You must tell, Emilia.
My conscience, my shame, it all boiled over. I looked at her and shook my head, barely able to speak through my tears.
“There is no August,” I whispered. “There is no August.”
joana
Gripped with pain and terror, Emilia spoke in fragmented German and Polish.
“No August. Frau Kleist. Prettier.”
She kept repeating “Frau Kleist, Frau Kleist.” It made no sense.
Things were moving fast. I wanted to run for Dr. Richter but couldn’t leave Emilia. She was completely overcome with fear, consumed by pain.
The sailor from the port peered around the door.
“Alfred!”
“Oh, pardon me, Fr?ulein. I thought you might—” He stopped when he saw Emilia.
“Alfred! Run to the soldiers’ ward. Get Dr. Richter. Quickly!”
Emilia gripped the edges of the cot. She screamed, her body vibrating, eyes bulging.
The sailor paled and looked rubbery.
“Alfred! Shore up! Go get Dr. Richter.”
He turned, as if in a trance, holding the door frame and talking to himself. And then he was gone.
“Come, Emilia, breathe with me,” I told her. We locked eyes, breathing rhythmically.
Emilia stopped, her mouth pulled with pain. She screamed, words and blood pouring from her lips. “Liar. Liar. Help me, Mama!”
I had never seen such terror. Where was Dr. Richter?
I couldn’t step away for the chloroform. Blood dripped from Emilia’s lip. Her face was slick with sweat. She cried out again, louder, excruciating.
“MAMA!”
The baby’s head suddenly appeared.
“Push!” I told her. What was the word for push in Polish? I tried to use expressions and gestures. She understood.
She pushed and screamed.
“Don’t stop! Push!”
She bore down, her clenched fists shaking, the pain so intense it strangled her screams.
The tiny child met my hands.
“Yes, yes!” I told her.
I looked down. A perfect little bird had fluttered into my arms.
Emilia gasped for breath, then sobbed and covered her face. “Liar. Help. Mama.”
“It’s over,” I told her. “It’s all over. You have a baby girl, Emilia. A beautiful baby girl.”
florian
I brought the shoemaker and the wandering boy up to the projection room to sleep. I cocooned the small boy in my long wool coat, folding the collar over as a headrest. He slept soundly with his rabbit and remained asleep after I woke.
The shoe poet was already awake, staring at my boots.
“You altered the heel yourself. You did a fine job. You are a craftsman?” he asked.
“Of sorts,” I said. If he knew, would he turn me in?
“Six years,” said the shoemaker. “This war has stolen six years from the world. I was born in Germany and have lived here my entire life. I have dear friends who are Russian. They tell me the Russian people are suffering terribly. Stalin, Hitler”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“there is no happy ending here.”
I nodded, reflecting upon his words. What would it mean to be German after the war? What would it mean to be Prussian? I checked my watch. “We should wake the little one.”
“I suppose, but I look at the boy and I envy his quiet sleep, his innocence,” said the old man.
“Where did he come from?” I asked.
“He wandered out of the woods. An address in Berlin was pinned to the front of his coat. But I wonder, who’s waiting for the little lad? What if the address is an orphanage? He told Joana that he was with his granny, but one day she didn’t wake up.”
I could feel my face moving, betraying my desire to remain unaffected.
The old man nodded. “There’s a saying, ‘Death hath a thousand doors to let out life; I shall find one.’ We all have a door that waits. I know that. I accept it. But the children. That’s what I struggle with.” He shook his head. “Why the children?”
“But the boy is the reason you were given a pass for a ship. He was too young to go alone.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve thought about that. Perhaps the children are little cherubs, looking after withered men like me.”
“Which ship will you be on?” I asked.
“The Gustloff. And you?” he asked.
“The Gustloff, ” I said.
We shared a quiet smile.
emilia
I stared at a jar of cotton balls on the metal table. Small white clouds trapped in glass. I wanted to lift the lid and let them fly away with my secrets.
I was still alive. Why?
The doctor cleaned and examined the baby while Joana tended to me.
“You did very well, Emilia,” she said, softly wiping the hair from my eyes.
I stared into the bright ceiling lights until my eyes hurt. Everything hurt. My strength dissolved into exhaustion.