“Mama, they’re back!” She dashed out into the yard, her silhouette fading, disappearing into the glistening sunlight.
I ran to the door just in time to see the storks soaring overhead.
“Did you see them, Emilia?”
I nodded, turning toward the voice.
My beautiful mother walked toward me through the grass with my baby brother.
“Did you see them, sweetheart?” she whispered. “They’ve come home.”
Mama smiled wide. She kissed me, handed me a jar of jam, and then walked into the kitchen. I leaned against the warm door frame, allowing the golden heat to envelop me.
I turned the lid and lifted the rose petal jam to my nose, savoring the scent. I raised my face to the sun. My war had been so long, my winters so cold. But I had finally made it home. And for the first time in a long time, I was not afraid.
florian
I sat on the porch, my hands trembling and cold. The fear never disappeared, but with each year it retreated slightly, a tide of memory sliding back out to sea. The terror returned mainly at night, but Joana was always there to chase it away.
And then, after more than twenty years, a letter arrived.
I thought it was behind me, that what remained was only suffering’s ghost. I had run and tried to hide, but it was no use.
Fate is a hunter.
So fate had found its way to me across the ocean, tucked in an envelope. I thought long and hard about whether I should write back. Finally, I did.
And now another envelope had arrived. It had the same return address.
A reply.
Answers.
I took a breath and tore it open.
25th day of April, 1969
Bornholm, Denmark
My Dear Florian,
I was so full of joy to receive your response to my letter. Although it must certainly sound strange, for all these years—twenty-four to be exact—it has felt that I have known you. Yes, of course I understand it took time and careful thought for you to reply. My apologies for the delay as well, I required assistance with my German. Part of me feared, dear child, that you would never reply at all. I spent quite a long time debating whether I should actually post the first letter, wondering if it would even find you. I wrote it the very same day I read the article in the newspaper. Initially, it simply seemed like an interesting story—a young swimmer from America who longed to compete in the summer games, but her nationality was in question because she had been born on a ship. Can you imagine my shock when I read these words in print from the swimmer, Halinka, herself:
"My birth mother was on a German ship that sank during the war, the Wilhelm Gustloff. My mother saved me and also my older brother, Klaus, during the sinking. I am told she was very brave. We know nothing of her except that she was Polish and her name was Emilia."
Her name was Emilia.
Of course it could have been coincidence, but when you and Joana were named in the article, I knew. Emilia, Florian, Joana. This was not a coincidence. I contacted an acquaintance in America who helped me retrieve your address through a telephone directory in the library. I’m so grateful she did.
In your letter, you gently asked if I had revealed anything. Let your heart be still, I have not. You also asked how it happened. I am so grateful that you want to know and I hope it will bring you comfort.
She arrived in February.
Niels had left to check the evening nets. He was gone quite long, so I followed to see if he needed assistance. It is difficult to describe the feeling, seeing the raft tapping against the shore of our land. It seemed she was softly knocking, asking would we please allow her in.
Countless things have floated up onshore over the years. There is a museum on the island of Bornholm, full of items. But this, of course, was different. She arrived not on a public beach, like most of the bottles and floats. She came directly to us, in our sandy backyard, defying tides and the elements.
Although I’m sure it sounds ghostly and terrifying, it was not. And to this day, I really cannot describe why. We sat, staring silently into the fire that night. So many questions. Where had this lovely young girl in a pink woolen cap come from? How long had her trip taken? How had she suffered? And then of course we thought of her family. Who was missing their beautiful daughter?
We couldn’t sleep. We left our bed in the dark. The large rucksack had defrosted near the fire and Niels brought it into the kitchen. We removed all of the items and placed them on the table. Certainly nothing made sense. But then Niels found your little notebook. The writing was so small we could not read it without a strong magnifier. The details were cryptic. We loved your tiny sketches, signatures, and the brief entries about your family and Joana.
But this, scratched into the margin, was what we needed—
Emilia. Pink hat. Poland.
We only realized that your abbreviation Willi G implied Wilhelm Gustloff when Niels heard a report from Sweden years later about the sinking. We were shocked to learn the ship had been carrying ten thousand people. More than nine thousand perished.