Read Salt to the Sea for Free Online Page B

day our stork left, Mama left too. She died giving birth to what would have been my younger brother.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    My throat tightened. I swallowed, reminding myself she wasn’t really gone. I felt Mama among the trees. I could feel her touch and hear her laughter in the leaves. So I talked to the trees as I walked, hoping their branches would carry messages up to Mama and let her know what I had done, and most of all, that I would try to be brave.

joana
    â€œWhy should we believe a cobbler?” lamented Eva. “He’s a shoemaker, not a prophet.”
    I didn’t admit it, but I had begun to lose hope as well. “He said he knew the area,” I told her. “He said when he was young he traveled by the estate with his family.”
    â€œWe’ve been walking too long. If we push much farther the horse will be broken and won’t be able to continue tomorrow.”
    Eva was right. We had spotted a small barn a few kilometers back. Some left the group to spend the night. We had decided to press on, following the shoe poet and his ambitious walking stick. Only one horse remained. A few days prior we had two carts and three horses but some German soldiers we encountered had taken one of the wagons and two horses, claiming they were needed for the war effort. Since they did not ask for our evacuation orders, we didn’t argue.
    The German army had taken everything—cars, petrol, radios, animals, food. It was clear that they were sinking under the weight of the Allied forces, but Hitler’s regional leader, Gauleiter Koch, refused to allow civilians to evacuate. Rather than fall into the brutal hands of Russian marauders, some people defied the Reich and left without orders, like us.
    If Poet’s estate did exist, it was sure to be a shell of itsformer self, stripped and plundered by the German army. Or worse, German soldiers could be staying in the house themselves. They might question us for not having formal evacuation orders.
    â€œThe snow will fall soon,” said Ingrid quietly.
    The shoe poet stopped and thumped his stick against the icy road. “Aha! This is it!”
    â€œIt” was nothing. We were stopped near the same pine forest we had been trekking alongside for hours.
    Poet called to the wandering boy and whispered in his ear, pointing into the woods. The boy took off running. We waited, shivering.
    â€œMy dear Eva, if I am right and there is in fact an estate, will you apologize to me?” asked the shoe poet.
    â€œIf there’s an estate I’ll dance with you, old man,” snapped Eva.
    â€œA close dance.” The shoe poet nodded. “A waltz, please.”
    The wandering boy suddenly appeared on the road in front of us. His tiny body bounced up and down with excitement and he waved us forward. He stood amidst a small gap in the trees revealing a narrow, overgrown drive.
    â€œVery smart! The noble Junkers have concealed their drive,” said Poet. “Move those large branches away, my boy. We must steer the horse and cart behind the trees.”
    The boy did as instructed. We pushed through the small opening and the path widened into a larger mouth. Once we were all inside the brush, the shoe poet and the boy replaced the branches.
    â€œShould we cover our tracks leading into the trees?” I asked.
    â€œForget about that,” Eva called out. “The snow will cover our tracks. Hurry.”
    We plodded down the narrow band, the trees soldiering up around us, dark and tall. We arrived at a clearing. In the distance, perched on a low rise, was an elegant, stately home with long windows and multiple chimneys.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned,” whispered Eva.

florian
    I paused, eating snow for a drink of water. I pulled out my small notebook and looked at the map I had sketched earlier, trying to orient myself. I had to be closer to the coast, didn’t I? Once we reached the lagoon, I would cross the ice to