The sniffles stop for the moment, and they both look directly at me. “For good this time?” Annie asks.
“He admitted to cheating on me. It's over. Nice timing, huh?”
Annie takes the seat on the other side of me, and both she and mom hug me, which only makes it harder to stop my leaky faucet of tears. With a sharp inhale, I grit my teeth and look up to the ceiling, reminding myself again that Grams will not want to see us crying. I need to keep it together, especially with the two of them being as upset as they are. Throughout my life, Grams has always told me that “Crying doesn't solve anything, and for those people who cause you pain, the tears give them a type of fulfillment and satisfaction they don’t deserve. Tears are just wasted emotion.”
I try to remember her words each time I'm upset, but I’m not as stoic as she is—I'm not programmed well enough to control my emotions. They work on their own accord, I suppose. Mom and Annie are the same way.
The waiting room door opens again, and this time it's the nurse who had no information for me earlier. She presses her back against the door, holding it open. All the while, she's staring down at a file, paying us no attention, which bothers me as much as her emotionless facade she showcased earlier. Why wear hearts and rainbows all over your pink scrub shirt if it isn't going to represent your attitude? “Amelia is back in her room now if you'd like to go visit with her,” she says.
I know I shouldn’t be so hard on this nurse. She’s just doing her job, and I don’t envy her. It takes a special type of person to do what she does, and I definitely don’t have it in me. It must harden them after a while—keeping their emotions in tow all the time.
We head down the hall, back into Grams’s room, and I’m scared to see what she looks like now. We find her with her eyes half closed and her skin paler than the white sheets covering her. The amount of wires and machines she is hooked up to doesn't look much different from the last time I saw her, though. I rush to her side and drop my bag down against the bed. “Grams, can you hear us?”
A groan gurgles in her throat, so I place a kiss on her cheek and kneel beside her, carefully encasing her hands within mine.
Mom and Annie take her other side and do the same. “She’s probably still groggy from the anesthesia,” I say, quietly.
“I want—Charlie,” Grams mumbles. Her words are garbled, and it’s hard to understand what she’s saying, but I heard Charlie’s name...and it makes sense now.
“Mom, who is Charlie?” Annie asks.
A frail smile struggles against the corners of Grams’s wrinkled lips. “He was spec-tac-ula—.”
Annie and Mom look at each other, questioning who Grams is talking about, and the guilt hits me since I know, but I’m unable to tell them the truth per her request. She asked me to keep this book to myself, so there must be a reason Grams doesn’t want them to know what’s inside.
“Do you know of any Charlie?” Mom asks me.
“No, no, I don't know who Charlie is. I've never heard of him before. It's strange.”
Grams tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like phlegm catching in her throat. I squeeze her hand to let her know I understand her, but I think she's confused since she asked me not to share anything about her diary with Mom or Annie, and yet, she’s calling for Charlie again.
“How's she doing?” Jackson's voice startles me as he enters her room. “Looks like she’s coming out of it, huh?” I don’t know how to answer since this is all new to me. Instead, I stand up and move out of the way so Jackson can take a look. “Amelia, how are you feeling?” he asks her.
Grams struggles to lift her hand and moves it from side to side as her lip curls into a slight smirk. “Eh,” she mutters.
“Well, we'll get you something to help you relax,” he tells her.
“Charlie,” she says again.
“Her confusion seems worse,” I whisper to Jackson.
“Amelia, can you tell me what year it is?” Jackson questions.
Grams’s eyes open a little wider, and she twists her head against the pillow to look at him. “Why such a silly question?” she says.
“It's just a common question we sometimes ask our patients.”
Grams sweeps her hand across her forehead, pushing away her silvery white-streaked bangs from her forehead. “It's 1942, of course.”
“Grams,” I pipe in, afraid she's truly stuck inside of her head during that period of time. “It's 2017.”
“Oh, Emma,” she says. “Such a funny girl.”
Jackson backs away from Grams and nods for us to follow him out the door. As we file into the hallway, he inhales deeply, pausing for a moment, which soothes me more than my own calming breaths. “I'm going to schedule some tests to see if any brain damage occurred while she was in cardiac arrest. Honestly, I don't think that’s the case, but I want to rule it out. I'm quite confident her confusion is a result of the first stroke, and then having a second one so soon afterward wasn’t much help with progress.” Jackson clears his throat and folds his hands down in front of his waist. With his eyes squinted slightly and his lips pinched to the side, he leans against the wall. “As much as I hate to ask you three to do this, we need to avoid upsetting her, which means playing along for the time being. Keeping her heart rate in a normal rhythm is very important right now.”
We're supposed to pretend like it's 1942 and she's still in the middle of the Holocaust? I don't even know if she was still a prisoner then. “She knows my name,” I tell Jackson. “That should mean something, right?”
“It does,” he says. “It means, she's here and there, both at the same time, and that's nothing to be concerned about right now.”
I don't think he understands how not okay this is for her. “Regressing to that time may cause her more issues with her heart than telling her the truth.”
Jackson seems fixated on me for the moment, gazing into my eyes with concern as if I were the sick patient. “I think she's going to be okay,” he says. “We just need to give her time.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Beck,” Mom says. “I can't tell you how grateful we are to know our mother is in such good hands.”
“It's my pleasure,” he says. “My shift is just about over, though, so Dr. Lane will be covering the ICU until morning. She’ll be by to introduce herself if you’re still here, but I assure you, Amelia will be sleeping for most of the next twenty-four hours, and I advise you all to get some rest, as well.”
“We're just going to spend a little more time with her,” Annie says. “Thank you, again.” She takes Mom’s arm and tugs her back into Grams’s room where they pull up chairs to sit beside her. For the moment, I just want to pray that wherever Grams’s mind is right now, it isn’t as terrifying as I’m imagining it to be.
“If you’d like to reschedule for tonight, I would understand,” Jackson tells me.
I think for a second, knowing I have nowhere else to go. It's either I go to Mike’s apartment and grab my things, or to my childhood bedroom at Mom’s. She goes to bed at eight, so I won’t be doing her much good by sitting on my bed, working for the night. I suppose I should be working, but a part of me was looking forward to tonight, despite everything that happened today. “I think I could use an escape from my life, even if it’s only for a few hours.”
“No problem.” Jackson scratches at the back of his head as he surveys the hallway—looking everywhere but at me. I don't think he understood what I meant.
“I meant yes, I’d like to still go out with you tonight. At least I’d know if something happened to my grandmother if I was with you, right?” I press a small smile into my lips so he knows I'm partially joking.
“Exactly, I'm probably the best person to be with tonight.” His shoulders straighten, and his dimples deepen. “I just need a few minutes to change and sign off my shift. Do you want to meet me in the lobby in about ten minutes?”
“I'll be there,” I tell him.
I pivot on my toes, feeling a slight bounce in my step a
s I watch him walk away. I turn back into Grams’s room, finding Mom and Annie with wide eyes and questioning looks on their faces. “Did we just hear what we think we heard?”
I hold my palms out. “Seriously, do you two have bionic hearing?”
“No, you were just talking louder than you think you were,” Mom says.
“You're going on a date with him tonight?” Annie confirms while clasping her hands together.
“You can thank me for that,” Grams groans.
“What do you mean?” Mom asks her.
“I'll tell you after she leaves. Oh, Emma, don't forget to find Charlie, okay?”
I pause for a moment, reminding myself to play along. “Sure thing, Grams,” I tell her as I grab my bag.
“Have fun,” Mom says. “Don’t stay out too late. I’ll be up waiting to hear every detail.”
Nothing has changed from the time I moved out of Mom's until now, and it’s been at least five years. My life is far too exciting for her to handle, even if I’m not enjoying it myself.
I take the elevator downstairs and drop down into one of the wooden chairs in the lobby. I only have a few minutes before Jackson meets me down here, but maybe it's enough time to read another page or two from Grams’s book.
CHAPTER NINE
Amelia
Day 6 - January 1942
After almost a full week since I arrived at my assigned “shelter,” there was still no sign of a future for us. The Nazis had also done their best to strip us of any trace of our past, so all we had left was the present. Our austere barracks were crowded with dirt-ridden bodies surrounded by feces, urine, and other bodily fluids, and the foul stench of death and decay became part of my dismal reality.
Sleep was a rare treat due to pain and fear, but I managed to find a couple hours of peace that night before the door was thrashed open and several Nazis stormed into our already confined space, shouting orders. They told us to get up and stand in front of our bunks. It took everything inside of me to find the strength to hold myself up that day, but the memory of Charlie’s warning was the motivation I needed to move.
The clothes I wore were soiled and damp from night sweats, and they smelled as bad as the floors and mattresses. When I had gotten dressed at home the week before, I had no way of knowing it would be the one ensemble of clothing I would have on for the indefinite future. I certainly would have chosen something more comfortable than a form-fitting day dress made of wool.
“Today, you will begin work. If you are capable, you will be assigned a job. If you cannot handle the work, you will be managed accordingly.” I waited patiently for my number to be called, barely able to keep my head up as I watched one after another of the able-bodied occupants of my barracks be summoned and marched out to an unknown work assignment. It must have been at least an hour before I heard it—the number that had become my label, in place of my name. I walked over to the Nazi holding the clipboard and waited for the assignment. “Medica.”
“Where—”
“Keine!” he yelled. German was another language I wasn't well versed in, though I was thankful to be familiar with at least the basics. The Nazi pointed to the door, and I made my way through the hall and outside, unsure where the medical office was located.
I walked as quickly as I could, fearful of being spoken to by anyone. It was frigid outside, but the sun was bright, whiting out the signs that would point me in the right direction, and it took my eyes a while to adjust to the sunlight after being in the dim barracks for days. I didn’t have to go far before I saw an adjacent block labeled as the sick bay. There was a line of other Jews out the door, mostly mothers with their children.
Worried about being too close to those who were sick, I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve as I snuck inside, to the right of the line. I received looks from many people, most likely wondering if I was skipping ahead of them, but their questions were answered when a Nazi grabbed me by the arm and nearly pulled me off my feet. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m reporting to work here,” I told him, trying to speak affirmatively, rather than sounding weak and afraid like I was feeling.
He pulled at the collar of my dress, peeling it away from my skin to reveal my number. Mama had written it there in ink last year when we were all assigned numbers, as well as Jude stars to wear on our sleeves. “Anzahl 24225,” he shouted to a female Nazi, whom I believed to be a nurse, according to her uniform.
“Ja,” she replied, waving me over. I placed my covered hand back over my face as I approached the woman who was sitting behind a wooden desk with a stack of papers in front of her. Her eyes were dark and menacing as she visually inspected every part of my body. She then stood up from her chair and walked around to meet me, pulling me to the corner of the room. Her fingers tugged through my hair, yanking strands apart in what I assumed to be a search for lice. “Your hair is to be up and tightly secured,” she snapped in her thick accent. She then clapped her hands against my cheeks before angling my head in various directions. “Strip.”
I swallowed hard as I peered over at the dozens of people staring at me from just a few feet away. The hesitation must have been longer than I thought because the woman's hands furiously began tearing my clothing away. I was left bare and cold, on display for everyone around me. Having been raised to act modest about my body, I felt violated and embarrassed. I tried to cover my private areas as well as I could, but she was quick to force my hands up in the air so she could inspect every inch of my body. I closed my eyes, avoiding the looks and the mortification the others may have been feeling for me. I knew they probably did the same thing to everyone there, but that didn’t make it any easier.
With my eyes closed, hiding from the happenings around me, I was startled by a poke through the flesh on the inside of my arm. The sharp pain forced me to open my eyes, and to my disbelief, I saw a hypodermic needle, a tube, and a bag. Without my permission, they were stealing my blood. At that moment, I realized I had lost my rights…all of them. It was as if my body didn’t belong to me anymore. They weren’t just treating like an animal, it was as if I were of lesser quality than livestock on a farm. It was very hard not to ask questions, but I was starting to see that the less I knew, the better off I was.
Several minutes passed as the woman jotted down notes, then stored my blood away in a blue metal cabinet. “Go shower,” she demanded.
“Shower?” I questioned. Considering my filthy conditions, I wasn't aware there were showers anywhere.
“Out back and through ‘Block A,’” she said.
I picked up my clothing from the floor and held it in front of me as I scurried out of the building and around the side to Block A, where I found a room with cement walls and rusty shower heads protruding from the ceiling every few feet. The room was filled with other people—more people than there were showers, none of whom seemed to care that they were bare in front of each other.
I had always been a very private person, and I hadn't been naked in front of anyone since I was a small child. I didn't like the feeling of being looked at, but after being covered in urine, vomit, feces, and whatever diseases accompany those conditions, the shower was appealing.
I stood under the water, feeling it wash away what was left of my dignity. The water was cold, as I expected it to be, and there was no soap, but I scrubbed with my fingernails, scratching at the dirt and grime that had built up, wishing it would offer a small sense of refreshment.
“Be careful,” the woman beside me said. “If you scratch too hard, you'll have open wounds. That's how people die around here.”
My jaw fell open, not that I shouldn't have thought of it on my own, but I hadn't considered that fact. “Oh,” I responded simply, digesting the truth.
“I'm sorry to scare you,” the woman continued.
I rubbed the water away from my eyes and to look at the woman, recognizing her. “Leah?” I questioned. She was the woman standing behind me in line when Mama was shot. I may not
have remembered most faces after those first few days of oblivion, but a pregnant belly stood out, especially a naked one.
“Amelia, right?” she returned, smiling a bit.
“Yes. How are you? Your baby?” I whisper.
“Hungry,” she says, cradling her arms below her stomach.
I could only gaze at her with sympathy, knowing how hungry I had been—remembering that I was given extra food last night when she needed it more. “Your husband—”
Her brows furrowed and pulled in toward her nose as if she might cry. “I'm not sure. I haven't seen him since we were separated at arrival,” she said through a sniffle. “Did you find your papa and brother?”
I shook my head as more comprehension hit me. The barracks were filled with only women. The line at the sick bay was made up of mostly women, though I did see one or two men scattered throughout the line. The shower, though—all women. “I don't think men are living here, other than the Nazis, of course.”
Her lips fell into a downward curve. “I know,” she whispered.
She stepped away from the shower and twisted her hair tightly to free the trapped water.
I followed Leah, dressing at the same time. “I'm sure we'll see each other again,” she said.
“I hope so,” I replied, though I didn't know how many people were around in the same location, or how often I would be running into familiar faces.
I hurried back around the corner toward the building but stopped with fear when I came close to running into a group of Nazis who were standing in a circle, having a discussion. I was quick to notice that one of them was Charlie. I caught his eye for a brief second before we both looked away. Part of me wondered if I had imagined the odd interaction from the night before, but by the look in his eye, I knew I most definitely had not.
The men carried on through a roar of laughter, and I walked around the side of them, ignoring their presence while they ignored mine.
Last Words: A Diary of Survival Page 8
