فصل 97

florian

I would try to board early. A cute little boy and a hobbled old shoemaker might mask my arrival nicely. We left the theater and walked out into the road. The streets were alive, moving and swaying with hordes of people pushing toward the pier. Hungry dogs roamed and barked, abandoned by their masters because they weren’t allowed on ships. Children, separated from their parents, wailed on the sidewalks, frantic and freezing. Some crouched in dark doorways of abandoned buildings, gnawing on moldy bread and the peels of sugar beets.

The small boy clung to the shoe poet, who was having difficulties navigating the shoving mob. He swatted people’s ankles with his walking stick to clear a path.

“Up we go,” I told the small boy. A pain in my wound surged as I lifted the boy onto my shoulders.

“Yes, wonderful idea,” said the shoemaker. “Thank you.” The old man fell in step with another white-haired German. “What do you hear?” asked Poet.

“On Christmas Eve, a German sub sank a troopship in the English Channel. They say there were thousands of American soldiers on board who drowned.”

Were Americans dying by the thousands as well? Nazi propaganda portrayed America as racially impure, a nation of mongrels, The Land Without a Heart.

The deep booming of an artillery shell rumbled in the distance. People in the crowd screamed and pushed forward. Women’s faces were flaked with mud and ash, camouflage from the Russians they’d applied while trekking through the woods. Refugees rummaged through deserted sleds and luggage.

“Take those boots,” called the shoe poet to an old man picking through a pile. “They’re better than your own.” The man nodded in acknowledgment.

Stories spread through the packs of people as we walked. A woman ran to a girl near us.

“Hurry! Russian planes dropped phosphorus on a mass of refugees. It blinded them and they had to roll in the snow.”

Whispers filtered that the Allies had cut off access roads and train routes. We were surrounded. The crowds became denser, more suffocating as we approached the port. Panicked refugees trembled as they lined up at registration stations. Babies were used as pawns, passed from one person to the next as they approached for registration.

A woman grabbed my arm. “How much for the kid? They won’t let me on if I don’t have a kid.”

The wandering boy’s legs tightened on my shoulders.

“He’s not for sale,” I told her.

“Everyone has a price,” she said.

“But clearly not everyone has a soul,” said Poet, raising his walking stick to the woman. “Step away from the child.”

There appeared to be several checkpoints. No one was allowed through without a boarding pass. I unbuttoned my coat, enduring the freezing temperature in order to allow the bloodstains on my shirt to be visible. I had another stain, of course. One that wasn’t visible.

Sippenhaft. Blood guilt. It was a law of the Nazi regime. If a family member had committed a crime or treason, his blood was considered bad. It was an old practice, holding family members responsible for the crime of a relative.

My father made maps for the men who attempted to assassinate Hitler. He was taken to Berlin and hanged in the gallows of Pl?tzensee prison. And now I was smuggling Hitler’s most prized treasure, along with a map and key to the Amber Room in my boot heel. There was no question. Beck blood was bad.

We approached the entrance to the harbor, cordoned off by a line of armed guards.

A shiny black Mercedes slowly carved through the crowd. Soldiers moved a barrier and allowed the vehicle of well-dressed women and officers in uniform to pass.

No. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. That wasn’t Gauleiter Koch, was it? Anxiety played tricks with my mind.

A soldier marched up and down the line of waiting passengers. “Have your papers and passes ready for inspection, please.”

A vein began to pulse at the base of my throat.