Authors: Ruta Sepetys
Salt to the Sea (26 page)
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?
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.
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 yearsâtwenty-four to be exactâit 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 storyâa 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 neededâ
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
infor
mation 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 catastrophe. 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.
The
Wilhelm Gustloff
was not the only ship destroyed during the evacuation. The SS
General von Steuben
was also sunk by the submarine
S-13
, claiming the lives of 4,000. The sinking of the MV
Goya
claimed the lives of 6,500 passengers. The ships
Thielbek
and
Cap Arcona
were carrying Jewish prisoners from concentration camps. The ships were bombed and sunk by British RAF planes, killing over 7,000. It is estimated that in the year 1945 alone, over 25,000 people lost their lives in the Baltic Sea. For months, bodies drifted ashore in various locations, haunting the coastline and its residents. Even today, some divers report a strong presence in the water near the enormous sea graves.
The Amber Room, once called the Eighth Wonder of the World, disappeared during the war and remains one of the most
enduring mysteries of World War II. The Amber Room was last seen in 1944. Many treasure hunters have gone in search of it and some have suffered terrible fates during their quest. Over the years, pieces of the room have allegedly been found. But where exactly is the Amber Room? Reports have claimed that murderous Nazi leader Erich Koch was kept alive through the 1980s because he possessed information on the room's whereabouts. But who knows the real story? Some say it was hidden in a salt mine or beneath a castle, others claim it rests in an underground bunker in the forest, and some believe it was loaded onto the
Wilhelm Gustloff
.
There are many important stories of World War II. Much has been documented about combat, politics, guilt, and responsibility. Suffering emerged the victor, touching all sides, sparing no nation involved. As I wrote this novel, I was haunted by thoughts of the helpless children and teenagersâinnocent victims of border shifts, ethnic cleansings, and vengeful regimes. Hundreds of thousands of children were orphaned during World War II. Abandoned or separated from their families, they were forced to battle the beast of war on their own, left with an inheritance of heartache and responsibility for events they had no role in causing. Many experienced unspeakable atrocities, some miraculous acts of kindness by complete strangers. The child and young adult narrative is what I chose to represent in the novel, seeing the war through the eyes of youths from different nations, forced to leave everything they loved behind.
For many, war redefined the meaning of home. Emilia's
birthplace of Lwów, Poland, is now part of Ukraine. Florian's East Prussian Tilsit and Königsberg are now Sovetsk and Kaliningrad, Russia. Much of East Prussia is now part of Poland. Joana's country of Lithuania was occupied by the Soviet Union for over fifty years until regaining its independence in 1990.
Every nation has hidden history, countless stories preserved only by those who experienced them. Stories of war are often read and discussed worldwide by readers whose nations stood on opposite sides during battle. History divided us, but through reading we can be united in story, study, and remembrance. Books join us together as a global reading community, but more important, a global human community striving to learn from the past.
What determines how we remember history and which elements are preserved and penetrate the collective consciousness? If historical novels stir your interest, pursue the facts, history, memoirs, and personal testimonies available. These are the shoulders that historical fiction sits upon. When the survivors are gone we must not let the truth disappear with them.
Please, give them a voice.