by Ruta Sepetys
The woman in front of me left the table. I was finally alone, no longer burdened by the young Pole and the pretty nurse. I approached the soldier with an air of superiority and thrust out my papers. “I need to cross now.”
“No one’s crossing now. Unless you want a cold bath,” said the soldier as he opened my papers. He read the special pass and looked up at me. He lowered his voice.
“My apologies, Herr Beck. I can get you across first thing tomorrow morning.” He logged my details in the registration ledger. “We can find lodging for you this evening here in Frauenberg,” he said.
“No, I have arrangements,” I told him. I didn’t need any eyes on me.
“You may cross in the morning, then. As long as there aren’t any further attacks. Heil Hitler!” he said.
“Heil Hitler,” I responded, swallowing the bile that rose when I spoke the phrase.
joana
Our group approached the village registration point and the soldiers. Emilia pulled her pink hat low over her eyes. Eva clenched her jaw and the wandering boy held Poet’s hand.
How closely would they inspect our papers? Could they assess refugees like I diagnosed patients? If so, they’d note the following about me:
Homesick.
Exhausted.
Full of regret.
It wasn’t fair to think of myself. The stakes were so much higher for the others.
What would they do to Emilia if they discovered the truth? And Ingrid? She’d be sent to one of the walled-in killing facilities in Germany or Austria.
“Tell me something about the inspection soldier,” whispered Ingrid.
“He’s our age. Blond. His left foot is propped on a wooden box. Blue scarf.”
The soldier rubbed his gloved hands together, suffering in the cold. He scanned our group and cart as we advanced toward his table. His eyes stopped on Ingrid.
“What’s wrong with your eyes, Fräulein?”
“Glass shards from an explosion,” recited Ingrid.
“Come closer,” he commanded. “Approach the table.” His eyes journeyed from her face to her feet.
Panic pounded at my throat.
“Joana.” Ingrid smiled. “Help me forward so I don’t fall and embarrass myself in front of the soldier.”
I steered Ingrid forward.
“My eyes are improving,” Ingrid told him. “Today I can see through the gauze a bit. I . . . like your scarf,” she said quietly. “Blue is my favorite color.”
The soldier stared at Ingrid. His silence was elastic, slowly curling a rope around her neck. He looked at our group and put a finger to his lips, demanding silence. He reached up and pulled the scarf from his neck.
He then held the scarf out to Ingrid.
He waited.
The ends of the scarf fluttered in the freezing wind.
I couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, Ingrid’s gloved hand lifted, trembling, tentative.
“Yes.” He smiled, nodding. “Take it, Fräulein.” He quickly pushed the scarf into her hand. His voice dropped in volume. “You’re lucky. My youngest brother was born blind.”
“I see your left foot is hurting, isn’t it, lad?” interrupted the shoe poet.
“Like the devil,” replied the soldier. “That’s why I’m sitting at this stupid table.”
“I’m a shoemaker. Let me have a look.” Poet was a star, with skills as good as any cinema actor. He examined the soldier’s foot and ankle.
“You need a heel cup,” said Poet. “Finish up with our group here and give me your boot. You’ll feel better in no time.”
“Really?” asked the soldier.
“Why, yes, it’s the least I can do for the Reich, isn’t it? But I don’t want to hold up my group. That wouldn’t be fair.” Poet chatted to him nonstop about the relief he would soon feel. The soldier scanned our papers and logged our registration quickly, barely looking at Emilia. Poet and the wandering boy stayed behind for the boot adjustment. “We’ll catch up with you,” Poet said with a wink.
Ingrid stood facing the soldier, clutching his scarf to her chest. She smiled. He smiled back. I gently steered her away by the elbow. She was shaking.
• • •
We settled into the crowded cathedral on the hill with the other refugees. I walked through the clusters of people, trying to help where I could while also looking for supplies. An old woman offered to trade some herbs for a pair of socks. I reorganized my suitcase after the transaction, looking for paper to write a letter to Mother. I was one step closer to her, closer to finding out where my father and brother were. I sorted through the personal items in my case, reflecting on how much I had left behind. I used to complain that family dinners lasted too long, that we were forced to sit at the table when I needed to study for exams.
“Enough studying, Joana. Sometimes living life is more instructive than studying it,” my father used to tease.
War had rearranged my priorities. I now clung to memories more than goals or material things. But there were a few irreplaceable items that buoyed my spirit and fight for life. It was at that moment that I realized.
Something was missing from my suitcase.
alfred
Dearest one,
Your tender ear is probably full of news now, listening to reports of the Russians plundering this region. So vulgar, those Bolsheviks, interested in nothing but schnapps and wristwatches. “Urri, urri,” they say, demanding men surrender their timepieces. Do they report that in Heidelberg, Lore? Likely not. Many fine points of detail are overlooked by the average man. It is up to people like me—documentarians of the military—to report them. Yet I fear I will upset your fragile nerves by telling you these truths of atrocities, like the fact that six hundred Russian babies were born in Stolp alone last month, after the Russian barbarians invaded last year. Such an insult to our Führer. Yes, best to avoid mention of such things.
Instead I shall direct your attention to this marvel of a ship, the Wilhelm Gustloff. I know you enjoy the undisclosed details we share, so I shall risk including them. Of course secrets are safe with you, dear Hannelore. How you do love keeping secrets. But perhaps you had best throw this letter onto the fire after reading it.
The ship’s chimney, or funnel, as sailors call it, is thirteen meters high. But we both know appearances can deceive. The impressive-looking chimney is false. It is not a working chimney at all. How do I know, you ask? Well, a man of my status has access to these special details. I discovered the chimney just this week while on patrol. The inside has a nice iron ladder to a ledge where I can sit and peer out over the decks. While looking out, I have observed some of the soldiers doing things they should not. I note this information and keep it at hand in the event I need to use it to my advantage later. I quite enjoy the feeling of finally being the one who holds the cards.
We have removed all of the furniture from the ship’s common areas, every last chair and table, in order to accommodate refugees. I am told they will sit shoulder to shoulder on mattresses in every room and corridor. U-boat officers and Germans of priority will of course take lodging in the ship’s passenger cabins.
My Mutter always lamented my lack of friends in Heidelberg, but here each day I am introduced to someone new. Just today I met Eugen Jeissle, the ship’s head printer, responsible for creating the boarding passes, the coveted pieces of paper that will allow passage to freedom.
“These will be more valuable than bars of gold,” Jeissle told me.
When he left for the toilets I decided it would be best to take a stack of the passes for posterity. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.
So, dearest, that is the news of the day. Hopefully these details of consequence will soothe the strain of my absence.
• • •
I ended the mental letter but left out one detail.
The
Gustloff only had twelve lifeboats. The other ten were missing.
florian
I crouched near the cathedral altar, carefully watching the Polish girl. She was looking for me. When she turned her head I made my move, quickly darting to the small entry. I crawled inside and pressed my back against the tiny door to keep anyone from entering. As a small boy in Tilsit, I once found my way inside the pipe organ of a local church. It was a perfect hiding spot. The organ was my target as soon as I saw the cathedral. Adults wouldn’t bother me, only bored children who might be exploring.
The cramped space left little room to move, but I didn’t care. I was alone, out of the cold, and one step closer to completing my mission. I watched the group from behind the pipes. The Polish girl’s pink hat bobbed like a candy egg amidst hundreds of gray faces all so tired and drawn, they looked like boiled meat. The nurse continually scanned the cathedral. Was she looking for those who might need help? Was she looking for food? Or maybe, was she looking for me? I tried not to care.
Protected by privacy, I was finally able to open my pack. I took out the art supplies and my notebook. The small box was undisturbed. Had Dr. Lange peeked in the crate yet? At times, to fuel his artistic euphoria, Dr. Lange would open a crate to admire a panel from the precious Amber Room, savoring the experience as others would enjoy a vintage bottle of brandy. Initially, I was so impressed by his emotional reaction. I thought it was passion for art. It wasn’t. It was greed and power that excited him in a perverse way.
Originally created in Prussia and gifted to Peter the Great, the Amber Room was a glittering chamber of amber, jewels, gold, and mirrors. In 1941, the Nazis stole it from the Catherine Palace in Pushkin, near Leningrad. Packed into twenty-seven crates, the Amber Room was the culmination of Hitler’s artistic dreams. He carefully strategized its safekeeping and after much deliberation the twenty-seven crates were secretly shipped to the castle museum in Königsberg.
Dr. Lange was responsible for its protection.
I worked for Dr. Lange.
Some in the art world claimed the Amber Room carried a curse. Dr. Lange wouldn’t hear of that. He said the Amber Room was the greatest of the world’s treasures. I was the only one he trusted to touch the treasure. He gave me special tailored gloves, fitted to my fingers.
“Can you even comprehend what we have here, Florian?” Lange’s breath fluttered while admiring the sparkling jewels amidst the golden stones.
As the Russian forces approached, Dr. Lange assured me that moving the twenty-seven crates containing the Amber Room meant preserving the riches of the Reich. In reality, he and Koch had plans of their own. They were hiding the room for themselves and, in the process, implicating me in the biggest heist of all time. It was calculated and clever, putting an unknowing young apprentice in the middle to blame later, if necessary.
When we sealed the crates to move them, I noticed that one was unlike the others.
“Why is this crate marked differently?” I had asked Lange.
He was all too eager to tell me. “Inside that one,” he breathed, “is another very small box. It contains the crown jewel of the Amber Room.”
“What is it?”
“A tiny amber swan.” Lange put his hand to his chest, practically over his heart. “It is the Führer’s most favorite.”
We dug a secret bunker deep beneath the castle and locked the crates inside. I then painted the stone floor above the cellar to look aged. The door to the cellar was undetectable.
But I knew where it was.
I also had the key.
• • •
Hidden behind the organ, I carefully pulled the lid from the small wooden box and removed the top layer of straw. Even in the low light, the amber swan glistened and shimmered. People had fought for it, killed for it, died for it.
And I had it.
Had Dr. Lange gone looking for the key? Had he discovered my betrayal?
I carefully arranged the straw over the swan and slid the top of the small crate back into place. The key was my revenge against Lange. But the tiny crate with the swan was more important.
It held my revenge against Hitler.
emilia
The shoe poet woke early, rapping our feet with his walking stick.
“It is time to cross the iced lagoon,” he announced. “If it were summer, I would swim across. I am a very strong swimmer,” he told the wandering boy.
Poet said once we crossed the ice, we could walk down the narrow strip of land to one of the ports. There was no other option. The Russians surrounded us on all sides. But where was the knight? Had he walked across the ice alone?
I overheard Joana talking to Eva. “Do you have any cosmetics? It might make Emilia look a little older, like the Latvian in the papers. I can tell them she’s on her way to meet her boyfriend.”
Boyfriend.
I thought of August and how hard he worked the family’s land. He was so kind to come into the kitchen and apologize for his mother’s cruel behavior.
“Don’t pay any attention to her, Emilia. Someday she’ll get a dose of her own medicine,” he’d said.
I learned things about him, just by watching. I knew which section of rabbit pleased him most, that he preferred autumn to spring, and that he would rather take his breakfast bread alone in the stable than with his parents in the dining room.
I watched intently, remembering Mama’s words: If you observe carefully, dear, you won’t have to ask. Mama observed too. Visitors never had to ask for cream with their coffee or jam for their tea. She had noted their preferences long before.
Joana knew who was hurting and I knew secrets about the knight. But I felt certain that no one knew my secrets, except maybe the ravens that nested above the cold cellar.
joana
My hips and back ached from sleeping on the cold stone floor. I had woken in the middle of the night and imagined I saw the German standing above me in the dark. When I blinked he was gone and I realized it was a dream.
I was concerned about his wound. That’s what I told myself. But the truth poked at me. Why was I looking for him? His wound was healing well; he was stronger than most. I was embarrassed to admit it: I wanted to see him again, not to evaluate his wound but to discover his name, his mission, and why he had taken the drawing from my suitcase. Ingrid said he was a thief, but she thought he was stirred to know me, not to hurt me. I wanted to believe her. The war was full of brutality. Were there any nice young men still out there?
“He’s probably here somewhere.” Ingrid smiled. “Watching.”
I had glanced around the crowded cathedral many times the night prior, wondering if she was right.
“Joana,” whispered Ingrid, reaching for my hands. “The Russians draw nearer each day. Without you . . . I can’t bear to think what would have happened to me.”
“We just need to cross the ice,” I assured her. “We’re close. The crossing point is only a short walk down the hill.”
We gathered our belongings. Ingrid spooled the soft scarf from the German soldier around her neck.
Emilia smiled at me behind red lipstick as we left the cathedral.
What a group we were. A pregnant girl in love, a kindly shoemaker, an orphan boy, a blind girl, and a giantess who complained that everyone was in her way when she herself took up the most room. And me, a lonely girl who missed her family and begged for a second chance.
• • •
We were among the first to cross. The expanse of ice looked enormous. “Fifty meters between each group,” instructed the soldiers. “We must not stress the ice all at once. Hurry.”
How could we hurry? The walk was kilometers long and the ice was slippery.
“Let me go first,” said Ingrid, her eyes still bandaged. “Alone.”
“Absolutely not,” I told her. “We’ll go together.”
“I’
ll go with Ingrid,” said the shoe poet. “My walking stick can test more than soles.”
“No,” insisted Ingrid. “If I’m alone, I’ll truly feel the ice. I’ll let you know if it’s sound. Then you can bring the cart along with the others.”
Ingrid walked several meters out onto the ice, eyes bandaged, hands in front of her. She took a step and stopped, listening.
She took another step.
The sun made its first appearance, throwing light onto the lagoon. The ice in front of Ingrid was red, frozen with blood. She advanced, then snapped her foot back, as if sensing the stain. She stood perfectly still and breathed, alone on the frozen water. She took a careful step forward, over the icy blood. She took a few more steps, leaving at least twenty meters between us. I could not bear to see her, bandaged and by herself. I walked out to join her.
“I’m coming, Ingrid.”
“Yes, the ice is strong,” she called. “Come along.”
I stepped toward her. The rest of our group advanced slowly, carefully, yet desperate to move quickly across the jaws of ice.
Ingrid’s body suddenly stiffened. Her back arched. “No!” she screamed. “Go back!”
Our group retreated. I was too far out to return quickly. And then I heard them: Russian planes strafing overhead. Desperate refugees on the bank erupted in terror. Soldiers dove into snowbanks. I dropped facedown onto the frozen surface. The sun brightened, shining through the ice to reveal the horror below. A dead horse and a child’s mitten glared at me from beneath the frozen glaze. I closed my eyes, choking on the gruesome images.
High-pitched whizzings flew by my head, cracking and popping. Bullets tore through the ice. Frozen shards peppered my coat as screams filled my ears.
The firing ceased. I opened my eyes. Streaks of blood surrounded a solitary hole in the center of the ice.
“Ingrid!” I screamed.
Ingrid was gone.
Her gloved hand suddenly appeared, reaching out of the black water.
