Salt to the Sea (3 page)

The wandering boy found a deserted barn a ways off the road. We decided to settle there for the night. We had been walking for days and both strength and morale waned. The bombs had set nerves on edge. I moved from body to body, treating blisters, wounds, frostbite. But I had no treatment for what plagued people the most.

Fear.

Germany had invaded Russia in 1941. For the past four years, the two countries had committed unspeakable atrocities, not only against each other, but against innocent civilians in their path. Stories had been whispered by those we passed on the road. Hitler was exterminating millions of Jews and had an expanding list of undesirables who were being killed or imprisoned. Stalin was destroying the people of Poland, Ukraine, and the Baltics.

The brutality was shocking. Disgraceful acts of inhumanity. No one wanted to fall into the hands of the enemy. But it was growing harder to distinguish who the enemy was. An old German man had pulled me aside a few days earlier.

“Do you have any poison? People are asking for it,” he said.

“I will not administer poison,” I replied.

“I understand. But you're a pretty girl. If Russia's army overtakes us, you'll want some for yourself.”

I wasn't sure how much was exaggeration and how much was true. But I had seen things. A girl, dead in a ditch, her skirt knotted high. An old woman sobbing that they had burned her cottage. Terror was out there. And it chased us. So we ran west toward parts of Germany not yet occupied.

And now we all sat in an abandoned barn, trying to create a fire for warmth. I removed my gloves and kneaded my chapped hands. For four years I had worked with the surgeon at the hospital in Insterburg. As the war raged and the staff dwindled, I moved from stocking supplies to assisting him in surgery.

“You have steady hands, Joana, and a strong stomach. You'll do well in medicine,” he had told me.

Medicine. That had been my dream. I was studious, dedicated, perhaps overly so. My last boyfriend said I preferred my studies to him. Before I could prove it wasn't true, he had found another girl.

I tried to massage warmth into my stiff fingers. My hands didn't concern me, but the supplies did. There wasn't much left. I had hoped the dead woman on the side of the road might have something—thread, tea, even a clean handkerchief. But nothing was clean. Everything was filthy.

Especially my conscience.

We all looked up when they entered the barn, a young man carrying a pistol, followed by a short blond girl in braids and
a pink hat. They were both haggard. The blond girl's face was red with exertion. The young man's face was also flushed.

He had a fever.

Others had beaten us there. A teetering collection of weathered horse carts was tucked beyond the brush, a sober portrait of the trek toward freedom. I would have preferred an abandoned site, but knew I couldn't continue. The Polish girl pulled at my sleeve.

She stopped in the snow, staring at the possessions outside the barn, evaluating the contents and whom they might belong to. There was no evidence of military.

“I think okay,” she said. We walked inside.

A group of fifteen or twenty people sat huddled around a small fire. Their faces turned as I slipped in and stood near the door. Mothers, children, and elderly. All exhausted and broken. The Polish girl went straight to a vacant corner and sat down, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest. A young woman walked over to me.

“Are you injured? I have medical training.”

Her German was fluent, but not native. I didn't answer. I didn't need to speak to anyone.

“Do you have any food to share?” she asked.

What I had was no one's business.

“Does she have any food?” she asked, pointing to the Polish girl rocking in the corner. “Her eyes look a bit wild.”

I spoke without looking at her. “She was in the forest. A Russian cornered her. She followed me here. She has a couple potatoes. Now, leave me alone,” I said.

The young woman winced at the mention of the Russian. She left my side and headed quickly toward the girl.

I found a solitary spot away from the group and sat down. I lodged my pack against the barn wall and carefully reclined on it. It would be warmer if I sat near the fire with the others but I couldn't risk it. No conversations.

I ate a small piece of the sausage from the dead Russian and watched the young woman as she tried to speak with the girl from the forest. Others called out to her for help. She must have been a nurse. She looked a few years older than me. Pretty. Naturally pretty, the type that's still attractive, even more so, when she's filthy. Everyone in the barn was filthy. The stench of exertion, failed bladders, and most of all, fear, stunk worse than any livestock. The nurse girl would have turned my head back in Königsberg.

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to look at the pretty girl. I needed to be able to kill her, kill them all, if I had to. My body begged for sleep but my mind warned me not to trust these people. I felt a nudge at my feet and opened my eyes.

“You didn't mention she was Polish,” said the nurse. “And the Russian?” she asked.

“He's taken care of,” I told her. “I need to sleep.”

She knelt down beside me. I could barely hear her.

“What you need is to show me that wound you're trying to hide.”

I thought of the carts outside the barn. They towered with the belongings of refugees. Trunks, suitcases, and furniture. There was even a sewing machine like Mama's.

“Why aren't you making any dresses?” I remembered asking Mama from my sunny perch in our kitchen.

Mama turned to me from her sewing machine. “Can you keep a secret?”

I nodded eagerly and moved toward her.

She put her hands on her wide belly and smiled. “I think it's a boy. I just know it's a boy.” She hugged me close, her warm lips against my forehead. “And you know what? You're going to be the best big sister, Emilia.”

And now I sat in a freezing barn, alone, so far from home. These people had time to pack. I wasn't able to pack, had left my entire life chewed to pieces. Who was using Mama's sewing machine now?

The knight hadn't wanted to come inside. What was his name? Who was he running from? I had examined the carts and belongings, evaluating the items and their potential owners to determine if it was safe to enter. But we had no choice. Sleeping outside meant certain death.

I sat in a corner and stuffed straw into my coat for warmth.
Once I stopped moving, the pain subsided. I buried my face in my hands.

A hand touched my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

I looked up to see a young woman above me. She spoke in German, but with an accent. Her brown hair was pulled behind her ears. Her face was kind.

“Are you injured?” she asked.

I tried to control it.

I fought it.

And then a single tear rolled down my cheek.

She moved in close. “Where does it hurt?” she whispered. “I have medical training.”

I pulled my coat tight around me and shook my head. “No.
Danke.
”

The girl cocked her head slightly. My accent had given me away.

“
Deutsche?
” she whispered.

I said nothing. The others stared at me. If I gave them my food perhaps they'd leave me alone? I pulled a potato from my coat pocket and handed it to her.

A potato for silence.

The arrival of the German and the young girl made me uneasy. Neither spoke openly. The girl's eyes darted with trauma and her shoulders trembled. I walked over to Eva. Eva was in her fifties and giant, like a Viking. Her feet and hands were larger than any man's. Some in our group called her Sorry Eva because she often said appalling things, but inserted the word
sorry
before or after, as if to soften the sting.

“Eva, you speak a bit of Polish, don't you?” I whispered.

“Not that you know of,” she replied.

“I'm not going to tell anyone. That poor girl is suffering. I think she's Polish. Will you try to speak to her? Convince her to let me help.”

“Who's the German she came in with and why isn't he in uniform? We don't have permission to evacuate. If Hitler's henchmen find us with a deserter we'll all be shot in the head. Sorry,” said Eva.

“We don't know that he's a deserter. I don't know who he is, but he's injured. He found the girl in the forest.” I lowered my voice. “Cornered by a Russian.”

Eva's face blanched. “How far from here?” she asked.

“I don't know. Please try to talk to her. Get some information.”

Eva's husband was too old to serve in the military but had
been recruited into the Volkssturm, the people's army. Hitler was now desperate and had called up all remaining men and boys. But somehow, the young man on the other side of the room had not been part of the recruitment. Why?

Eva's husband insisted that she trek to the west. He was certain Hitler was going to lose and that Russia would occupy East Prussia—and destroy everything in the process.

In school we were told that East Prussia was one of the most beautiful regions, but it had proven treacherous for those of us fleeing. Bordered to the north by Lithuania and to the south by Poland, it was a land of deep lakes and dark forests. Eva's plan was the same as the rest of ours—trek to unoccupied Germany and reunite with family after the war ended.

For now, I tended to people in the barn as best I could. Many had fallen asleep as soon as they sat down.

“Their feet,” the shoe poet gently reminded as I passed him. “Make sure to treat their feet or all is lost.”

“And what about your feet?” I asked. Poet's short frame was concave, like he had caught a large ball and never put it down.

“I could walk a thousand miles, my dear.” He grinned. “Excellent shoes.”

Eva pulled me aside.

“You're right—Polish. Her name is Emilia. She's fifteen, from Lwów. But she has no papers.”

“Where's Lwów?” I asked.

“In southeastern Poland. The Galicia region.”

That made sense. Some Galicians had blond hair and blue
eyes like the girl. Her Aryan look might protect her from the Nazis.

“Her father is some sort of math professor and sent her to East Prussia where she might be safer. She ended up working on a farm.” Eva lowered her voice. “Near Nemmersdorf.”

“No,” I whispered.

Eva nodded. “She wouldn't talk about it. Just said she fled through Nemmersdorf and has been on the run.”

Nemmersdorf.

Everyone knew the rumors. A few months ago the Russians stormed the village and reportedly committed vicious acts of brutality. Women were nailed to barn doors, children mutilated. News of the massacre had spread quickly and sent people into a panic. Many packed up instantly and began to move west, terrified that their village would be next to fall into the hands of Stalin's armies. And this young girl had been there.

“Poor thing,” I whispered to Eva. “And the German told me a Russian had found her in the forest.”

“Where's the Russian now?” said Eva, full of concern.

“I think he killed him.” My heart ached for the girl. What had she seen? And deep down I knew the truth. Hitler was pushing out Polish girls like Emilia to make room for “Baltic Germans,” people with German heritage. Like me. My father was Lithuanian but my mother's family had German roots. That's why we were able to flee from Stalin into the barbed arms of Hitler.

“You know, I think it could be worse,” said Eva.

“What do you mean?”

“My husband told me that Hitler suspected the Polish intellectuals of anti-Nazi activity. The senior professors in Lwów, they were all executed. So the girl's father, sorry, but he was probably strangled with piano wire and—”

“Stop, Eva.”

“We can't bring this girl with us. Her coat is splattered with blood. She's clearly in trouble. And she's Polish.”

“And I'm Lithuanian. Are you going to toss me out too?” I was sick of it. Sick of hearing the phrase
German Only
. Could we really turn our backs on innocent homeless children? They were victims, not soldiers. But I knew others felt differently.

I looked over at the girl in the corner, tears streaking her filthy face. She was fifteen and alone. The tears reminded me of someone. The memory opened a small door in my mind and the dark voice slipped through it.

It's all your fault.

I watched as the nurse girl moved from person to person, treating each one with items she carried in a brown leather case. I had a fever and knew I had to get rid of it to continue. The wound extended too far beyond my side for me to see or reach. I didn't need to trust her. I would never see her again. She looked my way and I nodded.

“Reconsidered?” she asked.

“When everyone's asleep,” I whispered.

It didn't take long. The cold barn was soon full of twitching muscles and nasal whinnies. The nurse girl cooked a potato over the fire and ate it. She ate slowly, neatly, placing small bites in her mouth, patient despite her hunger. She was highborn.

She then brought her bag over to me.

“Bullet wound?” she whispered.

I shook my head. I slowly pulled off the sleeve of my coat, biting back the wince. I lay on my side, my head turned away from her. She peeled my sticky shirt from the mass of congealed blood.

She didn't gasp or cry like other girls did when they saw something gruesome. She didn't make a sound. Maybe nurses were used to it. I looked over my shoulder to see if she was still there. Her face was an inch from the wound. She examined it
intently and then leaned forward and whispered in my right ear.

“Shrapnel. About two days ago. You stopped the bleeding by applying pressure but that pushed the fragments deeper, causing more pain. It's infected. You poured liquid on it at some point.”

“Vodka.”

Her voice resumed in my ear. “There are a couple of pieces. I want to take them out. I don't have any anesthetic.”

“Do you have anything to drink?” I asked.

“Yes, but I'll need the alcohol to clean the wound before I dress it.” I felt her hand on my shoulder. “I should do this now, before the infection becomes too advanced.”

Small boots appeared in front of my face. The Polish girl knelt in front of me with snow wrapped in a handkerchief. She swept my hair aside and pressed the cold compress to my forehead.

“Go away,” I told her.

“Wait.” The nurse looked to the Polish girl. “Could you please go outside and find a large stick?” The girl nodded and left. The nurse then sat down in front of me. I watched her mouth as she whispered.

“Her name is Emilia. She's from southern Poland. Her father sent her away for safety . . . near Nemmersdorf.”

“Holy hell,” I breathed.

She nodded and opened her bag. “I'm Joana. I worked as a physician's assistant for a few years. I'm not German. I'm Lithuanian. Is that a problem?”

“I don't care what you are. Have you done this before?”

“I've done similar procedures. What's your name?” she asked.

I paused. What should I tell her? “What's the stick for?”

She ignored my question and returned to hers. “What's your name?”

The fever burned, making me weak and dizzy. My name. I was named for a sixteenth-century painter my mother adored. No. I would not tell her. No conversations.

The nurse sighed. “You'll need the stick to bite down on. This is going to hurt.”

I closed my eyes.

Florian,
I wanted to say.
I'm Florian.

And I'll be dead soon.