by Ruta Sepetys
“Poles, Prostitutes, Russians, Serbs, Socialists.”
He took a breath, tightened his lips, and spit on me, then resumed singing.
“Stop, please,” I begged.
He did not stop. He grabbed at me. I fought and clawed as he sang.
“Spanish Republicans, Trade Unionists, Ukrainians . . .”
He paused and then jumped to his feet.
“YU-GO-SLAV!”
His shoeless foot slipped on the icy surface and he dropped, his forehead smashing against the steel corner of the raft. He lay still, motionless. Then slowly he began to move. He pulled himself up, his face covered in blood, eyes wide with momentary inquisition. He parted his lips to speak. His mouth formed a small smile as he whispered.
“But-ter-fly.”
His torso swayed. He was gravely injured. I reached to steady him but he jerked away, violently recoiling from my touch.
He lost his balance and fell backward into the water.
There was brief splashing. The freezing water quickly strangled his screams.
And then it fell quiet. I waited, listening for a long while. The sailor, the self-professed hero, he was dead.
I was alone.
Again.
I hugged the pack and sang songs to Halinka in the darkness. Once in a while I saw something float by. After a time, the waves calmed slightly and cradled me up and back in their arms. I dozed a bit and wondered how many hours were left until sunrise. I imagined the sun warming me and showing me where I was.
Just a little longer now.
It was very dark. My body felt relaxed but heavy.
I was so tired.
My breathing slowed, quiet. Never had I felt so drowsy.
Then I saw something. I blinked softly. It was still there. Yes. It was coming closer, cutting through the water toward me, gradually becoming brighter.
Light.
joana
Florian was right. The light was a ship. The passengers in the boat with remaining strength waved their arms to be seen by the searchlight scanning the water. Florian moved to row us toward the rescue ship.
The baby stirred. The wandering boy looked up at me. “A boat has come to pick us up,” I told him.
“Is Opi on the boat?” he asked.
Sailors unfurled a large knotted net down the side of the ship. I didn’t know if I had the strength to climb up. My hands were numb with cold.
“Are you a good climber, Klaus?” Florian asked the wandering boy.
The boy nodded.
The lifeboat swung up next to the ship, bobbing frantically. Florian kept his feet in the boat and held on to the nets. Two sailors scrambled down to help people up.
“We’ve got a newborn baby,” Florian told them. The sailors took the baby from me and carried her up. The children were brought up next, and then all of the adults. I tried to check the pulse of those who remained in the boat. Five, wet and without coats, were dead of hypothermia.
Soon Florian and I were the only two left.
“You first,” he said. “I’ll be behind you.”
My fingers were too frozen. I couldn’t move them. I had to climb by putting my elbows in the ropes of the net and pushing up with my legs. I was nearing the top. My foot suddenly slipped on the slick rope and kicked back, hitting something.
I heard Florian yell. I screamed and felt a heavy jerk on the net.
The sailor on deck reached over and grabbed me. “Keep climbing,” he commanded. “Don’t look down.”
“Florian!” I screamed. There was no reply. “Florian!”
The sailor leaned over the edge, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pulled me onto the swaying deck of the ship. I turned to look down.
Florian was gone.
florian
I was falling, the black, frothy water coming at me. I grabbed for the net. My body wrenched. My shoulder popped and separated from the socket.
I felt my grip slipping.
Slipping.
My fingers released and I plunged into the sea. The freezing water carved into me like knives puncturing my skin. Pain surged in my chest and traveled across my arm. My body pulled down and down.
I was disoriented.
Everything was dark.
Which way was up? Where was the surface?
I was losing breath, my head spinning.
And then I heard her voice, calling to me from above the water.
“Kick! Kick your feet!”
She was yelling to me. The voice was suddenly close, warm and present, in both of my ears. “Kick your feet!”
Propel myself upward. Yes, okay.
Up.
My head rose above the water. I gasped, choking as I pulled air into my lungs.
“There!” yelled a sailor. My shoulder screamed with pain as they pulled me onto a raft.
joana
The sailors had him on a raft.
“Florian!” I screamed. I tried to climb over the side.
“Stay where you are,” insisted the sailor. “They’ve got him.”
Florian looked up. He motioned for me to remain on deck. The two brave sailors who had jumped into the water after him were boosting him up the net. They pushed him over the side and he collapsed in a heap.
The wandering boy threw himself onto Florian, sobbing and crying.
“I’m okay, Klaus. Just a little cold and wet.”
“We have to get him warm immediately,” I said.
We followed the sailors as they moved him belowdecks. I quickly stripped off his icy clothes and wrapped him in a big blanket.
“Not exactly how I envisioned that part,” he said quietly, with a grin.
“Hush.” I pulled the blanket tight and kissed him. The sailors gave him some dry clothes.
People ran in front of us, shrieking and crying for those they had lost. One man went mad, tearing at his hair, talking nonstop of chickens and the chicken car.
A sailor walked among the passengers.
“What vessel is this?” Florian asked him.
“You’ve been picked up by T-36, a German torpedo boat.”
An explosion detonated beneath the boat. People screamed.
“Stay calm,” said the sailor. “We’re releasing depth charges. There are still Russian subs prowling the area.”
Submarines. We were still in danger.
They gave us hot drinks and soup. The warmth brought tingling and pain. The wandering boy cried of aches in his legs and feet. And he cried for Opi. The baby whimpered for Emilia. We settled onto the floor with piles of blankets, huddling together for warmth.
Florian reached down and took my hand. “I heard you,” he whispered.
“What?”
“When I was underwater. I heard you telling me to kick my feet. Thank you.”
I looked up at him.
What was he talking about?
florian
Joana lay with her head on my shoulder, cradling the baby. The little boy slept in a bundle under my good arm. The brave rescue crew worked with precision, moving the boat and plucking people from the water.
I had been certain I was going to die.
The baby slept. Where was the Polish girl? Had she been picked up? I looked at the wandering boy, asleep. Heinz had his papers, the address in Berlin.
Heinz.
Our shoe poet, our friend. Opi. I fought the emotion that stirred.
The sailors walked among the people who had been rescued. They spoke to each passenger, asking questions and giving instructions. Joana opened her eyes and looked up at me.
“They’re asking everyone for their name and information. They say we’re going to Sassnitz, on the German island of Rügen.” She squeezed my hand.
I bent over and kissed the top of her head.
I then leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes.
My name and information.
Who was I?
I looked down at Joana and the children.
Who did I want to be?
emilia
The lace curtain flapped in the kitchen window. The breeze today was the kind you opened the shutters for, the kind that carried away old sin and flakes of sadness. The sun streamed through the window, blooming light through a jar of amber honey on the sill. I dipped my fingers into the cool sack of flour, sprinkled a handful across the board, and began to roll out the dough. Rachel and Helen were coming for tea after synagogue. They would be thrilled to have their favorite doughnuts with rose petal jam. Father would eat the leftovers for breakfast.
Something stirred by the sideboard.
“I see you, Halinka.” I laughed. My daughter peeked out from behind the cabinet.
“What are you sneaking around for?” I asked.
“Fairy bread.” She giggled. She was a beautiful whisper. If only I imagined her, my little bird could always be with me.
“Get a plate,” I told her.
She ran to the cupboard and returned with a plate, already licking her lips.
I cut a thick slice off the loaf while she sprinkled sugar onto the plate. I spread a layer of butter on the piece of bread and handed it to her. She gently pressed it facedown in the sugar. She then peeled it back up, slowly, careful not to lose a single crystal.
Halinka carried her fairy bread to the back door of the kitchen, which stood open to the unfenced yard and wildflowers. I had just returned to my dough when my daughter began jumping up and down.
“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.
Your Emilia was one of them.
We contacted the occupying German authorities, but they were uninterested because she was not a soldier. We contacted the Red Cross. We knew if we mentioned the small box, many would come. So we did not. We wanted someone to search for Emilia, not for the spoils of war. Twenty-four years have passed and even now my heart goes still when I hear a knock on the cottage door. But so far, no one has come. I will leave it to you and Joana to decide whether to share this information with Halinka. In the meantime, I have buried the items from your pack as you requested.
So, dear one, I have grown old now and my Niels is gone. Receiving your kind letter brought such peace to my heart, knowing that you, Joana, Klaus, and Halinka are together in America along with a child of your own. I do understand how you have struggled for this new life. The sinking of the Gustloff is the largest maritime disaster, yet the world still knows nothing of it. I often wonder, will that ever change or will it remain just another secret swallowed by war?
You wrote that Emilia was your savior and that she is ever on your mind. Please do know, Florian, she is ever in my heart as well. War is catastro
phe. It breaks families in irretrievable pieces. But those who are gone are not necessarily lost. Near our cottage, where the small creek winds under the old wooden bridge, is the most beautiful bed of roses.
And there Emilia rests. She is safe. She is loved.
Affectionately,
Clara Christensen
Author’s Note
This book is a work of historical fiction.
The Wilhelm Gustloff, the Amber Room, and Operation Hannibal, however, are very real.
The sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff is the deadliest disaster in maritime history, with losses dwarfing the death tolls of the famous ships Titanic and Lusitania. Yet remarkably, most people have never heard of it.
On January 30, 1945, four torpedoes waited in the belly of Soviet submarine S-13.
Each torpedo was painted with a scrawled dedication:
For the Motherland.
For the Soviet People.
For Leningrad.
For Stalin.
Three of the four torpedoes were launched, destroying the Wilhelm Gustloff and killing estimates of nine thousand people. The torpedo “For Stalin” failed in its tube and did not launch. The majority of the passengers on the Gustloff were civilians, with an estimated five thousand being children. The ghost ship, as it is sometimes called, now lies off the coast of Poland, the large gothic letters of her name still visible underwater.
Over two million people were successfully evacuated during Operation Hannibal, the largest sea evacuation in modern history. Hannibal quickly transported not only soldiers but also civilians to safety from the advancing Russian troops. Lithuanians, Latvians, Estonians, ethnic Germans, and residents of the East Prussian and Polish corridors all fled toward the sea. My father’s cousins were among them.
My father, like Joana’s mother, waited in refugee camps hoping to return to Lithuania. But that did not happen. Baltic refugees waited half a century before they could return to their nation of origin. Most who were forced to flee established new lives in different cities and countries. The evacuees walked, rode cratered trains, and fled over water.
