فصل 95

florian

Breath fogged from my mouth. My stomach rumbled. I thought of our warm kitchen at home in Tilsit, the soft ring of the lids trembling on their pots, and my sister’s laughter echoing throughout the house.

When my mother died of tuberculosis, my father’s greatest concern was Anni. “How will I raise a proper girl on my own?” he said.

Anni was thirteen when I last saw her. She would be nearly sixteen now. Would I recognize her if I passed her on the street? Where had she been and what had she experienced?

The door squealed. “Anyone hungry up there?” yelled the voice.

Such an idiot. “Shh,” I reminded him once again.

“Ah, yes, we must be covert.” He climbed the ladder. “I feel my physique responding,” he announced. “I have made exercise a priority and am seeing benefits. In fact, I believe the benefit now expands to my hands, which seem to be improving.”

I didn’t want to think about his clotted hands. “What have you brought to eat?” I asked.

He removed the shoulder strap and handed me my canteen. It hadn’t felt that heavy for a long time.

“Thank you.” I drank immediately. He then produced a large chunk of bread from inside his shirt along with a slice of meat wrapped in paper.

“Most are eating pea soup, you see, but that would be quite challenging to transport,” he explained.

“When are we leaving?” I asked.

“Word is that we could depart any minute.”

An artillery blast sounded in the distance. He twitched and plastered himself against the wall of the chimney.

“Still miles away,” I told him. “But they’re advancing.” I pictured my father’s maps. I could see swarms of Russians plowing into East Prussia toward the coast of the Baltic Sea, flattening Germany’s Wehrmacht, and all of us, in the process.

He scratched his wrist. “May I ask, are you good with weaponry?”

I nodded. “You?”

“Better with my mind,” he said. “I’m what is commonly referred to in philosophical circles as ‘a thinker.’ I prefer to capture all angles mentally. I observe. I am a watchman.”

“But sometimes there’s no time to think,” I told him. “We just have to act.”

“I quite disagree, respectfully, of course. I see many who act on instinct, which I believe is wrong. Through instinct we succumb to weakness and emotion. Careful thought and planning, mental construction, is always best.”

The impulse to hit him returned. I swallowed the last of the bread.

“‘Obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only to be broken,’” said the sailor. “I think of this wisdom often. Of course you’re familiar with these words. You’ve read Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf?” he asked.

I didn’t answer the question. “You know, you strike me as an intelligent guy. It might be better for you to think for yourself, rather than memorizing the words of others.”

“Why, thank you. Mutter always praises my sharp mind.” He turned to me, his top lip curled in a grin. “And I do think for myself. But the wisdom of the Führer, it fills me with an indescribable command.” His grin widened and he began to recite, “‘Only in the steady and constant application of force lies the very first prerequisite for success.’”

He stared at me, pupils dilated. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

I didn’t respond. Small hairs on the back of my neck lifted in warning. This guy wasn’t a sailor. He was a sociopath in training.

“Have you seen the nurse?” I asked him.

“I’ll go get her,” he said eagerly.

“No—”

But he had scrambled down the ladder and out the door before I could stop him.