I sorted through clothes, a medical book, the fork she had eaten the potato with, and then I pulled out something unexpected. I looked at the nurse’s loose brown curls for a moment, slipped the item into my jacket pocket, and left.
There were Russians in the woods. I knew that already. Most likely scouts or drifters who had been separated from their unit. I could handle one soldier. But how long before full troops swarmed the area? Originally, I’d had two weeks to get to the port. That was the plan. I’d get on a ship, sail to the West, and the mission would be accomplished. Once outside the barn, I reorganized my pack. I saw the letter with my identity card and couldn’t brush it from my mind.
Dr. Lange.
Dr. Lange was the director of the museum in K?nigsberg. He had hired me as a restoration apprentice, trained me, even sent me to the best school. I looked up to him and wrote detailed letters from the institute, sharing all of my thoughts on art and philosophy. Dr. Lange claimed I was brilliant. He said that my talents would provide Germany with a great service, one that would bring the Führer’s dream of a national art museum in his hometown of Linz to fruition. Then Dr. Lange introduced me to Gauleiter Erich Koch. Koch was the leader of the regional branch of the Nazi Party.
He was also a monster.
When the belted crates of art started arriving at the museum, Dr. Lange’s enthusiasm was infectious. Some pieces made him weep. At times, I had to steady him as a new addition was unveiled. He would put me to work immediately when each crate arrived. Sometimes I’d work through the night on a restoration so Dr. Lange could report to Koch the very next day. I went without sleep, without eating, even missed my father’s birthday to complete the tasks and please Dr. Lange. “We make a great team, don’t we, Florian?” he would say, grinning.
One morning Dr. Lange sent me searching for a roll of misplaced twine. While looking, I found all of my letters to him from the institute, carelessly thrown in a bottom drawer with ink and supplies. My letters were unopened. He hadn’t even cared enough to read them.
? ? ?
A voice rose behind me in the dark, pulling me from my thoughts. I grasped my pistol and reeled around.
“Wait. Please!”
The Polish girl, pink and out of breath, ran toward me in the snow.
emilia
I could not trust the people in the barn. The giant woman recoiled when she learned I was Polish, so I willed my legs to move faster, telling myself that once I told the knight my story, he would understand. He would know what I had done for his country. He would protect me.
My stomach complained. Would the hunger ever fade, retreat in a kind and gentle way and stop its constant knocking? I couldn’t remember not being fearful and hungry, when my stomach didn’t feel pulled with yearning. My mental pictures of Lwów seemed to be fading, like a photograph left outside in the sun.
Lwów, the city that always smiled, a place of education and culture in Poland. How much of Lwów would survive?
The knight’s silhouette came into view and inspired me to move faster. I called out and he turned, gun aimed.
“Wait. Please,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”
He turned away from me, then continued on his path.
I followed his fresh tracks in the snow and felt stronger, the January morning air sharp and crisp in my nostrils. I kept walking, following. After several meters he stopped and turned, furious. “Go away!”
“No,” I protested.
“It’s safer for you to stay with the others,” he said.
Safer? He didn’t realize.
I was already dead.
joana
Mornings held the promise of progress, dangling hope with thoughts of the next stop. We all fantasized of more than a barn. The shoe poet talked of grand manors owned by Junkers, wealthy East Prussian aristocrats. The countryside was dotted with their estates and we were bound to come upon one. Poet said he had visited one such manor house prior to the war and thought it was close by. We dreamed the wealthy family would take us in, ladle thick soup into porcelain bowls, and let us warm our frozen toes by the fire.
Poet walked around the barn, tapping the bottoms of people’s feet with his walking stick. The wandering boy followed. “Time to rise. Feet are strongest in the morning,” said the shoemaker. He arrived in front of me. “Still in fine shape, those boots. Any blisters?”
“No, Poet.”
I stood up and brushed myself off. “Is everyone ready to go?”
“The German deserter and the runaway Pole are gone,” he announced.