فصل 51

joana

Our group approached the village registration point and the soldiers. Emilia pulled her pink hat low over her eyes. Eva clenched her jaw and the wandering boy held Poet’s hand.

How closely would they inspect our papers? Could they assess refugees like I diagnosed patients? If so, they’d note the following about me:

Homesick.

Exhausted.

Full of regret.

It wasn’t fair to think of myself. The stakes were so much higher for the others.

What would they do to Emilia if they discovered the truth? And Ingrid? She’d be sent to one of the walled-in killing facilities in Germany or Austria.

“Tell me something about the inspection soldier,” whispered Ingrid.

“He’s our age. Blond. His left foot is propped on a wooden box. Blue scarf.”

The soldier rubbed his gloved hands together, suffering in the cold. He scanned our group and cart as we advanced toward his table. His eyes stopped on Ingrid.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, Fr?ulein?”

“Glass shards from an explosion,” recited Ingrid.

“Come closer,” he commanded. “Approach the table.” His eyes journeyed from her face to her feet.

Panic pounded at my throat.

“Joana.” Ingrid smiled. “Help me forward so I don’t fall and embarrass myself in front of the soldier.”

I steered Ingrid forward.

“My eyes are improving,” Ingrid told him. “Today I can see through the gauze a bit. I . . . like your scarf,” she said quietly. “Blue is my favorite color.”

The soldier stared at Ingrid. His silence was elastic, slowly curling a rope around her neck. He looked at our group and put a finger to his lips, demanding silence. He reached up and pulled the scarf from his neck.

He then held the scarf out to Ingrid.

He waited.

The ends of the scarf fluttered in the freezing wind.

I couldn’t breathe.

Slowly, Ingrid’s gloved hand lifted, trembling, tentative.

“Yes.” He smiled, nodding. “Take it, Fr?ulein.” He quickly pushed the scarf into her hand. His voice dropped in volume. “You’re lucky. My youngest brother was born blind.”

“I see your left foot is hurting, isn’t it, lad?” interrupted the shoe poet.

“Like the devil,” replied the soldier. “That’s why I’m sitting at this stupid table.”

“I’m a shoemaker. Let me have a look.” Poet was a star, with skills as good as any cinema actor. He examined the soldier’s foot and ankle.

“You need a heel cup,” said Poet. “Finish up with our group here and give me your boot. You’ll feel better in no time.”

“Really?” asked the soldier.

“Why, yes, it’s the least I can do for the Reich, isn’t it? But I don’t want to hold up my group. That wouldn’t be fair.” Poet chatted to him nonstop about the relief he would soon feel. The soldier scanned our papers and logged our registration quickly, barely looking at Emilia. Poet and the wandering boy stayed behind for the boot adjustment. “We’ll catch up with you,” Poet said with a wink.

Ingrid stood facing the soldier, clutching his scarf to her chest. She smiled. He smiled back. I gently steered her away by the elbow. She was shaking.

• • •

We settled into the crowded cathedral on the hill with the other refugees. I walked through the clusters of people, trying to help where I could while also looking for supplies. An old woman offered to trade some herbs for a pair of socks. I reorganized my suitcase after the transaction, looking for paper to write a letter to Mother. I was one step closer to her, closer to finding out where my father and brother were. I sorted through the personal items in my case, reflecting on how much I had left behind. I used to complain that family dinners lasted too long, that we were forced to sit at the table when I needed to study for exams.

“Enough studying, Joana. Sometimes living life is more instructive than studying it,” my father used to tease.

War had rearranged my priorities. I now clung to memories more than goals or material things. But there were a few irreplaceable items that buoyed my spirit and fight for life. It was at that moment that I realized.

Something was missing from my suitcase.