“Everyone has a price,” she said.
“But clearly not everyone has a soul,” said Poet, raising his walking stick to the woman. “Step away from the child.”
There appeared to be several checkpoints. No one was allowed through without a boarding pass. I unbuttoned my coat, enduring the freezing temperature in order to allow the bloodstains on my shirt to be visible. I had another stain, of course. One that wasn’t visible.
Sippenhaft. Blood guilt. It was a law of the Nazi regime. If a family member had committed a crime or treason, his blood was considered bad. It was an old practice, holding family members responsible for the crime of a relative.
My father made maps for the men who attempted to assassinate Hitler. He was taken to Berlin and hanged in the gallows of Pl?tzensee prison. And now I was smuggling Hitler’s most prized treasure, along with a map and key to the Amber Room in my boot heel. There was no question. Beck blood was bad.
We approached the entrance to the harbor, cordoned off by a line of armed guards.
A shiny black Mercedes slowly carved through the crowd. Soldiers moved a barrier and allowed the vehicle of well-dressed women and officers in uniform to pass.
No. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t Gauleiter Koch, was it? Anxiety played tricks with my mind.
A soldier marched up and down the line of waiting passengers. “Have your papers and passes ready for inspection, please.”
A vein began to pulse at the base of my throat.
joana
Her words replayed in my head.
No August. Russians. Frau Kleist. Take her. She prettier.
My stomach rolled. How I hoped I was wrong. I looked over at Emilia, fast asleep on the cot. She had talked of August and the farm. Her face lit up when she spoke of him. But in the throes of labor she had also screamed liar and pleaded for her mother to help her.
I looked at the little bundle. She was perfect, asleep like her mama.
Three more pregnant women had arrived and were resting comfortably in the makeshift maternity ward.
Dr. Richter entered with another man in tow.
“Joana, this is Dr. Wendt. He just arrived from the Naval Medical Academy in Gdańsk. He’ll be joining us for the voyage.” Dr. Richter gestured to the baby. “Joana handled our first delivery this morning.”
I shook the new doctor’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m more comfortable assisting.”
“Looks like you did a fine job,” said Dr. Wendt.
“Boarding has begun and passengers are filing in as we speak,” said Dr. Richter.
“When are we expected to sail?” I asked.
“Quite soon,” he replied. “We’ll have seven expectant mothers and a hundred and sixty-two wounded men. That could change, of course. If you see anything suspicious, we’ll need to report it.”
Suspicious. A perfect description of handsome Florian Beck. Where was he now, I wondered.
emilia
I woke, disoriented. Joana wanted me to move, to walk a bit. I didn’t want to. I was finally warm. No one would bother me for a while. And I was so tired. I pulled the sheet up to my nose.
She brought me pea soup and sat at my bedside. Whenever she left, she returned quickly. Joana looked at me differently now.
She understood.
She knew.
“The Prussian?” I asked, wondering about the knight.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You hope,” I told her.
She laughed.
Her smile suddenly faded and she looked straight at me. She leaned over my cot and took both of my hands in hers. Her eyes, filled with compassion, began to well up. Joana then whispered the words I had waited so long to hear. I knew Mama would say them if she could. But Joana spoke them, slowly and deliberately, clutching my hands between hers.
“Emilia, I am so very sorry.”
My chin began to tremble. My throat tightened. I nodded and warm tears spilled down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, squeezing my hands.
“Me too,” I whispered.
florian
We approached the embarkation officer, the wandering boy between us.
“Well, hello, there.”
The officer spoke directly to the boy. Smart. Children spill the truth.
“Hallo, I’m Klaus.”
“Give me your papers, please, Klaus.”
The shoemaker handed over the boy’s papers along with his own. I thrust mine out as well.
The officer opened the old man’s papers and looked at his pass. He leaned over and specifically addressed the boy. “And, Klaus, who is this?” he asked, pointing to the shoemaker.
“Opi,” replied the little boy.
Grandpa. Yes, he was like a grandpa. That was a good reply.
“And this gentleman?” He pointed to me.
My name. No one knew my name, except Joana. What if he called me what the others did—the Prussian? Or the spy?
“Onkel.” The boy smiled.
“And what is Uncle’s name?” the officer asked.
The little boy turned to me and saluted, as he had on the road. “Herr Beck.”
The officer laughed.