The pretty Lithuanian girl, Joana, had told me to find a large stick. I walked outside the barn. Wind and snow lashed my face. Every movement felt awkward in my layers and bulky coat.
Should I confide in Joana? Maybe she could help me. But I knew what would happen. She would be disgusted.
I heard a noise and looked up. That’s when I saw it. Perched on top of the barn was the largest nest I had ever seen.
alfred
Hello, dear Hannelore!
How writing or just thinking your name alters my mood. Sometimes I lie on my cot and whisper it oh so slowly into the darkness. Han-ne-lore. Little Lore.
It is late evening. I imagine you at home, finger twirling in your hair while reading one of your beloved books. Perhaps the snow falls there as it does here?
Home in Heidelberg feels so very far away. Buffered by distance, I feel compelled to share a secret. Perhaps it is naughty of me to mention, but did you ever realize that your kitchen window stands opposite our lavatory window on the main floor? I could often smell your mother’s duck in the oven from our bathroom. Yes, I frequently watched you eating your breakfast before school. Oh, do not be embarrassed, Lore. Neighbors share close quarters. We of course shared more. Those memories, they are the coals that shield my heart from frost.
But time for reflection is scant. Relaxation is nonexistent for a brave man of the Kriegsmarine. As you know, I am quite an accomplished watchman. Attention to detail has always been one of my great strengths, hence I am making note of everything to report to you. There is word of a massive naval evacuation and we are preparing at the port. I will finally be at sea, traversing the waterways into the oceans, like the adventurers you so love to read about in your precious novels.
And it will be an adventure, Lore. People are already arriving at the port to stand in line for one of the big ships. Some have carried all of their earthly belongings with them, piled high upon horse-drawn carts and sleds. Expensive rugs, clocks, china, chairs, they have brought it all. Certainly there won’t be space enough and some items will be denied. I saw a lovely crystal butterfly on a cart today. It brought you instantly to mind—how your dark, silken hair floats like wings of gossamer. If the butterfly is not permitted on board, I have decided I will keep it. Redistribution to those who are worthy makes the most sense.
Your kind heart would break if you saw the people at the port. They are weary and filthy from their long treks. Some have escaped from countries as far away as Estonia. Can you imagine? Stalin has stolen more than land, Hannelore, he has stolen human dignity. I see it in their forlorn eyes and broken posture. It’s all the fault of the Communists. They are animals.
And now Stalin’s army is closing in and people are panicking. No, no, fear not. I am quite confident and assured of my abilities. After all, a human being cannot be trained for these situations, he must be born for them. And thanks be to God that I was.
I rolled over and slid my duffel out from beneath the cot. I reached inside for my well-worn copy of Hitler’s book, Mein Kampf, and spotted the writing paper Mutter had given to me. Perhaps tomorrow I would actually put pen to paper.
joana
I lit a match to sterilize the scalpel and began talking. The doctor in Insterburg taught me that talking to patients often calmed them. “When Stalin occupied Lithuania, my family fled,” I said. “My mother had German heritage, so Hitler allowed us to repatriate and come to Germany. I only got as far as Insterburg.”
“Insterburg is East Prussia,” he said. “So Hitler, he’s your savior?”
He didn’t say more, but his sarcastic snort spoke for him. He was either critical of the Nazi Party, critical of me for repatriating, or both. I didn’t need his criticism. I carried enough guilt on my own. I had done everything wrong. I had the highest marks in school but couldn’t master common sense.
“I know it’s cold, but let’s remove your coat entirely and have you lie on your stomach,” I told him.
As I pulled off the sleeve, his pale green identity card peeked out from his interior jacket pocket. Perfect. If he wouldn’t tell me his name, I’d take a look for myself.
“I’m going to press the surrounding area of the wound to see how far the infection has spread.” He didn’t respond. “Tell me when it hurts.” I gently pressed around the perimeter of his wound with one hand, making note of tender areas. With my other hand, I tried to wriggle the papers from his coat pocket.
“Stop.” The ferocity of his command made me jump. “Hand me my papers.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now.”
He reached back and I placed the identity card in his hand.
“And the folded paper. It’s also in the pocket,” he said.
I pulled out the cream sheet of paper, trying to get a look at it. I couldn’t see through the fold. He snatched it and slid both under his chest.
Emilia returned, carrying a stick, white flakes glistening atop her pink hat.