Salt To The Sea by Ruta SepetysSalt To The Sea by Ruta Sepetys

Salt To The Sea

byRuta Sepetys

Paperback | August 1, 2017

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#1 New York Times bestseller and winner of the Carnegie Medal! 

"A superlative novel . . . masterfully crafted."--The Wall Street Journal

Based on "the forgotten tragedy that was six times deadlier than the Titanic."--Time

Winter 1945. WWII. Four refugees. Four stories.

Each one born of a different homeland; each one hunted, and haunted, by tragedy, lies, war. As thousands desperately flock to the coast in the midst of a Soviet advance, four paths converge, vying for passage aboard the Wilhelm Gustloff, a ship that promises safety and freedom. But not all promises can be kept . . .

This paperback edition includes book club questions and exclusive interviews with Wilhelm Gustloff survivors and experts.
Ruta Sepetys ( is an internationally acclaimed, #1 New York Times bestselling author of historical fiction published in over sixty countries and forty languages. Sepetys is considered a "crossover" novelist, as her books are read by both teens and adults worldwide. Her novels Between Shades of Gray, Out of the Easy,...
Title:Salt To The SeaFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:448 pages, 8.25 × 5.45 × 1.13 inShipping dimensions:8.25 × 5.45 × 1.13 inPublished:August 1, 2017Publisher:Penguin Young Readers GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0142423629

ISBN - 13:9780142423622


Rated 4 out of 5 by from Heartbreaking I loved this book, but I had to read it twice in order to fully appreciate it. shown through the eyes of multiple young adults, it shows the escape from the war that has a tragic ending for all of them.
Date published: 2019-07-31
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Touching I was completely enveloped in this novel from the start. I really enjoyed the style of writing and the switching between POV character. As said in other reviews, I would have loved to explore more about the characters. I felt that the ending was a bit rushed compared to the time spent on describing the groups traveling. I would recommend this book to anyone who loves historical fiction. Although it is the young adults' section, the novel is suitable for adults too.
Date published: 2019-06-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Heart-touching novel on World War II that will not disappoint Salt to the Sea is a book that will pull on your heartstrings. You get pulled into the story and begin relating and sympathizing with the characters before you even realize it. It is a book that you won’t want to put down! It follows the alternating stories of four young adults as they journey towards freedom in the midst of World War II. One is a young Polish girl, not welcomed in Germany, another is a former German soldier avoiding recruitment into the war, another a sailor, and the last one a Latvian nurse. The lives of these four young adults quickly become quite intertwined, perhaps a little more than any of them would like. Although they may all have different backgrounds and come from different places, they all have one thing in common; they are all yearning to be free! Throughout this book, we follow their four stories as they are on their trek towards the boat that will carry them to freedom, the Wilhelm Gustloff. Throughout this novel, not only do we see the horrific tragedy of war, but we also see many key themes that make the book what it is. We see how many people in the war and fleeing for freedom were treated as untermensch or sub-human. When the ship finally departed, we read that there were still thousands left on the dock left to die, because they weren’t deemed worthy enough to be on the boat, to earn a life of freedom. We also have the chance to see what moral choices the characters choose to make as they are enduring times of deep human suffering. Some of the choices they made were quite deceptive and deceitful, such as assuming another’s identity, but in the long run, we see that this was all quite necessary if they wanted to make it out alive. As we near the ending we read about the loss of innocence in the beloved characters, a well as the value of human life. It is not surprising that throughout the journey that these four took, seeing every sight of horror possible, that they lost quite a large amount of their innocence. Although we often equate losing our innocence as something that is bad, it is actually quite a crucial part of growing up and maturing. Finally, we read about the value of human life. Josef Stalin, the leader of the Soviet Union during World War II once said “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” This has sadly become so true in our world. When we think of the millions of deaths that happen around us, yes it is a horrific tragedy, but we get over it soon after. Now think of the death of a loved one, such as a mother. We never get over the death of a loved on the way we get over the death of someone we don’t know. Sorrow in the midst of tragedy has everything to do with your love for that person. In conclusion, Salt to the Sea is a must read! Overall, it is an incredible read that you won’t be able to put down. It draws you into it in such a powerful way that you become connected to each of the characters as they go through the hardships of World War II. It is a book that will not disappoint!
Date published: 2019-01-11
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Could not put down I can't recommend this book enough for any lover of historical fiction. The story is told from the perspective of multiple characters, each very different from the other. There is plenty of action and a bit of romance. Be sure to read the back of the book which has interviews and information about the research that went into creating accurate descriptions of events. Fascinating and a quick read.
Date published: 2018-08-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Sheds light on a tragic moment in history Salt to the Sea looks into the alternating perspectives of four teenagers. It was an amazing read. It gave glimpses into the lives of refugees in Germany during WW2 and does not shy away from heavy topics despite being a YA. I absolutely loved the characters and the little romance on the side. Certainly a tearjerker.
Date published: 2018-05-13
Rated 5 out of 5 by from absolutely amazing Ruta Sepetys is one of my favourite authors. Such a great author capturing each story so well. I wish to someday write like her.
Date published: 2018-04-30
Rated 5 out of 5 by from hidden history wasn't expecting to fall so love in with this story... made me cry, laugh smile... a part of hidden history that must be kept alive. definitely pick this one up it deserves all of the stars.
Date published: 2017-11-13
Rated 3 out of 5 by from I expected to love this. I really enjoyed Between Shades of Grey but I was left wanting more from the Salt to the Sea story and characters... It took me a very long time to get through this easy to read novel. However, I agree with everyone that the setting of this story is important and that more people should know about it. It's a tragic and heartbreaking read.
Date published: 2017-10-29
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Beautiful characters with sentimental secrets. I am really glad to have read this book because the writing was gorgeous and the characters and character developments were fabulously crafted!
Date published: 2017-10-21

Read from the Book

joanaGuilt is a hunter.  My conscience mocked me, picking fights like a petulant child. It’s all your fault, the voice whispered. I quickened my pace and caught up with our small group. The Germans would march us off the field road if they found us. Roads were reserved for the military. Evacuation orders hadn’t been issued and anyone fleeing East Prussia was branded a deserter. But what did that matter? I became a deserter four years ago, when I fled from Lithuania. Lithuania. I had left in 1941. What was happening at home? Were the dreadful things whispered in the streets true? We approached a mound on the side of the road. The small boy in front of me whimpered and pointed. He had joined us two days prior, just wandered out of the forest alone and quietly began following us. “Hello, little one. How old are you?” I had asked. “Six,” he replied. “Who are you traveling with?” He paused and dropped his head. “My Omi.” I turned toward the woods to see if his grandmother had emerged. “Where is your Omi now?” I asked. The wandering boy looked up at me, his pale eyes wide. “She didn’t wake up.” So the little boy traveled with us, often drifting just slightly ahead or behind. And now he stood, pointing to a flap of dark wool beneath a meringue of snow. I waved the group onward and when everyone advanced I ran to the snow-covered heap. The wind lifted a layer of icy flakes revealing the dead blue face of a woman, probably in her twenties. Her mouth and eyes were hinged open, fixed in fear. I dug through her iced pockets, but they had already been picked. In the lining of her jacket I found her identification papers. I stuffed them in my coat to pass on to the Red Cross and dragged her body off the road and into the field. She was dead, frozen solid, but the thought of tanks rolling over her was more than I could bear. I ran back to the road and our group. The wandering boy stood in the center of the path, snow falling all around him. “She didn’t wake up either?” he asked quietly. I shook my head and took his mittened hand in mine. And then we both heard it in the distance. Bang.     florianFate is a hunter. Engines buzzed in a swarm above. Der Schwarze Tod, “the Black Death,” they called them. I hid beneath the trees. The planes weren’t visible, but I felt them. Close. Trapped by darkness both ahead and behind, I weighed my options. An explosion detonated and death crept closer, curling around me in fingers of smoke. I ran. My legs churned, sluggish, disconnected from my racing mind. I willed them to move, but my conscience noosed around my ankles and pulled down hard. “You are a talented young man, Florian.” That’s what Mother had said. “You are Prussian. Make your own decisions, son,” said my father. Would he have approved of my decisions, of the secrets I now carried across my back? Amidst this war between Hitler and Stalin, would Mother still consider me talented, or criminal? The Soviets would kill me. But how would they torture me first? The Nazis would kill me, but only if they uncovered the plan. How long would it remain a secret? The questions propelled me forward, whipping through the cold forest, dodging branches. I clutched my side with one hand, my pistol with the other. The pain surged with each breath and step, releasing warm blood out of the angry wound. The sound of the engines faded. I had been on the run for days and my mind felt as weak as my legs. The hunter preyed on the fatigued and weary. I had to rest. The pain slowed me to a jog and finally a walk. Through the dense trees in the forest I spied branches hiding an old potato cellar. I jumped in. Bang.     emilia Shame is a hunter. I would rest a moment. I had a moment, didn’t I? I slid across the cold, hard earth toward the back of the cave. The ground quivered. Soldiers were close. I had to move but felt so tired. It was a good idea to put branches over the mouth of the forest cellar. Wasn’t it? No one would trek this far off the road. Would they? I pulled the pink woolen cap down over my ears and tugged my coat closed near my throat. Despite my bundled layers, January’s teeth bit sharp. My fingers had lost all feeling. Pieces of my hair, frozen crisp to my collar, tore as I turned my head. So I thought of August. My eyes dropped closed. And then they opened. A Russian soldier was there. He leaned over me with a light, poking my shoulder with his pistol. I jumped, frantically pushing myself back. “Fräulein.” He grinned, pleased that I was alive. “Komme, Fräulein. How old are you?” “Fifteen,” I whispered. “Please, I’m not German. Nicht Deutsche.” He didn’t listen, didn’t understand, or didn’t care. He pointed his gun at me and yanked at my ankle. “Shh, Fräulein.” He lodged the gun under the bone of my chin. I pleaded. I put my hands across my stomach and begged. He moved forward. No. This would not happen. I turned my head. “Shoot me, soldier. Please.” Bang.     alfred Fear is a hunter. But brave warriors, we brush away fear with a flick of the wrist. We laugh in the face of fear, kick it like a stone across the street. Yes, Hannelore, I compose these letters in my mind first, as I cannot abandon my men as often as I think of you. You would be proud of your watchful companion, sailor Alfred Frick. Today I saved a young woman from falling into the sea. It was nothing really, but she was so grateful she clung to me, not wanting to let go. “Thank you, sailor.” Her warm whisper lingered in my ear. She was quite pretty and smelled like fresh eggs, but there have been many grateful and pretty girls. Oh, do not be concerned. You and your red sweater are foremost in my thoughts. How fondly, how incessantly, I think of my Hannelore and red-sweater days. I’m relieved you are not here to see this. Your sugared heart could not bear the treacherous circumstances here in the port of Gotenhafen. At this very moment, I am guarding dangerous explosives. I am serving Germany well. Only seventeen, yet carrying more valor than those twice my years. There is talk of an honor ceremony but I’m too busy fighting for the Führer to accept honors. Honors are for the dead, I’ve told them. We must fight while we are alive! Yes, Hannelore, I shall prove to all of Germany. There is indeed a hero inside of me. Bang. I abandoned my mental letter and crouched in the supply closet, hoping no one would find me. I did not want to go outside.      florian I stood in the forest cellar, my gun fixed on the dead Russian. The back of his head had departed from his skull. I rolled him off the woman. She wasn’t a woman. She was a girl in a pink woolen cap. And she had fainted. I scavenged through the Russian’s frozen pockets and took cigarettes, a flask, a large sausage wrapped in paper, his gun, and ammunition. He wore two watches on each wrist, trophies collected from his victims. I didn’t touch them. Crouching near the corner of the cellar, I scanned the cold chamber for signs of food but saw none. I put the ammunition in my pack, careful not to disturb the small box wrapped in a cloth. The box. How could something so small hold such power? Wars had been waged over less. Was I really willing to die for it? I gnawed at the dried sausage, savoring the saliva it produced. The ground vibrated slightly. This Russian wasn’t alone. There would be more. I had to move. I turned the top on the soldier’s flask and raised it to my nose. Vodka. I opened my coat, then my shirt, and poured the alcohol down my side. The intensity of the pain produced a flash in front of my eyes. My ruptured flesh fought back, twisting and pulsing. I took a breath, bit back a yell, and tortured the gash with the remainder of the alcohol. The girl stirred in the dirt. Her head snapped away from the dead Russian. Her eyes scanned the gun at my feet and the flask in my hand. She sat up, blinking. Her pink hat slid from her head and fell silently into the dirt. The side of her coat was streaked with blood. She reached into her pocket. I threw down the flask and grabbed the gun. She opened her mouth and spoke. Polish.     emilia The Russian soldier stared at me, mouth open, eyes empty. Dead. What had happened? Crouching in the corner was a young man dressed in civilian clothes. His coat and shirt were unfastened, his skin bloodied and bruised to a deep purple. He held a gun. Was he going to shoot me? No, he had killed the Russian. He had saved me. “Are you okay?” I asked, barely recognizing my own voice. His face twisted at the sound of my words. He was German. I was Polish. He would want nothing to do with me. Adolf Hitler had declared that Polish people were subhuman. We were to be destroyed so the Germans could have the land they needed for their empire. Hitler said Germans were superior and would not live among Poles. We were not Germanizable. But our soil was. I pulled a potato from my pocket and held it out to him. “Thank you.” The dirt pulsed slightly. How much time had passed? “We have to go,” I told him. I tried to use my best German. In my head the sentences were intact, but I wasn’t sure they came out that way. Sometimes when I spoke German people laughed at me and then I knew my words were wrong. I lowered my arm and saw my sleeve, splattered with Russian blood. Would this ever end? Tears stirred inside of me. I did not want to cry. The German stared at me, a combination of fatigue and frustration. But I understood. His eyes on the potato said, Emilia, I’m hungry. The dried blood on his shirt said, Emilia, I’m injured. But the way he clutched his pack told me the most. Emilia, don’t touch this.     joana We trudged farther down the narrow road. Fifteen refugees. The sun had finally surrendered and the temperature followed. A blind girl ahead of me, Ingrid, held a rope tethered to a horse-drawn cart. I had my sight, but we shared a handicap: we both walked into a dark corridor of combat, with no view of what lay ahead. Perhaps her lost vision was a gift. The blind girl could hear and smell things that the rest of us couldn’t. Did she hear the last gasp of the old man as he slipped under the wheels of a cart several kilometers back? Did she taste coins in her mouth when she walked over the fresh blood in the snow? “Heartbreaking. They killed her,” said a voice behind me. It was the old shoemaker. I stopped and allowed him to catch up. “The frozen woman back there,” he continued. “Her shoes killed her. I keep telling them, but they don’t listen. Poorly made shoes will torture your feet, inhibit your progress. Then you will stop.” He squeezed my arm. His soft red face peered out from beneath his hat. “And then you will die,” he whispered. The old man spoke of nothing but shoes. He spoke of them with such love and emotion that a woman in our group had crowned him “the shoe poet.” The woman disappeared a day later but the nickname survived. “The shoes always tell the story,” said the shoe poet. “Not always,” I countered. “Yes, always. Your boots, they are expensive, well made. That tells me that you come from a wealthy family. But the style is one made for an older woman. That tells me they probably belonged to your mother. A mother sacrificed her boots for her daughter. That tells me you are loved, my dear. And your mother is not here, so that tells me that you are sad, my dear. The shoes tell the story.” I paused in the center of the frozen road and watched the stubby old cobbler shuffle ahead of me. The shoe poet was right. Mother had sacrificed for me. When we fled from Lithuania she rushed me to Insterburg and, through a friend, arranged for me to work in the hospital. That was four years ago. Where was Mother now? I thought of the countless refugees trekking toward freedom. How many millions of people had lost their home and family during the war? I had agreed with Mother to look to the future, but secretly I dreamed of returning to the past. Had anyone heard from my father or brother? The blind girl put her face to the sky and raised her arm in signal. And then I heard them. Planes.     florian We had barely crawled out of the potato cellar when the Polish girl began to cry. She knew I was going to leave her. I had no choice. She would slow me down. Hitler aimed to destroy all Poles. They were Slavic, branded inferior. My father said the Nazis had killed millions of Poles. Polish intellectuals were savagely executed in public. Hitler set up extermination camps in German-occupied Poland, filtering the blood of innocent Jews into the Polish soil. Hitler was a coward. That had been one thing Father and I agreed upon. “Proszę . . . bitte,” she begged, alternating between Polish and broken German. I couldn’t stand to look at her, at the streaks of dead Russian splattered down her sleeve. I started to walk away, her sobs flapping behind me. “Wait. Please,” she called out. The sound of her crying was painfully familiar. It had the exact tone of my younger sister, Anni, and the sobs I heard through the hallway the day Mother took her last breath. Anni. Where was she? Was she too in some dark forest hole with a gun to her head? A pain ripped through my side, forcing me to stop. The girl’s feet quickly approached. I resumed walking. “Thank you,” she chirped from behind. The sun disappeared and the cold tightened its fist. My calculations told me that I needed to walk another two kilometers west before stopping for the night. There was a better chance of finding shelter along a field road, but also a better chance of running into troops. It was wiser to continue along the edge of the forest. The girl heard them before I did. She grabbed my arm. The buzzing of aircraft engines surged fast and close from behind. The Russians were targeting German ground troops nearby. Were they in front of us or beside us? The bombs began falling. With each explosion, every bone in my body vibrated and hammered, clanging violently against the bell tower that was my flesh. The sound of anti-aircraft fire rang through the sky, answering the initial blasts. The girl tried to pull me onward. I shoved her away. “Run!” She shook her head, pointed forward, and awkwardly tried to pull me through the snow. I wanted to run, forget about her, leave her in the forest. But then I saw the droplets of blood in the snow coming from beneath her bulky coat. And I could not.

Editorial Reviews

Praise for Salt to the Sea: A #1 New York Times Bestseller An International Bestseller Winner of the Carnegie Medal Featured on NPR's Morning Edition   "Ruta Sepetys acts as champion of the interstitial people so often ignored — whole populations lost in the cracks of history."—The New York Times   "Superlative...masterfully crafted...[a] powerful work of historical fiction."—The Wall Street Journal [Sepetys is] a master of YA fiction…she once again anchors a panoramic view of epic tragedy in perspectives that feel deeply textured and immediate."—Entertainment Weekly "[A] riveting novel . . . Sepetys skillfully weaves history into her story, here grounding her nuanced characters in the events of winter 1945. Vivid details punctuate the spare prose."—The Washington Post "[H]aunting, heartbreaking, hopeful and altogether of the best young-adult novels to appear in a very long time."—Salt Lake Tribune   "Ruta Sepetys is a master of historical fiction. In Salt to the Sea the hard truths of her herculean research are tempered with effortless, intimate storytelling, as her warm and human characters breathe new life into one of the world's most terrible and neglected tragedies." —Elizabeth Wein, New York Times bestselling author of Printz Award Honor Book Code Name Verity “A rich, page-turning story that brings to vivid life a terrifying—and little-known—moment in World War II history.” —Steve Sheinkin, author of Newbery Honor and National Book Award finalist Bomb   "Brutal. Beautiful. Honest." —Sabaa Tahir, New York Times bestselling author of An Ember in the Ashes "Ruta Sepetys is more than just an author — she's history's answer to CSI."—Mashable "[A] stunning historical novel."—Hypable   * "Sepetys excels in shining light on lost chapters of history, and this visceral novel proves a memorable testament to strength and resilience in the face of war and cruelty." —Publishers Weekly, starred review    * "This haunting gem of a novel begs to be remembered, and in turn, it tries to remember the thousands of real people its fictional characters represent. What it asks of us is that their memories, and their stories, not be abandoned to the sea." —Booklist, starred review   * "Artfully told and sensitively crafted, Sepetys’s exploration of this little-known piece of history will leave readers weeping." —SLJ, starred review "The inevitability of the ending (including the loss of several characters) doesn't change its poignancy, and the short chapters and slowly revealed back stories for each character guarantee the pages keep turning. Heartbreaking, historical, and a little bit hopeful." —Kirkus Reviews "Intimate, extraordinary, artfully crafted...brilliant."—Shelf Awareness    "This book includes all the reasons why teens read:  for knowledge, for romance, for amazing and irritating characters.  This novel will break readers’ hearts and then put them back together a little more whole." —VOYA "Sepetys’s...scene-setting is impeccable; the penetrating cold of the journey is palpable, and she excels at conveying the scope of the losses while giving them a human face....[T]his elegiac tale succeeds with impressive research, affecting characters, and keen, often unsettling insights into humans’ counterposed tendencies toward evil and nobility. Readers will be left to discuss which impulse triumphs here." —The Horn Book