“My special book,” she says louder. “Please.” She’s clearly agitated with my confusion, but I've never seen any unfamiliar book in her house. The only books I’ve seen are the mystery thrillers she used to read, and I don’t think she’s referring to one of those. “Please find it and bring it to me.”
Dr. Beck places his hand on my shoulder, and as I glance over, he nods his head for me to follow him into the hallway. “I'll be right back, Grams.”
Mom and Annie don't seem to notice the exchange or the fact that I've followed the doctor out of the room, but I may have an easier time finding out more information without their emotions getting in the way. After walking around the corner, we stop, and Dr. Beck's eyebrows rise a bit. “I'd like to do this surgery immediately. The faster we can do it, the safer she will be.”
I inhale heavily and release the air slowly through my pursed lips. This is so much to take in at once. “I understand. I'll do what I can to convince my mom and aunt that it’s what’s best. I don't think either of them are thinking clearly.”
“Understandable,” he says. “I'm sorry you're going through this.” The kindness and sincerity written across his face breaks through the last of my strength I tried to maintain for Mom and Annie’s sake. Tears fall uncontrollably from the corners of my eyes, and I cup my hand over my mouth as I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing this wasn't happening.
“I'm sorry,” I choke out.
Dr. Beck wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me down the corridor, stopping in front of the restroom. “I'll make sure to take good care of her, okay?” He dips his head down to grab my attention and focus. “I promise.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You’ve been really kind and I appreciate it.” Most doctors I’ve been around haven’t had such a passionate understanding of how difficult these sorts of events are for families.
“Emma!” As the slightest bit of turmoil briefly lifts from my chest, another heavyweight drops down on the same spot, compressing all my organs into a painful mess. “Emma, there you are.” I glance down the hall toward the sound of his voice, wishing I was imagining it as I stifle a groan. Mike is jogging down the hallway with a phony appearance of worry written on his face. Is this a new act he’s trying out?
Dr. Beck lifts his hand from my shoulder and presses his lips into a firm smile. “Well, I'll give you some space. I'll be back to check on your grandmother soon.”
“Thank you,” I offer with sincerity as he takes off in the other direction.
Mike’s out of breath as he forcefully pulls me into him for a hug. “How's Grams?” he asks while cupping his hand over the back of my head. The exchange feels awkward and unnatural.
“No,” I tell him. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don't pretend like you suddenly care.” He knows I’m weak right now, and that’s his game.
He places his hand on my cheek, making a scene, here, in the intensive care unit’s hallway. “I love you. What more do I need to say? I just want to show you that I'm here. I want to be here.”
And I want to be alone.
After a nearly sleepless night mixed with worry and hope, I got up early this morning to search every nook and cranny of Grams's house, searching for the “special” book. Mom and Annie told me not to worry about it—that she must have been confused like the doctor said, but I sat awake for hours last night replaying her words in my head. They must have been right though because I don’t see any book out of the ordinary.
I put everything in Grams’s room back the way I found it before heading into the hallway. As I place my hand on the doorknob of her bedroom, another tear falls from my eye as I consider the day we’ll need to clean this room out. I can’t bear the thought of losing Grams.
Just as I’m closing myself out of the bedroom, my focus settles on a small wooden box beneath the bed. I've seen it there for years, but it never spoke to me until now.
I reopen the door, fall to my knees, and crawl forward a few feet until the box is within reach. It's heavy and full, but I pull it out and find that it isn't just an old box. It has intricate carvings alongside the brass hinges and brackets. The wood is tattered and soft as if it had been touched a thousand times before, yet I get the feeling it has sat here, sealed shut, for years.
Feeling a sense of guilt for prying, I remind myself that she asked me to find her book, and as vague as her plea was, I want to honor her request. I run my fingertips across the aged cover before releasing the clasps, then tug the lid open, listening to the groaning creak fight against the weathered metal springs.
Inside the box there are stacks of old photos and a soft, worn leather-bound book with a red ribbon draped over the top. My heart races at just the sight of the book, wondering what it contains, and questioning what Grams may have hidden from us all these years. I'm not one to spy or eavesdrop, and this feels just like that, so I’m nervous to do much more with the contents. As much as I want to know what this is and what's inside, I carefully pull out the book and hold it against my chest, inhaling the scent of aged parchment paper. Beneath the book are several more Polaroids of Grams in what looks like her early twenties, standing in front of the Statue of Liberty with her beaming smile that has apparently never changed.
I have begged for her story, wanting to know what her life was like, but she was never shy about refusing to discuss the past. She always said, “The future is the only thing that matters.” In truth, I'm afraid of what I'd learn if she were ever to fill in the gaps of her life, but I also fear the day that her story could be buried alongside her.
Leaving the rest of the box behind, I stand up with the leather book and eagerly make my way out to the Jeep.
Less than a minute passes after settling into my seat when I feel the book staring at me—begging to be opened and brought back to the life it left behind.
My phone rings, and I’m thankful for the distraction as I pull it out of my purse, finding Mom's name on the display. I answer the call with a clear sense of urgency masking my attempt to sound calm. “Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “We've gone ahead and scheduled the surgery for tomorrow morning. I just wanted to let you know.”
Relief overcomes me, knowing I won’t have to argue with her about this decision. “I’m glad you agreed. I think it’s best.”
“Me too,” she says, still sounding unsure.
“Oh, by the way, I found Grams's book,” I tell her.
“What book?” she asks.
“The one she was asking for.”
“I know, but what is this book?” Mom asks.
“I have no idea, but it’s old and looks like it contains a lot of stories or memories. I’m taking it over to her now.”
“Mike isn't with you, is he?”
“No,” I respond through a groan.
“That was very nice of him to stop by yesterday, but we don't need him hanging around the hospital right now.”
“Mom,” I say, trying to stop any further incoming comments on the subject.
“Emma, you know how I feel about him.”
“I do. It’s not like you’ve been subtle about your hatred for Mike. I understand and partially agree with everything you feel.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” she says. “You should probably stop stringing him along then, and just break it off.”
“Mom.”
“Emma,” she counters.
“I'll only be at the hospital for a little while. I have a deadline for a client this afternoon, and if I don't get the ad design to her, she’s going to find someone else.” Business doesn’t end at 5 p.m. in my world, and therefore, neither do my contracting hours of operation.
“And why can't you tell them you have a family emergency?” she argues.
“Mom, it's my business, and I can't cancel all of my jobs. I'll handle it all, don't worry. I'm going to be right by your side tomorrow morning and whenever you need me to be with you.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “Just wait there until I get back, so she's not alone. I need to take a quick nap and a shower.”
“No problem,” I tell her.
Since my phone call lasted the entire drive to the hospital, it broke up the eagerness to open Grams’s book, but now that I’m here, excitement is rushing through me as I slide my hands along the warm leather binding. I need to know what’s inside.
I guard it within my arms like a lost treasure as I make my way into the hospital and over to the ICU.
As worried as I was yesterday, I must not have noticed how far the walk to the ICU was, and I'm out of breath by time I reach Grams’s room. Though, it’s perfect timing as I nearly run right into Dr. Beck.
“Emma,” he greets me.
“Oh, hi, Dr. Beck. How is she today?”
“That woman…” he points behind him, “she is a spitfire.” He laughs and looks over his shoulder at her. “She's doing well.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of her,” I tell him.
“It's my job,” he says. “Will you excuse me, though? I have to tend to another patient right now.”
I'm left without words, a bit mesmerized by his sparkling eyes and engaging demeanor, as well as the noticeable fact that he has the most perfect butt that I probably shouldn’t be staring at while he’s walking away. However, I've never actually seen a man's butt fill out a pair of scrubs so perfectly before.
“Emma, is that you?” Thankfully, Grams’s voice interrupts my inappropriate stare and thoughts, and I enter her room.
“It’s me, Grams. I found your book, I think.” I rush to her side and gently place it down on her lap. The corners of her lips perk into a smile as she keeps her focus set on the ceiling above our heads.
“The nice doctor told me I might not be able to see very clearly for the next few days, but you know what?”
“What?” I question.
“I can see he's very handsome,” she says through weak laughter.
My cheeks burn, knowing Mom is a replica of Grams in every way. Both want nothing more than to point out the obviously attractive men in this world, constantly reminding me that I'm still not married and don’t have children. It's becoming a running joke—one with an underlying meaning I've gotten good at sweeping under the carpet. “Anyway,” I try to change the subject, “I hope this is the book you were referring to.”
“It is,” she says, glancing down at it. She lifts the cover, and the spine crackles against the tug as she flips through a couple of pages. Grams appears to be reacquainting herself with the pages as she runs her fingertips down the center of a handwritten page that looks like a diary entry of some sort.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I wrote this after I arrived in New York, back in 1945. It's so hard to remember the details now, but that's precisely why I wrote everything down while the memories were fresh in my mind.”
“Memories?” I question. I know Grams arrived in New York around 1944 or 1945, just after the end of the war, but beyond that, I know very little.
She tries to lift the book, but her hands shake while attempting to do so. “Would you mind?”
“Mind?”
“Yes, Emma, would you please read me this page.”
I take the book from her hands and turn around in search of a place to sit. I pull the blue plastic bucket chair over to Grams's side of the bed and take a seat. With the book resting on my lap, I scan the page, admiring her beautiful handwriting along the yellowed lines of the cream-colored paper. “Are you sure, Grams?”
“Why wouldn't I be?” she asks, sounding confused.
“You have never wanted to share much of your past with me,” I tell her, assuming that's what is contained within these pages.
“It’s time I tell you what happened,” she responds without hesitation. “So, please, please read my words. I need to remember Charlie.”
CHAPTER THREE
Amelia
Day 1 - January 1942
Mama said to close my eyes and take a deep breath when I got scared. It would offer me a moment of distraction from whatever was making me upset. So, I counted as I inhaled, wishing the sounds would go away and leave us to the little freedom we had left. With my eyes closed, I was more aware of my racing pulse and the rhythmic sound of my unsteady breaths.
The clothes covering my body smelled of clean soap—a scent I had always enjoyed after Mama and I brought the dry laundry in from the clothesline outside. I knew at that moment that I wanted to remember the fresh smell because it was home, and that’s what they were there for—our home.
Heavy footsteps on the creaking floors sent shivers through my soul. I heard them moving through the darkness of our small house, then a beam from a flashlight bounced off the walls and worked its way through the makeshift cloth doors I was hiding behind.
“Their plates are half full, and the food is still warm,” one of them said. “They're in here somewhere.” As the voices continued, I heard one of them chewing the food Mama had just prepared for us. It made me sick.
We knew the day was coming, but we didn't know when. I had foolishly suggested we run away and hide, but Mama and Papa said it wasn't a possibility because there was no place to hide.
We were stalling, hoping for a miracle, but there had been no miracles in Prague for quite some time, and the hope we once held onto was fading by the minute.
As I listened, feeling helpless and full of fear, I could hear them in Jakob's room, tossing his books and tearing his drawings down from the walls. Then, a loud crash followed the smaller sounds. A tear skated down my cheek as imagined the noise had come from his bureau or bed.
A groan followed every bang, and wrestling noises ensued. “No, no,” Jakob screamed.
“Who else lives here with you?” a man asked.
“No, one,” Jakob shouted. “I live alone.”
Jakob was a little less than two years older than I, and at nineteen, he was trying to protect our family from what was happening, but even the smartest and bravest couldn't seem to conquer the army of Nazis hunting us down.
“You're a liar.” The man continued yelling at Jakob in a thick German accent that was hardly understandable, but then I clearly heard the man follow with, “I can see the nervous look in your eye.” Our walls were thin, and I heard every one of Jakob’s nervous breaths. He always had trouble breathing in stressful conditions, and that situation was making it so much worse.
The sounds of wrestling continued and I squeezed my eyes shut while trying to imagine being somewhere else, but it was impossible to block out the truth.
Papa stormed through the hallway, interrupting the interrogation in Jakob’s bedroom. I knew it was him by the way his shoes clapped against the wooden floors—it was different from the sound of a boot's thud. “Let go of my son, now!” Papa yelled. “Jakob, run!”
“He was lying,” one of the Nazi's said again—the man’s voice was calm and apathetic about the torment he was causing our family. “How many more of you are in here?”
“There is no one else here,” Papa said. “Take me and leave my son; he is of no use to you.”
“You're a liar too,” the Nazi said, playfully, as if he were enjoying the anguish. I didn’t know how many of those soldiers were in our house, but I was sure I heard at least three different voices.
Boots charged through the hallway, and as the echoes grew louder, I realized they must have known exactly where I was hiding. They were heading straight for me.
The cloth hanging in front of my closet’s opening were torn from the rod as the glow of their flashlights pierced through the fabric that was still draped over me.
I was kicked hard—hard enough that I may have normally squealed or let out a cry, but I held my breath through the pain, trying my best to be brave. “What is under here?” a man questioned. I felt as though I was being teased and toyed with, just as Papa was. It continued to be a game for them as the clothes were peeled away, one article a
t a time, until I was uncovered and exposed as I cowered in the corner while their light blinded me.
My racing heart felt as though it were free-falling through my body like a lead weight, and I felt numb as I was pulled up to my feet. Fear, unlike anything I had ever known overwhelmed all my senses, making it hard to breathe. A hand cuffed my arm tightly and the soldier yanked me forward, forcing me to trip over my dress as I stumbled to keep up with his pace. “No!” I shrieked. “Leave us alone!”
“Do not fight with us, Jew. Grab a coat and a bag. You’re coming with us.”
“I have a right to be here! This is our home, and you are trespassing.” Papa often told me that my mouth would get me into trouble someday, but if that were the day, I would rather it be because I was trying to protect my family versus giving in without a fight.
“You no longer have any rights. You are a Jew—you're nothing more than an animal.” The Nazi stared down at me, pausing before dragging me out the door. His lip snarled as if he were an angry dog. I couldn’t understand what I did to make anyone hate me that much. He didn’t know me or my family. He didn’t know any of us living in that town, but he hated us because someone told him to feel that way.
“I am a human being, like you.” I spoke so softly, my words were probably inaudible, but I had to say it. He needed to hear how I felt, even if it meant nothing to him.
Despite my efforts, however, it was obvious my words had no effect on him. All that seemed to matter was that he knew I was weaker than him, and I didn’t have the physical strength to resist his power as he pulled me out of my house. He dragged me by my heels behind him as we followed in the path of Papa and Jakob.
“Please,” I heard Mama cry out. “Please don’t take my family.”
“Mama, go back inside,” I shouted at her.
“Let my children go!” she shouted. “Those are my babies. I put them on this earth, and you cannot take them away from me. They’re mine!”
“They are not children or babies,” one of the Nazis said.
Last Words: A Diary of Survival Page 3
