The Last Daughter of Prussia

By Marina Gottlieb Sarles

Bahamas

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Apr 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9780983918837

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Last Daughter of Prussia is the story of Manya von Falken, a young aristocratic woman, and Joshi Karas, her Romani friend and childhood companion with whom she falls in love during the evacuation of East Prussia at the end of World War II. Many of their experiences were inspired by true stories passed down by members of my family and documented in their diaries.

Often called The Great Trek, the evacuation of East Prussia claimed the lives of nearly half a million women, children, and men who were attempting to escape the Red Army as it advanced on Berlin. But underneath cold statistics, what really happened during the harsh East Prussian winter of 1944–1945? Whose stories were silenced? For though The Great Trek remains one of the largest mass evacuations ever recorded, it is rarely discussed. Manya von Falken is a fictional character, but she could be any strong-willed daughter of East Prussia who was swept up in that life-threatening wave of terror and fleeing refugees.

Until 1944, East Prussia, the easternmost province of Germany, had been only slightly affected by the war. The people, misinformed by Nazi propaganda about the true state of military affairs, believed that Hitler’s Wunderwaffe (superweapon) would make Germany victorious. Then, on October 22, 1944, it was reported that a Russian battalion ambushed the small East Prussian village of Nemmersdorf, shooting the grandfathers who weren’t enlisted in the army and raping and killing nearly every woman and child. News of this massacre and the atrocities committed spread fear throughout the countryside. The East Prussians realized that they were in grave danger, but by then the harshest of winters was upon them. Adding to their panic was the fact that Hitler and one of his Nazi henchmen, Gauleiter (Governor) Erich Koch, had protracted the evacuation of all civilians, demanding that they stay and fight or be shot as traitors.

Trapped between two dangerous forces, the people defied orders. Gathering their lives in boxes and buckets, they harnessed their horses to carts and wagons and fled westward into the icy unknown. Targeted by Russian bombers and artillery, they traversed a dangerous, frozen lagoon—the only escape route open. In many places, the bullet-riddled ice collapsed, sending thousands to their watery graves.

My grandparents, Walter and Edith von Sanden, were part of this perilous journey. They survived, albeit with broken hearts. I know because I saw the emptiness in their eyes when I was a child. And I read their diaries.

I wrote this story for them and for those who did not survive. I wrote for the shocking number of German women and children who could not break the taboo of silence over the rapes they endured at the hands of Russian soldiers. To have been violated in that way surely made them ashamed, but to have been part of a German nation guilty of genocide kept them silent. From accounts I have read and stories told to me firsthand, many women felt that they were paying for their country’s sins even while they were being raped. It is understandable that the Russians were full of wrath after Hitler’s invasion had left more than 20 million of their countrymen dead. But the systematic rape of women and children has always been an unfair act of wartime retaliation.

The Romani people of East Prussia, often pejoratively called Gypsies, also faced disaster. The character Joshi Karas, a Romani, came to me as I was reading my grandfather’s book Schicksal Ostpreussen—East Prussia’s Destiny. I learned that a group of Romanies lived on my family’s estate and that my mother and grandparents were very friendly with them. One night, they disappeared. When my grandfather went to the police to inquire about them, he was warned that associating with asocials was a crime punishable by death. Later he discovered that his Romani friends had been shot or carted off to a concentration camp. I based Joshi’s story on this account. Some Romanies were sent to Auschwitz, but the closest death camp was Stutthof, near Danzig (the port city on the Baltic coast to which many refugees were headed, including Manya in this story). I used Stutthof as Joshi’s ill-fated destination. The female warden, Elisabeth Martens, also is a fictional character, but sexual exploitation of prisoners by both male and female wardens has been documented in accounts about concentration camps. It is estimated that 1.5 million Romani were murdered in Germany from 1935 to the end of the war.

Last, within this chaotic arena of Nazis, Russian soldiers, and fleeing families, the Trakehner horses—East Prussia’s symbol of excellence and beauty, bred on the land for over two centuries—struggled to save their owners. My mother owned such a horse. I have attempted to reveal his bravery and large-heartedness in both Aztec’s and Shambhala’s characters. The more I read about the Trakehners, the more I felt that they were the true heroes of the trek. Undeterred by race, creed, or nationality, they hauled everyone across the ice, including Russian and Polish prisoners of war and any Jews or Romanies who had survived the Nazis.

The horses weren’t interested in cultural differences, nor did they care about political beliefs. Surely many Germans who sympathized with Hitler were on that trek, but many others, like my grandparents, did not. It didn’t matter to the horses. They focused on survival. Sadly, only twenty-seven mares, two stallions and seven foals of the herd of 1,200 warm-blooded thoroughbreds from the famous Trakehner Horse Farm in Trakehnen made it safely to the West. The rest perished along the way—eaten, stolen, or shot in cold blood by Russian soldiers whose leader, Josef Stalin, had given orders to annihilate anything German.

I hope what I have written helps the reader understand the turmoil of those final winter months during World War II. As my research unfolded, I realized that I had to write a love story—one that was set in this tumultuous time and gave expression to the agony and inspiration that lovers from different ethnic backgrounds experienced. I wanted to include their triumphs and tragedies as well as those of their families. And how could I leave out the horses, whose determination on the trek was the purest expression of courage and love? I also wanted to write a novel for readers who might be unfamiliar with this corner of history, for whom it might be tempting to lump all Germans together without sympathy for individual lives and a multitude of circumstances.

Having said that, I must confess that despite countless hours of research and writing, the book often seemed to take on a life of its own. For months, I lived in the emotional world of people forced to gather their lives in boxes and flee. Many nights, I encountered ghosts hovering by my bedside, their silent voices imploring me to bring their story to paper. I am a writer, but I have also dedicated many years of my life to the healing arts, for which I rely on my intuition and spiritual insight. However, for this book, my intention was to stay grounded in factual details. The ghosts came anyway.

In my dreams, they urged me to look directly into the faces of starving women dragging their children through the snow. I saw babies frozen to death in carriages and old men weeping at the thought of leaving their land. I heard the whine of bombers, the blasts of artillery and guns, and I watched horses fall on bloodstained fields of ice. Each time I awoke, I found myself feeling more obligated to remember, a moral responsibility to those who never dared to speak of their ordeal because they were German. I wanted to give a voice to those who could not talk about their vanished land because the memories were just too painful.

I began to understand my grandmother and her dream to return home to East Prussia, the land of golden amber and green forests. She knew her dream would remain unfulfilled for as long as she lived. She would never stand by the sparkling Guja Lake and watch the swallows soar against the sapphire-colored sky. Nor would she look again at her house on the hill, nor open the heavy oak door to the foyer. Perhaps her loss is justified where the corpses of genocide are piled high. But does the judgment thus decreed, Germans deserve every awful thing they got, lessen her loss? I think not.

I hope that readers will not think I am diminishing the ungodly cruelty of the Holocaust. I am profoundly aware of the atrocities committed by Germans against Jews and others who were forced into death camps and murdered. While researching the camps, I must say I felt my own life force dwindle. I felt a sense of shame and terror in my own German bones. Still, at the risk of being condemned, I want to say that the people of East Prussia also were victims.

My grandmother has been dead a long time, but from her unseen place of refuge I still hear her whisper: Tell the story so that others may know what happened. Tell it so that people remember and have compassion for anyone killed in hatred, prejudice, and war. Tell it for the Jews, the Germans, the Romanies—every slain tribe and forgotten soul, and for any unjustly slaughtered animal in the history of humanity. Tell it so that healing may happen in all hearts.

I have done what she asked, to the best of my ability.

PART I

Manya

OCTOBER 1944

EAST PRUSSIA

ONE

A flock of common cranes swooped low across the Angerapp River, announcing the arrival of dawn. Their cries echoed through the willow trees that swayed like weary sentinels on the marshy banks.

From her perch on a flat, moss-covered stone, Manya von Falken watched the cranes lift into a pale, watery sunrise. She’d been sitting at the river’s edge since just after midnight, when she’d awakened from the dream. Images had lodged in her mind like splinters—Russian soldiers breaking down the front door of her house, her parents dead in a pool of blood on the parquet floor of the winter garden.

Unable to sleep or shake her sense of dread, she had risen from her bed, gotten dressed, and made her way through the frosty air to the stables and her beloved stallion, Aztec. He had grown used to her nightly visits and pricked up his ears the moment she unlatched the gate to his stall.

I had the dream again, she whispered anxiously, burying her face in his silky opalescent mane.

He nuzzled her shoulder as she lifted his saddle onto his back. She sighed and leaned her cheek against his warm flank before pulling the girth buckle tight. Outside the stable, she mounted him, and together they rode though the courtyard and down the grassy hill toward the river, the beat of her heart slowly adjusting to the rhythm of his gait.

Now the blackness of night had receded, but the fog still clung to the riverbank that had always been her refuge.

When Manya was little, her father had brought her here, holding her tightly on his lap as Fidelio, his bay Trakehner gelding, cantered down the embankment. Her father had taught her to listen to the calls of rosefinches and warblers while she fished for trout, pike, and eel. In the sacred call of the birds, she heard the spirits of her ancestors, felt their presence in the rustle of the leaves. And never once had she been afraid.

But everything was changing.

For the past weeks, even the forest creatures acted strangely, as if they smelled danger. What else could explain the disappearance of the otters from the riverbanks? They were the happy-go-lucky freebooters of nature, always ready for a bit of fun. It had been months since she’d watched them toboggan down the slippery incline, their front paws tucked beneath their chests. And she missed them.

If only I could forget the dream, she thought, but the sound of imagined gunfire still echoed in her head.

Last evening, she and her father had listened to Radio Beromünster, broadcasting from Switzerland. The newscaster had reported that the Russians were advancing on East Prussia. It was just a matter of weeks before the German army would be forced to retreat, leaving the province undefended.

For months, rumors had been spreading through the surrounding villages that the Russians were ruthless. Their orders were simple. Women were to be raped; men shot or sent to Siberian labor camps. Their rallying cry was simple, too. No mercy for Germans. Germans were evil. They had invaded Russia and slaughtered the innocent. Now they would be punished.

In the bigger towns to the east, such as Angerburg and Insterburg, officials swore that German troops were holding the Red Army at bay. But Manya trusted the foreign news reports and the rumors whispered in the villages. Germany was not as invincible as Hitler proclaimed. Every night, Russian planes were bombing the larger towns and cities. Everyone knew the drone of a Russian bomber. And anyone with two eyes could see that there were fewer German aircraft in the sky.

Aztec’s shrill neigh snapped her out of her thoughts.

Just a few more minutes, boy, she called, brushing away the dew that had gathered on the fine twill fabric of her jodhpurs.

Aztec pricked up his ears. Wisps of steam escaped from his muzzle. When she did not come, he lowered his head and began to nibble at the damp grass.

This mad world doesn’t deserve such a quiet river, she thought as she leaned toward the water, the ends of her pale hair spreading like silky threads in the river’s current.

She didn’t care that her hair was getting wet. She loved the feel of the cold prickling against her scalp. Had a fisherman passed by just then, he could easily have mistaken her for a river goddess. He would have seen the otherworldliness in her eyes, gray with a translucent hint of lavender, and noticed her serious and observant expression, out of place on one so young.

She lifted her hair from the water and wrung out the dripping strands with what her mother called farmer’s hands. I wish my hands were like Mother’s, she thought sadly.

Her mother had fine-boned, aristocratic hands, an expression of who she was, a sculptress, while Manya’s hands were as big-knuckled as a man’s. Manya let out a sigh. She was well aware that her hands did not match her slender frame and delicate features. They were the clearest reminder of the awkwardness that never left her, except when they held Aztec’s reins. Then, her fingers became supple and confident, responding to the slightest twitch of his head. And when she rode Aztec, she felt strong, happy, even graceful.

She watched the dew shimmer on the green needles of a cypress tree. If only she were less clumsy, her mother would not snap at her so often when she bumped into the edge of the dining room table. Or when her butter knife slipped out of her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Aztec nickered again.

The otters won’t be coming today, she said, standing up and smoothing back her hair.

Aztec pawed at a hard, muddy ridge, letting Manya know he was ready to move on. She reached for the tanned deerskin bridle, woven expertly by Blacksmith Helling.

She couldn’t remember a time when Helling wasn’t in charge of the family’s horses, ensuring they were impeccably shod and that their bits fit perfectly in their mouths. Helling’s reputation reached far beyond their Guja estate and the surrounding villages. Over an hour’s ride away in Nemmersdorf, where Helling lived with his wife, Karin, and their daughters, Maritza and Zarah, he was much loved and respected.

Manya shivered. The chill of the morning had awakened a hunger inside her, for food, surely, but also for the comfort of the blacksmith’s home.

I’ll go to Nemmersdorf, she thought, pulling herself into the saddle and nudging Aztec forward. It was a bit of a ride, but maybe Karin had baked an apple strudel. If not, Karin would surely fry an egg for her in butter.

Manya smiled to herself. It would be a treat to relax in Karin’s kitchen, away from the deep bouts of depression that often struck her mother and filled their home with gloom.

Tugging gently at the reins, she trotted Aztec through tall, wrought iron gates and left the safety of her family’s estate, descending the hill into the countryside. She glanced at the family crest decorating the entrance, a symbol she associated with her father’s power and strength of character, and felt a pang of sadness. The baron’s toughness wavered only for her mother.

But Manya understood why. She herself could hardly bear to see her mother retreat to the drawing room, where, for hours, she would play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major. It hurt to hear her mother starting and stopping and starting again, her fingers beating the sad and beautiful melody into the keys, reminding Manya that there was nothing she could do to comfort her mother.

The veil of clouds was lifting. Blacksmith Helling would already be on his way to the estate in the second-hand Opel her father had given him. She sighed. It was so very different at the Hellings’ home. There, she laughed with ease.

Smiling, she remembered how hard she’d practiced her waltz steps with Maritza, the eldest daughter. Perhaps, this morning, they’d sit by the fire and chat. At least she wouldn’t think about the dream. Best of all, she’d see Helling’s eleven-year-old daughter, Zarah, a wisp of a girl, delicate and small for her age, but ever so lively. And Zarah adored Aztec as much as Manya did.

Her thoughts drifted back to the first time she had given Zarah a knee-up on a horse. Blacksmith Helling had been with them in the meadow that day.

Fräulein Manya, he had said, grinning broadly as Zarah’s giggles bubbled up to the sky. Teach my daughter to ride as well as you do, and I’ll teach you everything I know about hunting and fishing.

Manya had been asking him to teach her his hunting tricks since she was a young girl, so the offer felt like a triumph.

Just three years old at the time, Zarah proved to be a natural in the saddle. At first, she had ridden one of the gentle mares from the von Falken stables. Later, when Zarah had mastered her seat and learned how to keep her heels down while cantering, Manya allowed her to ride Aztec. She had been astonished to see their rapport, how fast Zarah responded to Aztec, and how quickly he trusted her sensitive hands and sweet nature.

And, true to his word, Helling taught Manya the secrets of the forests, the rivers, and the creatures that lived in each. He taught her how to gut deer without flinching, how to tie off the entrails. If he shot two wild boars, he always lifted the smaller carcass onto her shoulders and made her carry it through the forest to the horses. She never complained, even though the stench nearly knocked her over.

At first, she was afraid her father would argue against such unwomanly behavior, but with no male heirs to take over the estate, he was only too happy to see her acquire the skills needed to live off the land she would one day inherit.

And she loved Helling. He taught her how to build fires for warmth and for signaling, how to eat when the hunt brought no fish or fowl, where to find berries, greens, and mushrooms. When the rivers and the lakes froze, he taught her to read the markings on the white ice like words on the pages of a holy book.

Two years ago, on her eighteenth birthday, he took her down to the Angerapp River. Lighting his pipe, he motioned for her to sit with him on the moss-soft bank. You have earned the right to know the most important secret, he’d said. The will to survive in the elements will always summon the means.

He gave her a knife he had forged and honed, its handle carved from the horn of a stag they had hunted the year before, shaped to fit perfectly in her hand. She wore it now, tucked into her belt.

A breeze touched her face, bringing with it the scent of freshly turned soil. The women would soon be in the potato fields, digging up the precious sustenance they hoped would see them through the coming winter.

She longed to be worthy of the land where her family had lived for centuries. She had always thought she would grow old here, farm, and raise horses. But now, how could they stay?

Pulling her collar tighter against the chilly air, she cantered on, gathering the warmth that came with the midmorning sun. Finally, she saw the bridge that crossed the Angerapp River onto Nemmersdorf ’s oak-lined Reichschaussee. She slowed Aztec to a walk, surprised to see the ground so churned up.

She sniffed the air and smelled gunpowder and iron. Something is terribly wrong, she thought, urging Aztec over the bridge, away from the main road and onto a path that ran through the forest toward Nemmersdorf village.

A quiver ran through Aztec’s neck.

What is it, boy? Manya murmured, gripping the handle of her hunting knife.

Aztec shook his mane and turned to look at her, his eyes shiny with the fear she’d felt ever since she went to find him in the stables this morning. She nudged him on with her heels, but he wouldn’t budge. So she dismounted and led him off the path, deeper into the forest.

Stay here, she whispered, stroking his muzzle. She thought for a moment and decided not to risk tying him to a tree. If a stranger found him, he would surely steal him. If she left him untied, he could always run.

I’ll be back, boy, she said. And set off.

TWO

Nemmersdorf village was a short distance to the north. As Manya scrambled through brambles and branches, she strained to hear the familiar sounds of the women calling to each other as they walked to the fields.

The air grew thick with smoke as she made her way to the old road lined by a grove of oaks that led from Nemmersdorf to Gumbinnen town.

She stopped.

Four Russian tanks were parked on the shoulder of the road. She could see movement in the village. Another tank rolled down the hill and into the village, crushing a cow too scared to move. The animal bellowed in pain before it fell silent. Soldiers with submachine guns and bayonets leaped down from the moving tank and fanned out into the streets.

Manya heard sharp blasts and looked toward the church. Beyond it, in Farmer Naujok’s field, men were lined up. One by one, they jerked and fell as bullets ripped into their backs.

I’ve got to get out of here, thought Manya, her heart beating against her chest. But then a more urgent thought struck her. She had to get to Blacksmith Helling’s house.

Cautiously, she moved along the edge of the forest toward Helling’s stone cottage, with its clay pots full of red geraniums and rosemary at the gate. She heard a low moan and saw the tortured face of Ilse Sommer, the baker’s wife. Her naked body had been stretched wide across the entrance to Blacksmith Helling’s barn, her hands and feet nailed to the wooden frame like the crucifix that hung above the altar in the town chapel.

In the road in front of the cottage, three soldiers were standing over Karin and Maritza. Sweet Maritza was naked, too, and covering her breasts while her mother sobbed and pleaded for their lives.

"Frau komm! the soldiers shouted. Woman, come!"

The men surrounded Maritza, some of them laughing and jostling her hands away with the ends of their rifles so that others could fondle her breasts.

Please! cried Karin, scratching the face of a Russian soldier who had unbuttoned his pants. "Nimm mich! Take me!"

Maritza screamed. Karin lunged sideways to protect her, but the men grinned and shoved Maritza to the ground.

"Schweine! Karin shouted over and over again. Pigs!"

Another soldier with a wide nose and blank eyes pulled out his gun. Grunting in Russian, he grabbed Karin’s face, forced the barrel into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

The men turned to Maritza, unbuckling their belts and thrusting themselves between Maritza’s thighs. She struggled to fend them off, but soon, her long, blond braids turned red, and finally, her cries faded. In the street, an injured goose was hopping back and forth, honking woefully. Its wing was soaked in blood and it kept falling over. Zarah’s pet goose, thought Manya, tears stinging her eyes. Where is Zarah? Where is she?

Manya’s head began to spin. A stream of bile escaped her throat, landing on a dark square of earth beneath her feet. She raised her eyes to keep from fainting, but her knees buckled and she felt the sky fall down around her. Only then did the noise in her head stop.

THREE

Major Yuri Golitsin strode through the village, his high black boots clicking against the cobblestones. He was short and powerfully built. The tailored breeches and khaki tunic he wore stood in stark contrast to the shabby uniforms of his men.

Kill everyone, he called out calmly, straightening the visor on his head. There must be no survivors. Stalin’s orders.

He glanced at his right shoulder. After this mission, General Zhukov will know my name, he thought. And I’ll add another gold star to my uniform.

He passed a stone cottage and looked into the window, where he glimpsed a small, red-haired girl. Their eyes locked before she vanished, leaving him to stare at his own reflection in the glass, the wide cheekbones of his Slavic forefathers, the slate-gray eyes, calculating and magnetic beneath a thick black brow. He was handsome in a dark way. Many women had told him so. They also said that his gaze unnerved them, and that they never knew what he was thinking.

At first, his own men were deceived by his good looks. Since he rarely spoke with anger, they assumed he was weak, unable to make decisions. They even taunted him behind his back.

Pretty boy, they sang. Don’t go into the showers alone.

But they soon discovered that Golitsin was anything but weak. He heard and saw everything. His sight was remarkable. He could see an index finger tremble on a trigger in battle. If the finger belonged to one of his soldiers, the punishment was severe. If it belonged to a German, the man was dead. His extraordinary ability to detect the slightest motion, whether on a snowy landscape, in the dark, or at great distance, had earned him the name Hawk Eye.

He was proud to say that he could find a stinking Kraut wherever one might be hiding. His hatred of them was so bitter, he gladly spread it like a disease among his soldiers.

The night before, he had prepared his troops, saying, You must savor the smell of German blood. All Germans are pigs. Dangerous pigs. To kill one is to honor Russia. To kill many is to honor God.

But must we kill children, too? one weary soldier had asked.

The Germans showed no mercy to us, Golitsin snapped, flecks of spittle showering the man.

Heads had nodded all around. His men hadn’t forgotten the Nazi murders of hundreds of thousands of innocent Ukrainians.

And he would never forget the siege of Leningrad, where his own sweet sister Olga had starved to death because of the Germans. The time for Russia’s revenge had come.

In the name of your own dead countrymen, he said in a cold, flat voice, slaughter the bastards. Cut off their balls. Fuck every woman who looks good to you. Even those who don’t. Take what you want. His eyes narrowed. I warn you, though. The ambush on Nemmersdorf must not fail.

His men had laughed raucously, but they did not miss the threat. Their laughter soon faded into nervous silence.

This is the first time our Russian boots will touch German soil, he told them. We will surprise our enemy before the morning fog lifts, roll over them with our tanks. Every German must die.

In the morning, Golitsin had awoken from his dreams with a rare smile. Joseph Stalin himself had pinned the Supreme Military Victory Medal on his army jacket. Ah, yes, and he had seen his name printed on the marbled pages of a history book bound in brown calf ’s leather.

A hand grenade exploded behind him, the spray of smoke propelling him on. He had done his job well. And his soldiers were doing theirs. He continued to survey the grounds. Where women and children lay dying, he called to the nearest soldier to finish them off, closing his mind to the victims’ screams. His heart belonged to Russia. And this was an eye for an eye.

Major, do you want her?

Golitsin turned toward the voice.

You can have her first if you like, grinned a soldier pointing to a girl with pale blond braids, lying on the ground near a pot of geraniums. A few yards away, an older woman lay dead in the yellowed grass.

Golitsin shook his head no.

He didn’t want to fuck a farm girl. He wanted something else—an aristocrat. He smiled when he thought of the leaflets the Red Army had dropped from planes, calling for revenge on the flaxen-haired German witches.

But fucking women wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He had ambitions larger than momentary pleasure. Somewhere a woman was screaming. He turned and scanned the village. On the path before him, an injured goose lay honking in the dirt. Poor bird, he thought, crushing its head with his boot heel. You’re better off dead.

A slight movement in the nearby foliage caught his eye. Who was hiding there? A man? A child?

Slinking through the trees, he stepped onto a grassy trail that circled the village. Within seconds, he spotted a woman lying on the ground, partially hidden in the bushes.

He reached for her hair, and snapped her head back, dragging her to her feet and pushing her up against the trunk of a poplar tree. Her head lolled onto her slender shoulder and her mouth fell open, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

By God! This woman was more than he could have hoped for. Even half conscious, she was splendid, her skin unblemished, her hair like white gold. And so much of it! As he waited for her to come to, his gaze traveled over her gray riding pants, stained at the knees with moss. He noticed her vest, too, closely fastened with ornate silver buttons bearing a family crest. It surprised him to see an elegant woman wearing such masculine clothing. He’d always thought that the female aristocracy wore frilly dresses, cut low to expose their white bosoms.

All the same, her womanly shape was unmistakable. He wanted to see more. Holding her firmly against the tree, he tore off the top three buttons of her vest and blouse and was quickly rewarded by the sight of high, round breasts. A surge of arousal passed through him. This was the woman. He squeezed the muscular mounds of her backside, and ran his hand down her long legs that ended in exquisitely crafted riding boots.

He looked her over again. She was taller than he was. He didn’t like that. But in the end it wouldn’t matter because he’d bring her to her knees.

He had fantasized a thousand times about raping this kind of woman. The

Reviews for The Last Daughter of Prussia

[tmlibrary · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Historical fiction. Page turner. Difficult topic--Hitler's Germany in WWII: hate of Jews, Romani gypsies, gays. Russia's (Stalin's) revenge: rape all women & children. Stutthof concentration camp. Trakehner (dressage?) horses--Aztec. Mass evacuation from East Prussia in cruelly frigid snows & temperatures. Final escape of Manya, Joshi, & Sophia to the Bahamas.

[janarose1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Joshi, a gypsy doctor, and Manya, an aristocratic German, are desperately trying to survive the Russian invasion of Germany. Growing up together, they were childhood friends, and even sweethearts, until they are separated. Joshi's family is slaughtered and he is captured and taken to a concentration camp. Manya and her family are forced to flee their home, or face rape and murder from Russian soldiers. I really enjoyed this book. It was well written and the characters were very realistic. I do wish that Joshi and Manya's stories alternated chapter by chapter rather than part by part. This would have helped the plot pacing and would have helped maintain interest in both of their stories. Otherwise, I can find nothing to critique. Highly recommended.