Last Words: A Diary of Survival

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Why would you help me, and why should I believe you?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. The scent of his breath was fresh, and it was the most pleasant smell I had encountered since I arrived there. “You shouldn't,” he says. His German accent was very thick but understandable enough.

  My mind hurt with confusion, trying to read the thoughts floating through his eyes, but it was as if he were blocking me from them. He was still squatting in front of me when the smallest of smiles pressed against the whites of his teeth. “I'm not one of them. I’m a prisoner like you, but a prisoner on the other side.”

  I didn't know it was possible to feel sadness for those who have been destroying Jewish lives for so long, but there was something about him that made my heart feel something other than despair. I felt a very small sense of sympathy. He was dressed like the enemy and able to come and go as he pleased. Therefore, it was hard to consider him a prisoner in comparison to the way I was living. “What is your name?” I asked.

  To me, they were all called Nazis. Just as we didn't deserve the courtesy of an actual name, neither did they.

  “My name is Charlie.” He seemed apprehensive to share his name as he looked around the room to make sure no one else was paying attention. I didn’t think he had much to worry about considering every other woman in the room had either passed out or fallen asleep by that point.

  “I've been internally referring to you as ‘the girl with the big mouth’ over the past few days.” His words caused a subtle commotion in my mind, and if I were capable of laughing, I might have done so, but the hunger pains beneath my ribs wouldn't allow that type of movement.

  “I have been called that before,” I told him. Mama always taught me to speak my mind, while Papa would say that a lady doesn’t speak out unless in an agreeable manner. It's not that I've had trouble accepting propriety, but I’ve had a history of questioning convention simply out of curiosity. After having so many basic rights taken from me, I had an endless number of questions, and I was determined to get answers and learn the truth.

  When I first I arrived there, I already knew better than to speak up, but with that man, I couldn't stop myself. He seemed kinder than the others, so I figured it was my only chance to ask the burning questions I desperately wanted answers to.

  “I'm not surprised,” he said. “What is your name?”

  My name. He wanted to know my name? Jews no longer had names. We were called Jews. I was called a Jew girl. We weren’t individuals anymore. We were just one entity, and nothing else mattered. Even before I was taken, the only place I heard my name was in my home with Mama, Papa, and Jakob. It was forbidden to use our names anywhere else. It had been that way for years, and sadly, living without a name became normal. “My name is Amelia,” I told him.

  He reached his free hand out, turning it over, palm up, and I didn't understand what he wanted. He urged his hand forward a bit more as if I didn’t understand the gesture. With hesitation, I struggled to lift my hand from my lap and dropped it gently into his. Charlie’s hand folded around my fingers as he looked around the room once more for onlookers, then lowered his head and placed a soft, quick kiss on my knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amelia,” he said.

  The sound of heavy steps echoed in the hallway outside the room, forcing Charlie to stand erect. He took another glance at me, then at the bread sitting beside me. “Thank you,” I offered in a hush and bowed my head down as I quickly chewed the sweet bread that was much softer than any piece I had been given here.

  “You’re very welcome,” he said. Charlie made his way back to the door, his shoulders back, chin angled toward the ceiling, and left me staring at the back side of the door with wonder as my mind raced with possible reasons for the interaction.

  My thoughts were soon interrupted when a conversation filled with laughter and German words ensued in the hallway on the other side of the door. I wanted to imagine he was not one of the Nazis laughing, but what did I know? Their form of entertainment was sick, and it was hard to determine when their laughter was for fun, or in preparation for something far more devious.

  I still wondered if the bread Charlie gave me might kill me, but left to choose between the possibility of being poisoned, or sleeplessly lying on the coiled mattress while suffering from starvation for another long night, it was worth taking the chance on the bread.

  I finished the bread as fast as I could chew, feeling the crust scrape down the sides of my throat before falling into the empty pit of my stomach. My mouth and throat had become so dry from vomiting and dehydration that it was hard to push the small pieces down, but I continued choking on them until the roll was gone—until every little crumb was devoured.

  I rolled onto my side, facing away from the puddle of vomit I left behind, and closed my eyes in hopes of sleep or death. Though, my mind wasn’t shutting down easily that night as it replayed the sensation of Charlie's lips touching my bitterly chapped, cold, and dirty skin. It was, however, a pleasant change of imagery after constantly reliving the scene of Mama’s insides being scattered along the sidewalk.

  The thoughts scared me, knowing what could have happened if anyone had seen the exchange between Charlie and me, but there was a spark of thrill I couldn’t deny—a current of electricity that brought just a little part of me back to life, even while knowing I could never trust a man from that side of the war…the side that killed Mama.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emma

  As I close the book, I feel lost in Grams’s old life, a new feeling of discontent holding my mind prisoner. I've learned about the Holocaust from books and in history classes, but what I’ve read over the past twenty-four hours doesn’t do reality the justice it deserves. This time in life became history when all the captives were liberated, but the stories continued on in the lives of the survivors. It’s hard to wrap my head around this story while I live with an abundance of freedom.

  I glance up at the clock, surprised to discover it's been an hour since I sat down on this seat. I'm still debating whether to call Mom, but I don’t know anything, and it would only scare her. The only hope I have now is that no news is supposed to be good news, so I’m sticking with waiting it out a little longer.

  I stand up and tuck the diary under my arm before pulling on the door handle of the waiting room. The opening invites in the bright lights to filter in from the hallway and with the gloominess of this room, it’s like moving from night to day. I don't hear any beeping noises or alarms, and no one is running around or shouting orders, which helps me remain semi-calm. Everything around me is still and silent as I approach Grams’s room, but as I peek inside, I find the room empty. Where did they take her? Why wouldn't anyone tell me? Could she have passed away and no one came to get me?

  Terrified from the thoughts filling my head, I run to the nurses’ station, placing my hands down on top of the cool wooden countertop, waiting for someone to give me an ounce of their attention. The three-seconds I wait is long enough. “Excuse me?” I call out.

  A nurse who is typing something into a computer turns around and walks toward me. “Can I help you?” she asks with a kind smile, one that does nothing to calm me down.

  “Do you know where Amelia Baylin is?” The nurse looks past me, over to Grams’s former room.

  “Are you family?” she asks.

  “Yes, I'm her granddaughter, Emma Hill.” My fingernails dig firmly into Grams’s book as I wait out the longest minute of my life. I may chew a hole through my lip before getting an answer. I know I’m probably impatient, but everything seems to be happening in such slow motion around here, and it’s causing me to take quick, deep breaths that are making me dizzy.

  She finally sits down at the computer she's closest to and types something in before peering back up at me. “The notes I have here says she's in surgery. That's all I can see from here, though. I'm sure someone will be down to speak with you shortly.”

  “Surgery?
Why wouldn't anyone tell me, or ask?”

  The nurse looks confused and apologetic as she holds her hands against her chest. “I'm so sorry, I don't have an answer for you. I can assure you she's in good hands, though,” she says, matter-of-factly.

  As I stare back at the straight face in front of me, I can’t help wondering how many patients she watches come in and out of this department daily because she appears to be unaffected by the emotions of the patients and their loved ones on this floor. I guess to work here, you must become desensitized to a certain degree, but her eyes show a blank slate of emotion. She may be numb to it all, but I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. Leaving a family member without any inclination of what’s happening isn’t right. Someone must know something around here. My continued stare does nothing to earn me any extra information. Instead, the nurse points down the hall. “The waiting room is just around the corner if you'd like to have a seat in there.” As much as I’d like to tell her I've already been sitting in there for an hour, I know it won't do much good.

  I should call Mom now. This is going to be bad. I head back to the waiting room, closing myself out from the rest of the world, alone…again. How have I been the only one in this room for so long? It's the ICU. Are there no other patients on this floor with family members who are waiting for answers? I take my phone out of my pocket and dial mom at work, thankful when she answers, rather than her boss who doesn't appreciate personal calls during the day. “Town Clerk’s Office. This is Clara, how can I help you?”

  “Mom, it’s me,” I tell her.

  “What's wrong?” she asks, anxiously as if someone just jumped up behind her.

  “Grams is in surgery right now. I don't know what happened. The alarms were going off when I came to see her, and they told me to go away. I didn’t want to go, Mom, but they made me. So, I went back into the waiting room, and when I went back to see what was happening, she was gone. The nurse said...well she won’t tell me anything except that Grams is in surgery. That’s it; that’s all I know, and I haven’t been able to find out anything.” I’m speaking so quickly that I’m not sure what I’m saying. I think my words seem out of order, but I think Mom understood enough.

  “Why didn't you call me sooner?” Her words are just as quick as mine were, but louder. She sounds like she’s on the brink of hysteria.

  “I didn't want to scare you. I just—”

  “It's okay,” she cries. “I'm coming over there right now.”

  I hang up the phone, feeling like a monster. I shouldn’t have waited. It’s her mother, and she should be here. What was I thinking? I’m obviously not thinking straight. Plus, I have a splitting headache, and it’s blazing hot in here.

  Angry at myself, I toss my phone down onto the pile of magazines scattered along the small table. The thump of my phone landing causes the display to light up and I notice several missed text messages. I was so engrossed in the diary that I didn't feel my phone vibrate.

  I can already guess who the texts are from, and I don’t want to read them. Mike doesn't give up. I have tried to break up with him so many times, and this is how it turns out each time. He begs and pleads for my forgiveness, resistance fails me, and I give in. Not this time, though. I don't have the time to think about him now. In fact, I don’t want to have time to think about him again.

  The screen on my phone goes black, and it feels like I’ve overcome a small hurdle—letting it go. I drop down into one of the seats and lean back as I rest the diary on my lap. Without anything else to focus on, my attention sways to the muted TV.

  Who needs sound when all you see is bad news from around the world? Suicide bombings, murders, terrorist attacks—it’s all so sad and depressing. I can’t bring myself to watch what the news is broadcasting tonight, so I close my eyes and block everything out.

  If they're operating on Grams, she must be well enough to undergo surgery, or they wouldn’t operate, but I still feel like there’s a heavy weight sitting on my chest. I clench my hands around the armrests and try to slow my breaths. It’s going to be okay. It has to be. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Grams.

  The door to the waiting room finally opens. “Mom?” I ask before seeing anyone walk in. I should have considered that it could be anyone walking in and waited to see her face, especially since it's not her. “Jackson!” I try to stand but my feet feel like they are stuck in cement, as I fear what he has to say.

  Jackson sits down next to me and places his hand on top of mine. “Your grandmother’s in recovery,” he says.

  “She is?”

  “Yes, but she had another stroke. Her heart stopped, and we had to resuscitate her. We were able to break up the clot with a clot-busting drug and got to it quickly, which is a good thing. The longer the blockage is present from the clot, the more susceptible the brain and other body parts are to damage. It’s fortunate that she was already here in the hospital. It would have only been a matter of time before she had another stroke if we had not placed in the pacemaker. Her atrial fibrillation causes clots to form, and all it takes is one to get lodged in an artery. The procedure was successful, but I also put her on a strong medication to slow down her heart rate. The medication will work in conjunction with the pacemaker, which will stop her heart rate from going below sixty beats per minute.”

  “Is she okay?” I manage to choke out.

  “It's hard to tell right now since she was just taken to the recovery room. So far everything looks good, but we'll do more testing once she's fully conscious.”

  “Wait—” My mind replays something he said a few minutes ago. “Did my grandmother die for a minute?” My face hurts from the tension around my eyes and jaw, and even though I know she’s alive, it doesn't ease my other concerns.

  “Her heart stopped for a minute, but she wasn’t dead in terms of a medical diagnosis. We had to get her heart pumping again, and it was touch and go for a few minutes,” Jackson says, squeezing his hand a little tighter around mine. “Did you call your family?”

  “I did.” I’m trying my best to hold back my tears because he isn’t offering me the hope I need, and I assume it's because he doesn't want to say something that may not be true.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, gently, dipping his head down to catch my gaze. “You’re very pale, and I’m worried about you.”

  I nod my head because I don't think I can lie and say yes.

  The door to the waiting room flies open again, and Jackson slips his hand away from mine, reminding me that doctors don't typically comfort family members as much as he’s been comforting me. Mom rushes inside, her hands waving around with panic. “What's going on?” she asks, breathlessly.

  “Your mother is in recovery right now,” Jackson begins. He retells her the same information he just offered me, and rather than listen to it twice, I focus on Mom's face—the pain and heartache evident by the tears welling in her eyes.

  “So, we don't know anything yet?” Mom asks.

  “She’s alive and hanging in there,” Jackson reminds her.

  Mom clutches her fist against her chest and takes a seat as her face distorts into a deeper level of distress. “How long before she’ll be awake?”

  “Shouldn't be long,” Jackson says.

  “Emma, did Grams sign the health care proxy papers and HIPAA release form?” Mom asks me.

  “Proxy papers?” I question.

  “Well, she must not have been able to sign the surgery consent forms if this happened so quickly,” she continues.

  “Actually, she signed off on them last night,” Jackson tells Mom while carefully avoiding eye contact with me. I now know that Jackson was aware of Grams’s bribe about the surgery, seeing as she already agreed to it. It was a setup to get me to go out with Jackson tonight and he was in on it.

  “I'm going to go check on Amelia now,” Jackson says while giving Mom a quick shoulder squeeze. “I'll be back shortly.”

  As the door closes behind Jackson, Mom swings around in her se
at to face me. “Were you here when it happened?” she asks.

  “No, I was getting some fresh air and answering some work emails.”

  Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders and rests her head against mine. “I feel like there’s never enough time to do and say the things we should, but Grams has lived an extraordinary life, more so than a lot of people her age,” I tell Mom. I don’t know if my words help, but now that I’ve seen a glimpse of what Grams has already survived through, this blip on her timeline is nothing in comparison.

  “I know,” she whispers, then glances down at the diary I forgot I had out. “What's that on your lap?”

  “It's nothing. I was just reading something a friend gave to me.” I place the diary into my bag and pull the flaps together.

  “Looks pretty old,” she says.

  “Yeah, I'm designing a book cover for it,” I lie.

  “Oh, that’s nice, honey.” She’s completely unfocused on what I’m saying while she stares through the wall in front of us. We are all so close in our family that the thought of one of us not being here is incomprehensible, especially Grams. She is the backbone of our family.

  Mom and I sit in silence until Annie arrives, which stirs Mom back up. Her version of the story isn’t quite as tight and to the point like Jackson's version, which causes Annie a lot of stress. She wants answers and isn’t getting enough information for her liking.

  “If we're going to be seeing her soon, we should probably pull ourselves together so she doesn't see how worried we look. It won't help her,” I tell them, knowing I must not look much better.

  “She's right,” Mom says, pulling a wad of tissues out of her purse and handing one to Annie. Their makeup is streaked down their cheeks, and they both have bloodshot eyes. My heart is breaking for them. After all, this is their mom. As close as I am to Grams, I know there is nothing stronger in the world than the bond between a mother and daughter.

  “I broke up with Mike,” I tell them, trying to shift their focus a little.