That meant I would have to disembark in Kiel without incident. Without suspicion. If the blond soldier had told Koch that I was on the Gustloff, would someone be waiting for me in Kiel? The boat’s motion was too severe to forge new papers. And then I remembered.
I dug through my pack and found it. The identity card of the German soldier that the Polish girl had killed in the forest. When we reached Kiel, maybe I could leave the ship as a wounded soldier.
But once again, I would need Joana’s help.
alfred
Every lavatory was occupied or soiled. I stumbled to the infirmary, stepping over bundles of life jackets and coats that passengers had peeled off. The ship was so very hot, so foul-smelling of sickness. The last I overheard, we were carrying more than ten thousand passengers. Sailors were discussing whether the ship should follow a zigzag course to evade lurking submarines and whether the navigation lights would be illuminated. I was too sick to care.
The nurse was tending to soldiers when I arrived.
“I am here for self-admittance,” I announced. My legs began to tremble. “Please show me to a cot immediately.”
“Oh, Alfred, I’m sorry you’re seasick. But this ward is for the wounded.”
My stomach rolled in protest. “I am, in fact, wounded. My constitution has been destroyed by the enemy. The enemy is the sea.”
“Is this your first voyage?” asked the nurse.
“Indeed, and at this moment I have pledged it shall be my last.”
“Shake it off, sailor,” said an officer from his cot. “Go up top and get some air. Look at the horizon.”
“That really does help,” agreed the nurse.
“Please,” said a wounded soldier. “Don’t baby this guy. He loses his lunch and he’s crying? I’ve lost an arm.”
I tried to turn in his direction. “Seeing that your safe delivery to Kiel relies upon me, sir, perhaps you should have a bit more compassion for a fellow comrade. I will remember this.” I walked out of the infirmary and slumped against a wall in the corridor.
? ? ?
Dear Hannelore,
It is at crossroads such as these that my mind often questions the very integrity of man. Forgive me if I speak beyond your comprehension, but if we share unity of purpose, stand upon the same team, shouldn’t we try our best to assist one another? I fondly remember when we were once on the same team. It was for a game in the street. Do you recall it? You were wearing a short pleated skirt and a green ribbon in your hair. The game was brief because your mother quickly called you away, but for those fleeting moments, Lore, we were joined in common purpose. Purpose and principles are so very important.
It confounds me when people don’t assist or even welcome those on their own team. But it troubles me more when people welcome those from an opposing team. Have you ever considered these thoughts, Hannelore? Have you ever reflected on this idea with regard to your own mother and father, how your mother’s perfection was chipped by her judgment? I once asked your mother why she chose to marry your father. Do you know how she replied? She said the oddest thing.
“Because I love him.”
joana
“I promise.”
Was it the way he said it? Was there something that lingered behind it? Or was it just my own pathetic loneliness that made me grab the scissors?
Florian appeared as I was walking between the maternity ward and the infirmary. I hadn’t been sure he was still on board. Secretly, I was happy to see him. Why was it so hard to stay angry with some people?
“Please. It will only take a few minutes.” He smiled. “I promise.”
I quickly followed him to the stairs. He leapt up, taking them in twos, agile even with his pack. We crept through the small doorway in the stairwell up to the chimney.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I said.
“It’s the best option I have right now.” He leaned his back against the door. “In case someone tries to open it.”
“Move your foot,” I told him. I stepped between his legs. “Okay, now come down a bit.” He shimmied his back down the door, sliding his legs alongside mine until our faces were level.
“How much?” I asked.
“As much as you can.”
I ran my fingers through his hair, trying to stand it up at the roots. That would make it easier to cut. It was thick and soft near the scalp. “You have nice hair,” I told him.
He reached out and gently slid one of my curls between his fingers. He closed his eyes. “Maybe you’d better start.”
I grasped a piece of his hair with my left hand and snipped with my right. He opened his eyes and looked at the chunk suspended in my fingers. We both laughed.
I cut most of the hair and then trimmed as tight to the scalp as I could. It was difficult near his ears. I moved in close, trying to be as gentle as possible. He put his hands on my waist. Was he keeping a safe distance between us?
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss you. I’m hard at work here,” I teased. He didn’t reply.
“So,” he said awkwardly, trying to make conversation. “I’ve been to Lithuania.”