“Let them go, you monsters!” she shouted louder as she tried to jump on the man pulling me. She clawed at his back, pounding her fists against him, but did little, if any, damage. “Run, Amelia. Run!” Mama told me.
The Nazi soldier didn’t loosen his grip on me for a second. I could have pulled as hard as I wanted to, but he had me trapped. “I can’t get away, Mama.”
Another Nazi took hold of Mama and dragged her away. I watched over my shoulder as she was pushed down to her knees while cradling her hands around the back of her head.
I prayed to God, begging him not to let them hurt her.
“Amelia, turn around and go!” she cried out. I had never heard Mama cry before then, not once in my entire life.
I cried softly to myself, begging them not to touch her. I kept saying, “No,” over and over, but none of them heard me. No one cared.
The world froze around me and a cold sweat coated my skin as that Nazi screamed a line of obscenities at Mama before pulling out his gun. I watched as he aimed it at the back of her head, and again, I prayed he was just trying to torture and scare her, but the sound of a loud click changed that thought. “Mama!” I screamed. “I love you, Mama. Please, don’t hurt her!”
“Amelia,” she sobbed, looking up at me. “Fight and be strong. For me.”
“Mama, no,” I whimpered as the blast from the gun thumped against the inside and outside of my chest. I tried to escape the hands pushing me along, but when I saw Mama fall, crumpling to the ground like a rag doll, I froze in place—I felt paralyzed. “Mama, please don't leave me!” It didn’t matter how much I begged. My voice wasn’t heard, and if it was, it was ineffective and too late.
Brokenhearted and shattered, I was shoved into the back of a line of other Jews who were also being shuttled down the cobblestone street.
I stumbled backwards, watching as blood sprayed from the side of Mama's head, painting the old cobblestones burgundy as her life poured out of her and trickled down the street.
I cried silently among the gasps of surrounding bystanders. I thought maybe I had imagined it, but no matter how many times I blinked, the scene was still in front of me.
She was gone and there was nothing left of her.
Tears filled my eyes as agony shuddered through my chest. I just watched Mama die—she was murdered. I tried to swallow but my throat was drier than sandpaper.
She was just trying to protect us, but without mercy or a chance for real goodbyes, they took her from me. There was no sense of humanity among the soldiers. Just as we had heard thousands of times before: as far as Hitler and his army were concerned…Jews were nothing.
As we were herded like sheep, I leaned to the side, looking for Papa and Jakob. I caught Papa’s gaze as he was muttering words to himself. I assumed he was praying and reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish for Mama, but it was only a brief second before he was pushed around the corner. His eyes looked empty as if all the life had been sucked out of him.
Mama and Papa had been married for twenty-two years. They were as happy as two people could be together, and in the timeframe of a few minutes, our family had been torn apart, and Mama was dead. While realization consumed me, a hollow feeling in my chest engulfed my entire body, I pulled at the collar of my dress beneath my coat, tearing the material in an expression of my grief. Since I had never lost someone close to me, I’d never had cause to do so before, but as I felt the threads tear, I immediately understood the purpose and meaning behind the Jewish tradition. It was like a reflection of what was happening inside me—I felt my heart shredding to pieces just like the cloth, as if it were made from nothing more than a thin piece of paper.
Adding to my devastation, the fear of where they were taking us bled through me as I continued to pray it was all a nightmare.
A hand squeezed my shoulder, and a woman's voice whispered into my ear. It was as if that woman were placed in that spot at that moment just to tell me exactly what I needed to hear. “You need to stay alive. You must stop crying. I understand your pain, but your mama would want you to be strong now. Do it for her.”
The woman kept her hand on my shoulder as we continued to shuffle behind the line of others. It gave me little comfort, but at least I wasn’t alone.
I knew I wasn't the only one who wanted to know where we were going. Despite being told that there would be shelter for us once the Nazis took over our homes, no one knew where the shelter was.
When the line stopped moving, I was no longer able to see anything happening in front of, or behind me. The sun had set, and the streetlights weren't bright enough to offer much visibility.
I needed to be with Papa and Jakob, and I wanted to stop shaking both from the cold and the utter horror I had witnessed. I couldn't stop thinking about Mama and the fact that she was probably still sprawled out in the middle of the street in front of our family's home, lifeless and alone.
There was a time when we had everything, or so it seemed, but in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Nothing would ever be normal again. Carefree, happy days had already been taken from us several months earlier, but I knew then that the hope of finding those times again were gone forever. I needed Mama; she was my best friend, the closest person in my life, and the one who was always there for me—even during her last moments. I did everything I could to hold back the tears. The pain was unbearable as I kept visualizing that scene of Mama’s murder repeatedly playing out in my mind. What was she thinking right before that man shot her? Did she know she was going to die? Did she suffer, or had she died instantly? I prayed she didn’t live long enough to feel the agonizing pain. I prayed she went to heaven peacefully and quickly. Then, there was a part of me was envious of her because she didn’t have to go on with a broken heart like the rest of us would.
I closed my eyes to block out my surroundings, but all I could see behind my eyelids were blurry pools of blood and splattered red blotches painting a landscape of death. There was no way to escape. I wanted to drop to the ground and scream and cry, but I was too scared. It was so hard to hold it all in, and accompanying my pain was a mortal fear beyond words.
The woman who stood behind me tugged at my shoulder that she was still holding onto, forcing me to turn around and face her. She was young, maybe just a few years older than I was, but she was pregnant and cradling her belly with her free hand. “Are you okay?” the woman asked.
“No,” I whispered. No one was okay. We were all freezing, waiting for whatever the soldiers had in store for us.
The only sounds within the narrow alleyway were heavy breaths from the others, along with a light breeze that blurred the line between reality and hell.
“Do you know where we are going or what they have planned for us?” I asked the woman I was facing. She shook her head as she pulled her wool coat tightly over her protruding belly. “No. They came in, raided our house, and forced us out,” she said.
“Are you alone?” I asked her, wondering if I was the only unlucky one to be separated from my family.
She twisted her head to the right and took a man's hand—I assumed he was her husband—and pulled him up alongside her. “It’s the two—well, three of us, God willing,” she said. “What about you?”
Once again, I looked for any sight of Papa or Jakob, but I didn't see them anywhere. “My Papa and older brother are up ahead in the line,” I told her. “But my Mama was—”
The woman placed her hand on my cheek and hushed me. “I know.” Her kindness forced a wave of emotion to unravel within me. A lump caught in my throat, but I managed to pull in a bit of air with the hope of maintaining control. I knew I couldn't cry. Along with being terrified that those heartless men would try to make an example of me just as they did with Mama, I also knew I couldn't let them see how much they had taken from me.
The woman lowered her hand to mine and squeezed it tightly. “I'm Leah,” she said, peacefully. She was like a brave angel.
“My name is Amelia,” I told her in the same sof
t tone.
“We have to be strong, Amelia. That’s all we can do right now.”
The meaning of strong had rapidly changed throughout the previous hour. Before that first day, being strong meant holding in my tears when I scraped my knee as a child, or learning to keep my chin up when a boy at school would tease me. I was strong when Grandmother passed away, knowing she had lived a long, fulfilling life. At that moment in time, though, I didn't know how to be strong—not after watching Mama murdered in cold blood.
The worst part was that I had no idea how much stronger I would need to become in the coming weeks.
CHAPTER FOUR
Emma
One diary entry and the world I thought I knew feels as though it’s crumbling around me. The words read in history books don't compare to the ones spoken by a person I love. “Grams, why haven't you ever told this to any of us?” I ask her.
Grams’s head sinks into the pillow, and her unfocused gaze floats to the ceiling. “No one told the survivors how to deal with the after effects of having their lives torn apart. There weren't many of us around.”
“Yes, but there had to be some kind of help, right?” I ask.
Grams chuckles softly as if what I said was a joke. “Emma, it would be like a person who has never suffered from some type of addiction telling an addict that they can move on from their habit, and how to do so. Unless you've lived through it, you can't preach advice to the victims. Plus, most of the memories were too painful to face, and I had to lock them away in that diary.” I understand what she's saying, but never talking about it, even with us, doesn't make sense. It hurts.
“Talking always helps me,” I tell her.
“I'm talking to you now, sweetie,” she says.
“What about Mom and Annie?” I ask.
Grams shakes her head ever so slightly. “I don't want them to know. They're too sensitive, and it’s too late to explain why I never answered the questions they have asked so many times before.”
Without even thinking, I say, “It can be our secret.” As the words came out, I knew it wouldn’t be just some simple secret to hold onto. I would be imprinted on my life.
“I want you to hold onto it, so it's never forgotten.”
I take Grams’s hand and squeeze it tenderly. “I can do that for you.”
With a profound inhale, she glances back at me with solidity burning from her gaze. “I don't want the surgery tomorrow.”
“No way,” I argue. “It's the only way to prevent you from having another stroke. You were lucky this time. It was mild. You may not be so lucky next time. There's no other choice, Grams.”
“Emma,” she says, complacently, “there is another way.”
“What? No, there isn't. You are not going to rot, not after what you've already been through.”
“I'm ninety-two. I'm too old for surgery. I'm too old for miracles. It's time for me to make peace with my life and move on.” She speaks as though she's been contemplating this for a while, but I don’t understand how anyone can so easily become resigned to dying. Death scares me. I thought it scared most people. Though, Grams isn’t most people—I know that more than ever now.
“You still have more life to live,” I tell her, spitting out empty words with nothing to back up my reasoning.
“Em, I live by myself, talk to myself, eat by myself, and think to myself all day, every day.”
“I'll come over more. I'll have meals with you, and you can talk to me whenever you want. Please, I’m not ready to let you go.” I'm begging for her to change her mind, but I know the look in her eye. It’s the look she makes when she's made a final decision.
“You need to start a life of your own,” she says.
“I have a life of my own,” I argue.
“You've never been in love, Emma. You don't understand.” As I digest her words, I feel hurt by what she's saying, but after a moment of clarity and silently repeating her words to myself, I realize she may be right.
“I want what you and Grandpa had,” I tell her. “It's on my list of things to accomplish in my lifetime.”
With what seems like all her effort, she presses her elbows into the bed and pulls herself up into a more upright position. “Emma, listen to me,” she begins, frankly. “What your grandfather and I had was love, sure, but it wasn't the kind of love some search for throughout an entire lifetime. He was a good man—my best friend for many, many years—and he treated me well, but sometimes we’re not always with the right people in life.”
Confusion. That must be what this is. “Grams, maybe you should rest.” I stand up to fluff her pillow.
“Sit back down, Emma,” she demands.
The sternness of her words forces me to do as she says. “I'm trying to tell you something important, and you need to listen.”
“Okay,” I utter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Beck enter the room, but at the same moment, Grams begins again. “It's easy to settle, Emma. It's hard to push through your comfort zone and take a chance when everyone else thinks it’s wrong.” I don't understand what she means.
Dr. Beck's hand finds my shoulder. “How’s she doing?”
I want to tell him she isn't making any sense, but for some reason, I think I'm the one who can't make sense of what she's saying. “She seems okay,” I tell him, quietly.
“So, Amelia, we're going to be giving you a pacemaker tomorrow to prevent any more strokes in the future. How does that sound?”
“No,” Grams responds. “I don't want any of that fancy technology of yours in my body.”
“Grams, please,” I beg.
“No,” she says again, sounding more stubborn than I've ever heard her.
“Grams, I'll do anything for you to reconsider.” I'm becoming desperate, and I don't know what else I can do to convince her about the importance of this surgery. She should have it. There’s no questioning this fact.
Her eyelids close, but flutter, as if she is in deep thought. After a long pause, her eyes reopen and she says, “Fine.”
“Really? You'll go through with it?” I ask her.
“Yes, but under one condition,” she says.
“Anything, what is it?”
“Get rid of Mike and go on a date with this lovely man,” she says, pointing to Dr. Beck.
I don't think my face could become any redder or hotter without bursting into flames. I feel frozen as I stare at Grams with “how could you” eyes, but she simply smiles in return. If this isn’t Jewish guilt, I don't know what is.
“Grams,” I say, without much to follow with, considering Dr. Beck is standing behind me.
“I'm going to give you two a moment,” he says.
“No, I don't think so,” Grams pipes in. “You're very much a part of this, don't you think?”
Dr. Beck shifts his weight from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with the situation Grams is putting him in, as well. “You know, for a woman who just had a stroke, you're quite feisty,” he jests.
“It runs in our blood,” she says, winking at him. “Now, ask my granddaughter out on a date so you can go schedule my surgery.”
“How do you know I'm not married, or dating someone?” he asks Grams while pulling up a rolling stool to her bedside.
“There’s no ring on your finger, and I’ve been watching the way you act when my granddaughter’s around—you steal a glance at her every chance you get. I may be old, but I’m not blind,” she says as her brow arches with delight at the accusation.
“Grams, stop,” I groan.
Dr. Beck drops down onto the stool and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Uhh, Emma,” he says.
I’m embarrassed to even look over at this man, dreading what he must be thinking. “Yes,” I say, timidly.
“How does dinner tonight sound? I get off my shift at five.”
Grams’s heart monitor begins to speak for me—the continuous beeps of her pulse escalating just enough to make a scene. This is
unbelievable. “She'll be here waiting for you,” Grams answers for me.
I smile with incredible embarrassment and agree with a quick nod. “Yes, I’d love to.” I believe this is officially the most awkward moment of my life.
“Are you sure that man who was here yesterday is going to be okay with this?” he asks. “I wouldn't want to step in between the two of you or complicate your relationship.”
“There is no issue,” Grams answers for me. “He cheats on her at least once a week, but she has stuck by him anyway. It’s time for her to turn over a new leaf.”
Dr. Beck places his hand on his chest and noticeably sucks in a lungful of air. “Well then, Emma, I'd be happy to take you out for dinner.”
“Great,” I say softly, shyly, mortified as I feel Grams’s stare burn into the side of my face.
“I have a few rounds to make, but I'll be back in soon to check on you, Amelia.”
“Maybe you should just start calling me Grams,” she says with a chuckle.
As Dr. Beck leaves, I shift around in the seat, directly facing Grams while kindly offering an evil eye. “I can’t believe you are using your heart to control my dating life.”
“Oh, Emma, what better part of me to use? Plus, you'll thank me someday. I'll probably be dead, but you can visit my grave and pay your respects then.”
“You are cruel,” I tell her.
“No, I just know what I'm talking about,” she says with a devious smirk.
“Oh yeah?” I tease.
“Keep reading, Emma. You'll see.”
“Grams, this—” I place my hand down on the diary's cover. “It’s a lot to take in.” Watching her mother die in front of her eyes, then carrying on alone…I can't fathom a world where that took place. I'm not sure I could have kept going; yet all these years later, here she is, making jokes with me.
“It's a lot to try and forget too,” she says.
“Is that why you have never shared this?”
“It's one of the reasons, yes,” she says with confidence while taking the book from my hands.
She flips open the cover and turns to the second page before returning it to my hands, then nestles her head back into the pillow.
Last Words: A Diary of Survival Page 4
