We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [329]
"Look," he said, pointing at the sky.
They glanced up. High above them a large bird was flying northwest, with huge, slow wing beats.
"It's the stork," Bluetooth said cheerfully. "It's Frede."
"Do you know, I'm beginning to believe it is," Anton muttered. "Looks like he's heading for Marstal."
On their way out of the Bay of Lübeck they passed three passenger ships lying at anchor, the Deutschland, the Cap Arcona, and the Thielka. Though there was no sign of any crew on the bridges or decks, they were nervous that their theft would be discovered and someone would chase them, so once they were some distance away, they sailed at full speed. They'd planned to head north around the island of Fehmarn. Of course this would mean going far into the Baltic, almost as far as Gedser, before they could turn west and then south around Langeland. It was quite a detour, but they didn't dare sail any closer to the German coast.
It was early afternoon when a hollow roar rolled across the sea. Several more followed, and for a moment they felt the firmament vibrate above them. Tracks of smoke etched themselves across the bay and they guessed that Neustadt was under attack or the three anchored ships had been hit. As the day progressed they realized they might as well have followed the coast. No one would have pursued them. The Germans seemed to have lost control of the Baltic altogether; it was now patrolled by British Hawker Typhoon bombers. Again and again they heard the faint echoes of bombs exploding far across the sea.
There was heavy traffic on the water, but most of it came from the eastern part of the Bay of Lübeck, where the Russians were advancing. There were all kinds of vessels: fishing boats, freighters, smaller motor ships, yachts, smacks, and rowboats with makeshift masts and sails. Columns of smoke drifted up along the horizon. They constantly came across pieces of wreckage and once nearly sailed into a huddle of charred bodies bobbing face-down in the water. From a distance they'd looked like a raft of seaweed; the crew saw their mistake just in time to change course. The drowned—women and children as well as men—were everywhere. None of them had life jackets; clearly they too had been refugees like themselves.
Will it never end? thought Knud Erik.
The euphoria of having escaped was gone. They understood that if they were to get across the Baltic alive, their luck had to hold. They were sailing a German ship, and there was nothing to stop the next Hawker Typhoon from dropping its lethal load on them as it passed overhead. They hadn't flown a Danish flag in five years: now they wished they had one. But maybe not even that was enough. It was as if the sea had turned itself inside out and was disgorging all the thousands of people it had swallowed across the centuries. Crossing it, they felt a fellowship with them.
Knud Erik was at the helm. He ordered everyone to put on a life jacket, but there weren't enough to go around. He glanced briefly at Herman in his wheelchair. Then he shrugged. Captain Boye had drowned because he'd given his life jacket to a stoker who had left his own behind in the engine room. He handed his life jacket to Wally and ordered him to help Herman put it on. If they sank, he'd have given up his life for a man he despised, but he had no choice. The war had taught him one thing: the Allies might be fighting for justice, but life itself was unjust. He was the captain and he was responsible for his crew. Duty was the only thing he had left. He must cleave to it or else surrender to pure meaninglessness.
"Aren't you going to put on your life jacket?" Sophie asked. She hadn't noticed him glancing at Herman.
He brushed her question aside with a smile. "The captain's always the last to leave the ship. And the last to put on his life jacket."
"A true Odysseus you are," she said, returning