted we cross a different section of the ice. They rushed the groups of people, all eyes intent on the sky. I resumed my place in the cart. The knight held Joana by the elbow, worried that she might jump into the hole that had taken the blind girl from us. He was scared to touch her, but wanted desperately to touch her.
I held my breath as we crossed, quivering at the thought of our Ingrid frozen beneath. The ice ached and groaned, like old bones carrying too many years, brittle and threatening to snap at any moment. My nerves lurched with each sound. I held my hands across my stomach. The shoe poet walked ahead of the group, tapping the ice with his stick and nodding.
“The ice is arthritic, but no fractures yet,” he reported. “Hurry along, the top is melting slightly. We have kilometers to go.”
Kilometers to go.
The cramping and pressure resumed below my waist. I couldn’t watch any longer. I lay back in the frigid cart, closed my eyes, and thought of August. In my mind, the warm sun burned bright. The unfenced pastures rolled soft, like worn velvet. The window boxes puffed with flowers and the tree branches stooped heavy with ripe plums. August returned to the estate, slick with sweat after a long ride with his horse, Tabrez.
I heard the wheels of the cart churn and scrape beneath me. No one had asked, so I didn’t mention it.
I did not know how to swim.
joana
After several hours, we reached the other side of the lagoon. No one celebrated. Instead, we trudged quietly and slowly onto the bank. Finally, Eva spoke.
“I was sure we’d all drown, like cats in a bag.”
The wandering boy looked up at Eva. Tears, like slender icicles, were frozen to his cheeks.
“Sorry,” she said.
Anger suddenly consumed me. I yanked the German by the arm, pulling him aside. “I could have saved her.”
“No, you couldn’t. They not only fired through the ice, they shot her.”
“You can revive someone who drowns! It’s possible. You kept me away.”
“Yes, I did. The temperature of the water alone was enough to kill her. It would have killed you too.”
“You don’t know that!” I yelled.
“Now, now,” interrupted the shoe poet. “Let’s not soil the memory of Ingrid with arguing.” Poet gestured to the German. “He quite possibly saved both you and Emilia. Emilia also scrambled to Ingrid. I saw it. He stopped her too.”
Emilia had also tried to save Ingrid? “Emilia, are you okay?” I called up to her in the cart.
“Yes, okay.” She nodded.
“We could have lost all of you girls,” continued Poet.
“Not her,” said the German of Eva. “Her big feet grew roots. She didn’t move to save anyone.”
“Feet with roots, that’s called a fungal infection,” Poet told the wandering boy.
A soldier approached our group. “Papers!” he demanded.
I pulled the German toward me. “You owe us,” I whispered.
florian
Owed her? Why did I owe her? I saved her life.
I tried to distract the soldier while he looked at my papers. “A lot of hysteria back there. Their friend fell through the ice,” I said.
“Lucky it was just one,” said the soldier. “Yesterday we lost dozens. Damn Russians.” He scanned my papers. He looked up at me, eyes sharp. “Do you still have the parcel?”
“Yes.”
“This is signed by Gauleiter Koch,” said the soldier.
I couldn’t read his expression. Was he questioning or was he acknowledging? “Yes, I’m in a hurry,” I told him.
“Wait here,” he said. He turned and walked to another soldier. My pulse quickened.
The rest of the group overheard the exchange. “Come along,” said the shoemaker, corralling the others. “Let’s leave the boy to his business.”
The Polish girl stepped away from the group and stood by my side.
It could have been so easy. I could have walked across the ice myself, without the burden of the group. They could have tried to save the blind girl. Maybe they all would have drowned in the process. That would have been so much easier.
And so much harder.
“Bitte.”