فصل 40

joana

Ingrid sat silently braiding her hair. “When will we reach the ice?” she asked.

The ice. The goal we trekked toward. If we crossed the frozen Vistula lagoon, we could then make our way down the narrow strip of land to either Pillau or Gotenhafen. Ships would be leaving from both ports.

“Poet says we’re only a day from Frauenburg,” I told her.

“That’s where we’ll cross the ice?” asked Ingrid.

“Yes.”

Ingrid’s fingers stopped moving. “You’re nervous about it.”

I was nervous about it. The closer we moved to an actual village, the more military and wounded we’d encounter.

“If there are soldiers,” whispered Ingrid, “can you convince them?”

“The bandages will fool them,” I told her.

Ingrid had reason to worry. Hitler considered those born blind or disabled, inferior. They were called garbage children, life unworthy of life. Their names were added to an official registry. A doctor in Insterburg confided that the people on the registry would be killed. From then on we bandaged handicaps to pass them off as wounds.

“Maybe we should bandage my eyes tonight. Soldiers may come upon the house,” said Ingrid quietly.

“Yes, we’ll do that.” I reached out and patted her shoulder. “I’m going to look for some supplies.”

“Be careful,” said Ingrid.

I stepped between the sleeping bodies and pushed through the tall, heavy door. The old hinges let out an eerie, deep groan as they rotated. The air in the abandoned house lay cold and still, lingering dead without the family within it. Walking through someone’s home and personal possessions felt not only like trespassing, it felt like a violation.

A portrait of an older man in uniform hung crooked on the plaster. Which family did the estate belong to? Prussian Junkers had the reputation of being stiff and arrogant, but that seemed an unfair generalization. I had met Prussian families in Insterburg who were lovely. Many Prussian nobles had the preposition von before their last name to signify “of” or “from.” I looked at the portrait. If I belonged to Prussian aristocracy my name would be Joana von Vilkas—Joana of the Wolf.

An aristocratic killer.

I stared at the curving stairway of stone in the dim hall, the center of each step worn smooth by the tread of many generations. I hesitated. Should I go upstairs? I thought of our house in Lithuania. How many Soviets were in it now? Were they sleeping in my bed? Had they tossed all our books to the floor like trash? I took a few steps up the cold wide stairs. Silver moonlight shimmered through a window, revealing a gray stuffed rabbit lying on a step above. One of its ears was missing. Poor bunny. Even toys were casualties of war.

I climbed two more steps.

The supplies I needed were most likely in the kitchen or laundry. I didn’t need to go upstairs, but my curiosity beckoned.

I took another step up.

A clattering sounded below, making me jump. I hurried back down the grand staircase and made my way through the dark passage to the kitchen.

The German rummaged through the cabinets, his pack near his feet. A sheet was spread on the floor with a tumble of items in the center.

“Are you following me?” he asked.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I need supplies.”

He motioned to the bundle on the floor. “You can tear the sheet if you need bandages. There’s a sharp knife in the pile.”

“Thank you.”

I spied a few jars of blackberries and carrots on the counter. “Where did you find those?” I asked. “Eva said she checked the kitchen for food.”

“I know a thing or two about hiding places.”

I looked at the jars. “And those are all for you?”

“No, save some for the Polish kid.”

“I told you, her name is Emilia,” I said.

He ignored my statement.

“We’re all going to Frauenburg. Come with us and she can ride in the cart. The contractions and symptoms she described speak to early labor. She shouldn’t be walking for extended periods.”

He seemed to consider the proposition.

I rummaged through the dark kitchen and set aside dried herbs, scissors, and kitchen twine. There wasn’t enough. “I’m going upstairs to get some blankets.”

“No,” he said, moving quickly to block the doorway. “Don’t go upstairs. And don’t let the little boy up there either.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped in closer. “Why shouldn’t I go upstairs?”

He looked toward the door. He shifted his weight, hesitating. I stepped closer to him. He pulled in a breath and his eyes latched on to mine.

“No one should have to see that,” he whispered.