War is hell. We all know that. We are living in a time where, with social media, television and the internet, we cannot ignore the thousands of people suffering in many parts of the world; people fleeing from their country’s enemy, explosions occurring daily, houses and infrastructure destroyed, famine, families separated, outright chaos and an unimaginable degree of civilian death.
This historical fiction novel, SALT to the SEA by Ruta Sepetys, takes us back to 1945 World War II Germany, in East Prussia; to a time and scenario where thousands of civilians are subject to immediate evacuation or be killed. The scenario depicted in 1945 Prussia is equal to a page out of current day (2024) news in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza, Haiti as well as in other parts of the world, people desperate to escape war zones.
For me, the underlying themes of this novel were wrapped around: hope, trust, instinct and the strength of strangers in a group who bond together to face a “life or death” crisis. Each of the main and secondary characters in this book has a unique perspective based on his/her cultural background, nationality and personal experiences before and during the war.
The ages of the characters in this story range from 6 years old to 70+ years old. The small group meet for the first time when holed up in a cabin in the German forest in the middle of a snowy winter; most of them traveling alone, starved, hoping to get to a coastal port, and then board a ship to take them to safety. The hope for each of them is to somehow eventually make it back to their respective family in their home country, and not be murdered by Russians or Germans along the road. At first, the small group agree to stick together. They set out from the cabin in the woods on the treacherous journey, determined to reach the Baltic port of Gotenhafen, hoping to board the MV Wilhelm Gustloff, a cruise ship re-purposed by the German military to evacuate the thousands of displaced citizens.
The characters crafted by Ruta Sepetys are both colorful and complicated. And this is what I love most about this book. Characters include: an old man the group refers to as the ‘Shoemaker Poet,’ (the sage of the group), a pretty 21-year-old Lithuanian nurse (Joana), a 6-year-old lost boy (Klaus), a blind teenage German refugee (Ingrid), a 19-year-old museum apprentice from Prussia (Florian), a sometimes abrasive woman from Norway (Eva) and a 15-year-old Polish girl likely targeted for elimination by Nazis. Their collective mission is to reach the East Prussian port uninjured and ‘alive.’
Of course, there is internal conflict for several of the characters, as well as disagreements between group members. This heightens the tension as we move along in the story. For me, an author myself, I feel that there is no doubt that a story without conflict can lack believability and authenticity. Ruta Sepetys is a master at showing readers both internal and external conflicts without going overboard or appearing contrived.
There is another key character in the story, a young German soldier named Alfred (Frick) who is not traveling with this small group of evacuees. Alfred has low self-esteem and also a passionate dedication to Adolf Hitler. Greatly flawed, Alfred is determined to prove to his family back home in Heidelberg and to the girl he loves and writes letters to, that he is becoming a hero in the German army, and is critical to the success of the massive evacuation. He is situated on the ship, the Wilhelm Gustloff, and in reality, assigned to menial tasks.
There are secrets about each of the key characters which are artfully revealed one by one by Sepetys. This writing technique kept me riveted as reader. SALT to the SEA is a book that I couldn’t put down, just a 2-day read for me. There were times when I thought I couldn’t take any more of the horror embedded in these pages but I cared so greatly for many of the characters and was anxious find out their next steps and see how they would navigate the scary obstacles and challenges anticipated.
The scene at the East Prussian port is chaotic; harrowing for each member of the small group, a few of them pretending they are alternative nationalities, so they would successfully be granted permission to board. It’s ‘touch and go’ for everyone at the port, and the tension the author creates is sizzling.
Readers may know ahead of picking up this book, that the ship, the “Wilhelm Gustloff” was in fact, ill-fated, and resulted in a much more catastrophic disaster than the well-known ‘Titanic,’ in terms of numbers of human casualties. The ship was, as mentioned earlier in this review, originally designed as a cruise ship. It was built to hold a maximum of 1400 souls. Yet, the German military loaded the ship with nearly 10,000 evacuees.
I won’t say more. The nuggets I shared here in this review in terms of plot and characters are often included in many previews of this well-written book.
Although this story is heart-wrenching, there are some bright lights all the way through, including plenty of romance, friendship and inspiring family scenarios. My belief is that readers will be fully invested in finding out who, in this unlikely group, endure the journey and who unfortunately fail to make it. I believe that the ending to SALT to the SEA, although painful, will leave readers hopeful and inspired.
Reading historical fiction has been a great portal for me to continue to learn about the world that ‘was’ before I was born. But it also helps me see more clearly the repeated and disastrous mistakes in judgment made by at least a handful of selfish leaders across our planet.
Thank you Ruta Sepetys for your incredible story.
Everyone has read at least 10 books, because books have their place in life. I have read many books so far, including secular, religious, business, psychological and leadership books. Each book has its own knowledge to give to a person, and I can easily say that through the information in the book, people gain experience in their lives. Personally, from the book I read about business and leadership, I learned skills that can be used in life and can easily get out of problems.
Sometimes a person doesn’t understand himself. For example, this happens to me a lot. You want to pour out your heart to someone, but you can’t find the words to say, only the right words. But you’re full of pain, pain… You think how to get rid of it, but you can’t find a way. You want to cry, it’s hard in your throat something is stuck. Wait for tears to flow from your eyes. But unfortunately, you will not shed tears. You will suffer a lot. Right now you are looking for a close friend – a confidant. Unfortunately, everyone is busy with their own pain; and they take your words superficially. They even forget after a few minutes. Because when someone tells you about the pain of a date, your heart won’t break. Unfortunately, in a few minutes, you will forget the pain that overturned his whole world. Of course, pain and feelings are not interesting and important to anyone. You realize that you don’t understand and put your head on the pillow with pain. Your soft pillow seems to harden with the pain. You get up and open your phone. You try not to get distracted. Unfortunately, none of this helps…
Basically, these pains accumulate during the day and give you excruciating pain in the evening. Sometimes these pains accumulate for years. At worst, I don’t feel or understand what is causing this pain. Your conscience, your heart knows, but the date cannot be expressed in words.
But don’t be afraid! It doesn’t hurt every day. Some are every 2 days, some are once a week, some are once a month, and some are even once a year. That’s when you fall asleep. When you wake up in the morning, you will find that everything is fine and everything is better…
Laylo Bakhtiyorova was born on 11.10.2000 in the Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Currently, she is a graduate student of Tashkent State Pedagogical University. Currently, she is a member of the organizations of Argentina, Russia, and India. She has been helping many young people to enter the international arena.
Napkin Notes (Dawn’s Daylight Discourse and Osho) for Raquel
The Old Timer
Loud, but grew on me. Osho said the belly laugh is disappearing from the world and once it is gone the world is basically done. He has the belly laugh. People pause and look. I offer my seat to an elderly couple and he notices. He stands up. What does he want? He approaches. He announces that, ‘I can see there is one last gentleman in the world, and you are it,’ and he points at me. I tell him thanks. He goes and sits back down and continues reading his paper, while I notice not many people read a newspaper anymore.
The Sleeping One
She is dressed well, from shoes to all else,- business attire. And she sleeps every time. Then suddenly wakes up, takes a look around, uses the washroom, comes back, and leaves. She never orders anything or talks to another soul. Maybe she works night shift and day shift,- or has a sleeping disorder, or likes to rest. It’s okay. For instance, Osho told his university teachers that he napped every afternoon at a certain time and would be sleeping in class, and not to disturb him during that time.
The Crossing Guard
Upbeat. Happy. Aged. Looks a bit like Henry Miller with his bald head. walks far he tells the others. Still, a solitary sort. Kind. Good hearted. Much energy. Reads. Writes. Is focused. Seems healthy. Balanced. Miller lauds Gurdjieff, who is Osho’s favourite. These things I think while staring out windows at the new sun.
The Reader
A bag of books. He is a veteran of a war. Pauses to stare in the air I suppose to think about a passage he just read. Subjectively and personal experience must be valid or there would be no book or writer or just one book and that’s it. Or, maybe he is reading history or about architecture or something. Osho in real life arrived at the library every morning before the librarian and waited to be let in. He was dedicated to reading.
The Missionaries
These ones pretend to be your best friend right away. But they are not that different than telemarketers as they follow a basic script. First they introduce themselves. Then they talk and go in steps trying to get you to go to their church. They are allowed some leeway to meet again if necessary with two more of their ilk present. That is, if they think you are worthwhile mark, meaning they can get you to church. once you state disinterest,- they will not speak w/you again. why not? Because they never liked you in any way to begin with, therefore why would they? God’s people it seems, don’t believe in internet, music, reading, friendship, movies, or much else. there is a dress code, and they can only be separate while using a bathroom and at other time. Their God is a micro manger, a strict task master. Cults are interesting. But only for a few minutes. Osho said if that particular group that they kind, but had strange beliefs.
The Vacant
Three and they do nothing and talk about nothing. If one has had a mini-crisis- the one will cry briefly and the other two will console her. They arrive in high end Mercedes and other. There is not a scuff on their shoes and they are over accessorized. They look a bit like clowns. What they add to the world is beyond me. Osho used the word, ‘somnambulist’ a lot. May I get struck by lightning but, c’mon…
The Proletariat
Van. Boots. Coffee. Shift. No nonsense. That’s about it. A city worker. Smart though. Osho says that it is a mistake to think that there are only hands and heads,- because heads have hands and hands have heads. This is the impression I get also.
The Asshole
He buds, cuts in front of other people. I wonder if it’s me being too analytical but the two he budded in front of sit beside me. One leans over and mentions to the other, ‘That guy is plain mean.’ And the other nods. The asshole is so self involved I don’t think he even cares on any level. He’s not ‘being’ an asshole. He ‘is’ an asshole. Probably all the time,- like a way of life. He is probably also a person who throws his garbage in the street. Osho said don’t treat the earth as your garbage can.
The Hockey Captain
He wants to talk to me because i am wearing a New York Rangers wool winter hat. But I tell him it’s really just because the hat is comfortable and I do whatever I want that way. He thought for a second I might have played for them, as he did, because why would a Toronto resident wear that? He is nice. A bruiser. He was the captain. A long time ago. He wears a hockey ring. I don’t like hockey anymore. I played too much. It’s all I did when everyone else was at the movies or working part time jobs or studying. And the ring. I guess to each his own. But Osho says even winning a beauty pageant can be a curse, because you were once Miss Wherever and might never get over it, might keep that idea in your self your whole life and not be present. Osho says he used to jog every morning and then stopped. That the people said he had lost it. But he didn’t need it anymore. Had found a better ‘it.’
The Super Rich
These two are from another planet. Totally silent. They don’t even say a word to one another. Unlike the faux world though,- they don’t flaunt, but ARE. There is nothing wrong in their aura and atmosphere it is their path. But how boring. They must have no story to tell at all. I don’t know why they go there, and not somewhere else,- but there must be something they like there. Just looking at them makes you want to fall asleep. Osho says the truth can wait a long time because it is the truth. Maybe they are good. Who knows?
The Homeless
He keeps his cans outside. In bags. Talks to everyone. He’s okay overall. He only goes in there in the summer months. Has a bike. Healthier looking than anyone and more tanned. Older now. Where he goes is a mystery. Very awake, perceptive. His eyes look absolutely everywhere all the time. On alert. Has developed almost a sixth sense for survival and life. I’ve seen this before. Probably a better judge of character than any psychologist or councillor in the entire world. through hard fought experience
and actual living. Osho says what you want if you can get it is the look in the eyes of that person you saw that for whatever reason has become disengaged from society.
The Europeans
They gather and talk. It used to be like that in the malls, moreso when there was smoking. Nice enough. Sometimes one paws a rosary or other prayer bead on a string. I like their sweaters. Sweaters only for warmth. Olden days. Before me even. Kind of hermetic that group,- but all groups are I suppose. They understand one another deeply on all levels more than they even know. Osho says to enjoy the group if it is there and also solitude if it is there.
The Nigerians
These are the hardest workers and the smartest or tied in smarts and work ethic with others. I like them very much. There is a toughness and a kind hearted way that live somehow meshed together. I don’t know them anymore but used to work alongside them. Strong in body and spirit and mind. Osho talks of Zorba the Buddha, a phrase he coined to express the marriage of opposite temperaments into one wholistic unified consciousness. Earth and sky.
The Narcissist
There is nothing you can say to that one. They will just relate it to themselves. Impossibly narrow, more narrow than narrow,- more like a child than even children in their outlook. And the narcissist is Selfish. Dark. Materialistic. Manipulative. It’s best to stay away. Even small brief interactions are bad. They only see others for what they can provide for them. They are actors. They are not communicating out of any sense of genuine self,- but from a false self. They are ugly. They have such a bad atmosphere. Like poison. Or garbage left out somewhere on a hot summer day. I suppose Osho would call the person unconscious.
The Empath
Their plight is difficult. They can sense the others and hardly turn the perception down or off. Oh well. Hopefully the whole or source or god will heal and/or guide them. But it’s good to remain in the light as much as possible while navigating a dark world. Osho says he can be silent for four years so that those who truly know him will stilll know him in the heart.
The Narc
He tells people he parks there to get away from his wife. But he asks people strange questions. He is a cop all the way. I knew by looking at him from twenty feet away. There is a set of people he is following, keeping tabs on. Three people actually. Two close together and a third more loosely affiliated. It’s interesting. When they disappeared, he disappeared. They always pull the narc from an area really fast if there is no use for them. Osho is not for marriage. Perhaps the narc knows most people also aren’t, even if secretly against it.
The Techie
Quiet. To himself. Kind of a hipster. A strap that keeps the glasses on. Thirties but fully grey hair. Happy. Regular. Just living. Many computers and phones. No drama. Could probably fix any problem like that in minutes. Osho says to plant a rose garden and the world will be for you. Such is methinks finding a passion.
The Drug Dealer Wannabe
He’s dumb. He reads all the labels of the bottles he stole or bought but thinks nobody is watching. Someone comes close and he scrambles to shove them in a bag again. He is not sure what some of the pills even are. Darting eyes. Osho says the problem with stealing something is only half you might get caught. The other half is that a cloud comes over the thief, a certain sense-aura- atmosphere-, and settles around him. This one is like that. His energy is completely messed up. Osho says many are stumbling around.
The Bible Group
These ones are different than the other missionaries. Same religion but they just study to themselves. They are actually deep. In love and with and dedication to the meaning of scripture. And they have each other. The Good Book, the church wherever it is, and yes,- their larger community and smaller group. They have their mind and heart on more profound things than most others. Good for them, I think, though am no one to say. Jesus comes to a devotee of Osho and says to leave. The devotee tells Osho and Osho agrees right away, that the devotee should leave. Osho gives his greatest discorse on his favourite gospel, the apocryphal Gospel of St. Thomas, and provides esoteric and deeply textured insights into Jesus and his followers.
“Things Unintelligible but Understood”:
lines from Wallace Stevens, a found poem
Consider the odd morphology of regret
Note the decline of music
The grapes are here and now
Starry voluptuary will be born
At least the number of people may there be fixed
There is no such thing as innocence in autumn
Machine within machine within machine
The cabinet of a man gone mad
No man shall see the end
Naturalized: Lines from Hala Alyan’s, The Moon Turns Back:
a found poem
He plays devil’s advocate.
May father plays soccer.
In dreams I am in Nevada.
Half-life in exile.
I’m not your side bitch.
Those fucking K-Mart towels when did we
give them away?
I loved them.
Pink as slaughter.
You can’t put a corpse back together again.
I type all the metaphors I can.
I can’t keep pretending to love.
Patti Smith Photo Album #1
Mundane objects imbued
with deep, personal meaning:
Bolano’s writing chair,
Hesse’s decrepit writing machine,
Virginia Woolf’s tarnished
walking stick,
Jim Carroll’s narrow, single bed,
Fred Smith’s recovered childhood toy;
all their owners gone. A woman
with a camera remembers.
736-
Spy of the First Person. Patti Smith
and her day book. Sam’s Old KY home
Adirondack chairs on the back lawn
facing the hills. Empty now.
737-
Patti Smith punk rock star or
stay at home mom. Surrealistic
pillow maker or Rimbaud re-
incarnated. As a woman
Collector of memories. Just Us
Kids or a museum of dead things.
On the M Train. Or off.
Babel or Coral Beach. I. She.
Contains multitudes.
Patti Smith Polaroid Sequence Nov/Dec
Pasolini Monument: two doves intertwined in stone
Genet’s A Man Contemplating Death on Mapplethorpe’s
Birthday: A Still Life
Editing Sam Shepard’s last manuscript
A white horse head in Wales
Dylan Thomas’s grave with plain wooden cross
Rimbaud’s elaborate headstone
Sharing coffee with ghosts of Camus, Sartre, and Simone
in the Gallimard garden
A solitary bird sings of the death of Proust
Jim Carroll’s well-thumbed Penguin paperback of Schulz’s
Street of Crocodiles
The bound twig broom used to sweep dying leaves from
Mishima’s grave
Sam Shepard’s Depression era Gibson
Puccini’s composition piano
Photo of Rosa Parks Dec 1, 1955
Joan Didion: pure writer
The guardian angel near the grave of Bertolt Brecht
Patti Smith at the interval contemplating Tosca:
“ I have lived for art, for love.”
A letter in the hand of Emily Dickinson
Dante’s headstone
Zappa’s ‘Hot Rats’ album cover
Ralph Fiennes on the set of Coriolanus
The ruins of Hadrian’s library
After Reading Burchfield: December Moonrise, #8
Flat saucer shaped clouds in gray
blue sky are pocked by puncture wounds
shining bright as fallen stars or creatures
like birds of another species. Irradiated
seeds sprout plants that only bloom at
night. Moonrise over distant hills make
the landscape more unreal than it already
seems to be.
Blistered cones of light
where the moon
should be
Moon of All Shining Desire
Moon of all shining desire
Rapture laden sweetness of orgy and fire
Suspended in brightness tipped Earthward,
A path through the night
Unraveling the stillness
Achingly holding the light.
Radiant your pathway –
Enchanted and new
Tangled with stardust and spangled with dew
Reflecting the light of the cosmos
In the shimmering stars on your gown.
Moonlit hours are fleeting...
And in dreams your light I recall
Delicate and wispy like a dress
Worn to a debutante's ball.
Drape this silhouette once more
In your soft silver light
With Earth's music playing waltzes
Some magical night
Dance my moon-tipsy shadow, lightly
Around the deserted ballroom floor
Then out through the open
French door
Whirl me in breathless ecstasy
Onto the terrace of night.
GOING HOME
Going home is an echoing tune
Whistled down the sunbeams
In the corridors of the wind.
Going home is climbing the cherry tree
Of the mind
With the golden legs of yesterday.
It's roaming mentally
Through the windless places
Where tragedy was bubble gum hair
Or a B-B through a window.
Now I stare at my reflection
In that long-ago wounded window –
Did I see the young girl shadow pass
Over the woman in the glass;
Did she reach out and touch my face;
Or was that the wind upon my cheek?
I HAVE WALKED THE MORN IN MISTS
I have walked the morn in mists
And trodden down the valley lily white
And run the gantlet sunshine fair
Robed in silken webs no woman ever wove,
Shod in sandals light -
Airy, as death is weightless
And left youth and gaiety high and dry
At the entrance gate of responsibility
And entered therein
To lie face down, child of marble, wayward
On the dew-drenched lawn of forever,
Crying tears of stone
To the unveiling of a statue, ageless.
I have reached reverently out to touch
The alabaster agony of space without time
To carve the precious light of existence, sweet
With flawless line, chisel
The wrinkles of age and time away
Layer by layer to the stone's heart,
Newborn, in beauty glowing, translucent
With hands of steel, a sculptress
Kneeling to whisper, "It is good."
Annie Johnson is 84 years old. She is Shawnee Native American. She has published two, six hundred-page novels and six books of poetry. Annie has won several poetry awards from world poetry organizations including; World Union of Poets; she is a member of World Nations Writers Union; has received the World Institute for Peace award; the World Laureate of Literature from World Nations Writers Union and The William Shakespeare Poetry Award. She received a Certificate and Medal in recognition of the highest literature from International Literary Union for the year 2020, from Ayad Al Baldawi, President of the International Literary Union. She has three children, two grandchildren, and two sons-in-law. Annie played a flute in the Butler University Symphony. She still plays her flute.
My tongue that entered my ear as lullaby,
My valiant tongue in the bosom of the ages,
I will write you every moment,
My blood, my language, oh, my motherland.
Come strolling, meaning my language,
Always sing like a nightingale my tongue,
He has the spirit of Navoi, he has Babur,
Let every dialect be beautiful, my language.
Every word has a hundred meanings in my mother tongue,
Every flame is a fire in every heart,
Everything ripples in this language,
Endless treasure, legend in my tongue.
This is my language, which the whole world respects.
This is my language, inherited from my ancestors.
