Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys Read Free Book Online

the boats on the other side. Should I have stayed with the group from the barn? By walking through the woods, had I accidentally moved farther from my destination? If so, I might be walking directly toward the Russians.
    The back of my neck ached. The fever had returned. I pulled the remainder of the sausage from my pocket and prepared to shove it all in my mouth. The Polish girl plopped down in the snow and ate handfuls. I wished she’d leave me alone. But then I thought of my sister.
    I took out my knife and cut the sausage in half. I whistled to the girl and tossed a piece of sausage to her. She caught it and smiled. Cupping it in her small gloves, she raised it to her nose before popping it in her mouth.
    â€œYour home is here? East Prussia?” she asked. “You speak like East Prussian.”
    The pink in her cheeks matched her hat. I knew where her home was and I knew what had happened there. Did she know? “Yes, East Prussia. Königsberg,” I said. I probably couldhave told her the truth. I was actually from Tilsit, just northeast of Königsberg. I wondered if the Russians had taken Tilsit yet. And what would become of East Prussia? It was a former German kingdom, perched south of Lithuania and north of Poland on the Baltic Sea. Stalin had already taken Lithuania. He would take East Prussia too.
    The girl chewed, her gaze at me unbroken. “Heil Hitler?” she asked quietly.
    I said nothing.
    The girl looked up at the sky. She pointed and started talking about the trees and the stars.
    I would abandon her tonight.

alfred
    Anxiety swelled in the harbor with each minute that passed.
    Rumors circulated that the German front had fallen two weeks ago. Temporary, I assured my fellow sailors. We were told the Russian forces had restored their medieval military order of “rape and pillage.” And now the vile Russians were closing in. Refugees, weary souls displaced from their homes, would throng toward the port, desperate to flee the Communists. There would be hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of them.
    The German High Command had quickly organized a massive water evacuation. They called it Operation Hannibal, after one of the greatest military strategists in history. An enormous convoy of ships would be dispatched to the West. Ambulance trains loaded with wounded German soldiers barreled toward the ports.
Goya
,
Ubena
,
Robert Ley
,
Urundi
,
General von Steuben
,
Hansa
,
Pretoria
,
Cap Arcona
,
Deutschland
, and
Wilhelm Gustloff
—ships all designated for evacuation from various ports.
    This would be my first-ever journey at sea. My maiden voyage had already presented its challenges. I noticed an unbecoming rash had appeared on my hands and in my armpits. I blamed the Communists.
    The sailors continued to speak of evacuation plans. I sensed my input was needed.
    â€œThere is not enough time,” I remarked to one of my superiors. “To register and board hundreds of thousands within a matter of days, I don’t think it’s possible, sir.”
    â€œYou will make it possible” was the order.
    I looked across the dock, imagining the scene. The entire population would be driven to the coast. The ports would be mayhem. German soldiers would have priority, of course. Desperate refugees would be selected, registered, and processed to board the ships. Thousands had already arrived in ox-driven carts piled high with their belongings. They were haggard, falling asleep in the snow. I saw a man so hungry he was eating a candle.
    â€œPlease, sailor. Help me,” they would plead as I walked by.
    I would do something this time.
    Maybe.
    For some.
    I sang my melodious list of enemies.
Yu-go-slav!
    I imagined myself home in Heidelberg when the war was over. Crowds of women and children would flock around me while I doled out oranges from burlap sacks.
    Yes, Hannelore, it is dangerous. I have been selected for a very important mission to disinfect this land. But we