“Seventy-three to register. Two hundred and twelve unable.”
“Seventy-three? Then with my list, we’re full. Are you sure they all have a chance?”
“Yes.”
I spoke without hesitation. I wasn’t sure, but I was sure I wanted to try. I leaned down to tell the soldier that he would see his son and give him the book. He was already dead. The condition of the soldiers spoke to the fate of the Reich. The voice was clear.
Defeat.
But I would get these wounded men on the big ship.
The Wilhelm Gustloff would save them.
emilia
The knight was gone.
Joana was gone.
The sailor marched us to registration, quietly chanting the phrase Yu-go-slav. He was fidgety and blinked constantly. The knight thought he could dupe the sailor. Maybe he could. But what would that mean for me? We approached the registration area near the water. Lines of applicants snaked in endless turns. Wealthy Germans in luxurious clothing stood in one line, military personnel in another. The remaining lines were full of weary refugees and families.
“I’m not getting in line,” announced Eva. “I want to wait for our cart. All of my valuables are on that wagon. I don’t want to leave without them.”
“But, Eva, dear, your shoes are carrying your most valuable possession—your life. Do not delay. Everything else can be replaced,” said the shoe poet.
“My mother’s silver is on that wagon. I’m waiting,” she insisted.
The sailor continued on, completely unaware that one in our group had departed. He brought us into the line for Party officials. He then changed his mind and took us directly to the front of the refugee line. Others, who had been waiting, protested.
Despite the bitter cold, I began to sweat. I opened my coat and took a deep breath. The soldiers in charge stopped the sailor and demanded an explanation for our jumping the line.
“I have four passengers, direct request from Dr. Richter.”
“I see only three,” noted the soldier. “Can’t you even count?”
“I am quite good at math.” The sailor turned around. “Where is the huge gorilla woman? Well, I have three passengers. Direct request from Dr. Richter. And this one is with child.” He turned to the soldier and sneered. “So that makes four, doesn’t it? Can’t you even count?”
He pulled me up to the counter, squarely in front of the registration officers.
“There we are, Frau. Show them your papers,” he commanded.
florian
I sat inside near the back door of the movie house. Had I pegged the sailor correctly or had I judged too quickly? Was there really a desperate hero inside of him or just a nervous skin condition? My mistake in trusting Dr. Lange plagued me; perhaps my judgment was unreliable.
From the very first day, Father saw Dr. Lange for the manipulative and evil human being he was. I made excuses for him, desperate to validate the reasons he chose to work with me. I wanted to believe his motivation was to save and preserve the treasures of the art world.
One stormy night last July, a large painting arrived via truck with armed guards. Dr. Lange was dining with colleagues and I accepted the arrival from the soldiers. I unpacked the piece to display for Dr. Lange, inspecting it to see if restoration or repair would be necessary. I recognized the winter hunting scene immediately. The artist was Julian Falat, a Polish painter. Falat’s art was featured in books at the institute.
The painting was treasured by the Poles. It was the property of Poland.
The Nazis, under the greedy direction of Erich Koch, had stolen it.
A few days later, I found my letters unopened in Dr. Lange’s drawer. I felt ill. He had claimed we were a team, yet never bothered to open my letters, didn’t care what I had to say. I sat on my bed for a full day, sick with dread that Father was right about Lange. I replayed every interaction in my head, analyzing them from all angles. The pieces of art cloaked under tarps, the whispers, the handshakes, the deliveries late at night. I wanted to be wrong, but I always came to the same conclusion: Koch and Lange weren’t saving the treasures of Europe.
They were stealing them.
And, unknowingly, I had been helping.
The following day I left my small apartment near the museum and took a train to Tilsit. My father would know what to do. Together we would figure something out. I arrived home to find our front door hanging by one hinge. The house was ransacked. Our neighbor quickly emerged and whisked me into her cottage.
“I’m so sorry, Florian,” she said, crying. “Your father . . . you’re too late.”
emilia
“Show them your papers,” commanded the sailor.
They weren’t my papers. They were hers, the Latvian who had lost her life to winter and war on the side of a road. Perhaps she paused to rest and froze to death. What right did I have to pilfer her identity? And if I got on a ship, where would it go?