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powers of observation rather than beastly force. The Führer insisted on meticulous record keeping. I had every intention of proving myself worthy of promotion to documentarian. After all, Iwas a watchman. Noting and repeating my observations only sharpened my mental catalog. My recitations seemed to bother my fellow sailors, but could I really blame them for being jealous of my archival facilities?
    I had a secret device. To keep track of the Reich’s racial, social, and political enemies, I had put the Führer’s list to melody. It was easier to remember when I sang it, similar to a child reciting a lesson in song. It was a rather catchy tune:
    Communists, Czechoslovaks, Greeks, Gypsies, Handicapped, Homosexuals
    â€”insert breath here—
    Jews, Mentally ill, Negroes, Poles, Prostitutes, Russians, Serbs, Socialists
    â€”insert breath here—
    Spanish Republicans, Trade Unionists, Ukrainians and
    â€”insert breath for big ending here—
    Yu-go-slavs!
    The Yu-go-slav finale was my favorite. Three syllabic punches of power. I mentally sang my melody while performing my other duties.
    A formal operation was in progress at the port, but specific details had not yet been revealed. Conversations were fraught with nerves and fear. I listened carefully.
    â€œDon’t just stand there eavesdropping, Frick, move! You want to be blown up by a Russian plane?”
    â€œCertainly not.” I balanced the stack of blue life jackets and peeked out from the side. “Where am I taking these?” I asked.
    The officer pointed to an enormous slate-gray ship that matched the menacing sky.
    â€œThat one,” he said. “The
Wilhelm Gustloff
. ”

florian
    â€œLeave! Go away!” I was annoyed. Angry. Why wouldn’t she leave? Walking clearly exhausted her.
    â€œI follow far behind. You don’t see me,” she said in her broken German.
    â€œI can’t protect you.”
    â€œMaybe I protect you,” she said, her face earnest.
    â€œI don’t need protection.”
    â€œThen why you’re not taking the road?” She kicked at the snow that had turned to ice overnight. “Road is much faster. More chance of food. Countryside prettier, but takes longer. You don’t want to be seen?” She pulled her pink hat farther down over her ears.
    What I didn’t want was to waste time. I turned from her and resumed walking. I heard her speaking Polish, talking to herself. Eventually she would get tired and have to stop. Her weary body wouldn’t carry her far. Thoughts of my younger sister pecked at me, and finally, I turned. As soon as I stopped, she stopped, lingering to rest against a tree. I reached into my pack and retrieved the Russian soldier’s gun. I walked back to her.
    â€œTake this. If you need to use it, hold it with two hands when you pull the trigger. Do you understand? Now go away.”
    She nodded but I was certain she didn’t understand. The gun looked huge in her knitted glove.
    I walked away. Was I crazy? Three steps back was a Pole with a Soviet gun, following me—a Prussian carrying enough secrets to blow up the kingdom. My wound cried out and so did my judgment. If I didn’t report to a checkpoint soon, it would all be over.

joana
    We trudged along the road, the sky gray and heavy. I looked up at the clouds.
    â€œIt’s going to snow,” said Ingrid, sensing my evaluation.
    â€œYou can feel it?” I asked.
    â€œSometimes.” She nodded, adjusting her grip on the rope tied to the back of the cart. “Tell me about them,” said Ingrid. “The boy and the Polish girl. I have an idea. I want to know if I’m right.”
    It was fascinating that Ingrid could feel what people looked like. She told me that she could sense a person’s build, demeanor, sometimes even hair color. But it was the internal qualities that came to her first.
    â€œThe girl was fearful,” said Ingrid. “Her