Last Words: A Diary of Survival

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Please, believe me, Amelia.”

  “I believe you, Charlie.” It was the first time I admitted to any form of trust with him. “However, it doesn’t change the fact that we are not the same.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “You are a much better person than I am.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said. In truth, he didn't know much about me at all.

  “It’s in your eyes,” he continued. “You can tell if a person is good or bad by peering into their eyes.”

  “How?” The heat of his body was still moving through me, removing the permanent shiver and ache I had from fighting against the cold. It felt like the winter mornings when I would wake up wrapped tightly in my bed’s thick linens at home. It was always hard to climb out of bed those mornings, knowing the cold floors were waiting for me, as well as the drafts that whistled in through our old windows, but I would have done anything to touch those cold floors or hear the melodic sounds of the wind filtering through cracks at that moment.

  “When a person can look another directly in the eyes, it shows compassion, understanding, and honesty,” he explained. Charlie had always looked me in the eyes when speaking. Considering he had done almost all the speaking for both of us in the previous months, it felt like an odd characterization. However, Mama and Papa had raised me with respectable standards. They taught me to always do the right thing and help people when I was able to. I couldn't understand how he would know that about me by just looking into my eyes. “What should I see in your eyes? Have you hurt anyone?” I asked.

  “No,” he responded without hesitance. “I'm a guard.” His eyes widened as they focused on mine. It was so dark there, but my vision adjusted enough to see the look on his face.

  “Am I going to be killed?” I asked him. It was a question that had been running through my head each moment of every day. Was everything for nothing? Was I just waiting for my number to be up?

  “I can't answer that truthfully,” he said.

  “I was afraid you would say that,” I replied.

  “I was afraid you would ask.”

  Feeling as though my breath had been stolen from my lungs, I knew I had to return to the line so I could finish taking down the remaining patient information. I had hoped to finish a little early that day so I could tend to Papa. “I need to get back to the line waiting at the sick bay,” I told him, needing to digest the reality I had been desperately avoiding. I placed the chicken leg inside my coat pocket and then placed the roll carefully on top of it. “Thank you for the food.”

  “Thank you for listening to me,” he said. Charlie took a step or two back, allowing a cool draft of air to fill the space we were in. He locked his hand around my elbow and guided me out from under the tunnel and back toward the line. Two other soldiers were heading toward us, looking between Charlie and me, and a sick feeling gnawed at my stomach. Charlie’s hand unsurprisingly tightened as he jerked me forward for show.

  One of the Nazi’s elbowed the other as they erupted into laughter before puckering their lips with a clear innuendo. Charlie ignored them and tugged me harder, forcing me to walk up the hill faster than my legs could handle. When we reached the line, he tossed me into a few of the sick people. “Watch yourself,” he shouted at me before walking away.

  A woman in the line grabbed my arm and righted me on my feet. “Are you okay?” she asked with concern.

  “I'm fine,” I answered, feeling guilt coursing through my veins. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I replied, fearful to say anything else.

  The woman placed her hand on my back and rubbed gently for a moment before I took the clipboard I had dropped when Charlie grabbed me.

  I had to make my way up the line to find where I left off, which wasn't easy, seeing how similar everyone had begun to appear.

  My mind was in a fog for the remainder of the day. I found it hard to focus on the words I was writing and the accuracy of it all. I had yet to make a mistake, and I was terrified of what would happen if I did.

  I must have made it through five hundred prisoners that day, all with similar symptoms. Most appeared to have the flu or pneumonia, while others were dealing with wounds that had become infected. Showering once a week was not enough to keep us from the dangerous bacteria in the environment we were trying to survive in, but I considered that to be their plan for us. They wouldn’t have to kill us if we all just died off.

  At six that evening, the doors to the sick bay closed. A nurse locked up, quarantining those who required overnight medical attention versus those who were well enough to be sent back to their block, or the dozens who weren’t evaluated during the available hours. It was time for me to type up my papers from the day and leave them for Glauken to review at her convenience.

  The moment I finished my work, I took a small stack of blank paper, along with a needle and vial of antibiotics. Thankfully, I had gotten quick at locating supplies. I then snuck through the adjoining doors between the sick bay and the administration building while creating the appearance of delivering notes, which allowed me to make it past the guards in the hallways near where I told Papa to hide. The area was clear when I made it to the empty storage room, and I opened the door, quietly closing it behind me.

  I was afraid to turn on a light, as it would shine under the doorway, so I took caution while entering the room. When searching for a utility closet a few weeks earlier, I had mistakenly discovered that empty room and knew there was a window covered by boxes in the back. Before I called out for Papa, I wanted to be sure he was in there, so I felt my way around the small room until I reached the far wall. I pushed the boxes aside so the moonlight could brighten the room enough for me to see.

  A body was crumpled on the ground, up against the side wall. He was in the fetal position with his arms around his knees and his head tucked into his chest. I recognized his belt. It was Papa. The belt was the only part of him that looked familiar. Papa had always been on the heavier side, and the doctors often told him he was slightly above average on the scale and needed to maintain a healthy diet despite his physical labor. Mama would cook for us each night, always dressing up the food in unique ways so Papa wouldn't feel as if he was missing out on his favorite foods. However, when Jews were no longer allowed to shop at the local markets, we could only purchase food in the subsidized Jewish market, and our options were limited. We made do with what we had, and though it wasn’t the way Papa had wanted to lose weight, he certainly would have surpassed his doctor's expectations.

  “Papa, I’m here,” I softly called out to him. I pulled my dress above my knees then kneeled beside his body and placed my hand gingerly on his back. “Papa, it’s Amelia. I brought you some food.” He didn't move at the sound of my voice, so I reached for his forehead to check for a fever. His head was no longer hot, but rather cool, instead. “Papa, I think your fever broke,” I said, trying to force an uplifting sound in my voice.

  I pulled his arms loose from his knees, gently rolling him onto his back. “Papa, wake up!” I cried through a whisper.

  As the space beside him was exposed from where his face was, I noticed a wet spot on the cement. The site concerned me, so I placed my hand on the side of his face, finding a matching dampness beside his eye. Was he crying before he fell asleep on the floor? “It’s okay, Papa, I’m here now.”

  I didn’t ask myself why he wasn’t responding because in my heart, I already knew. It took me several minutes before I gained the courage to place my hand over his heart, seeking a beat that I knew I wouldn’t find. It took me another few minutes after that to check the artery on his neck for a pulse that wouldn’t be there, and one more minute to check his wrist. All three spots were silent and still. Papa died while waiting for me in a small closet. I told him not to seek medical attention because I could help him. Instead, he died waiting for me. Papa died because of me. As I heaved in pain and grief, I tore another piece of my dress, feeling an ache rob another part of my soul as I cried silent t
ears that would not stop. Papa was gone, Mama was gone, and Jakob was gone for all I knew. For the first time in my life, I was all alone. Papa would always be the one to start the prayer over our deceased relatives, but there was no one here to speak the Mourners Kaddish but me.

  Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba. B’alma di v’ra chirutei…

  I recited the Hebrew words, trying to remain strong, but my voice broke. The silence took over, and I listened for Papa’s voice out of memory, as well as the words I had heard too many times before.

  That day was the day I went from being a good person to one who was partially responsible for her papa’s death.

  I sat beside Papa’s lifeless body, talking to him about what I had experienced over the last two months, telling him how scared I was of dying. I told him I was trying to be brave, but the horrors I saw each day while awake were sometimes becoming worse than my nightmares. Part of me felt a little envious of Papa, just as I felt when Mama passed away. He was no longer in pain, no longer suffering, and he was with Mama. Maybe I shouldn’t have been trying so hard to stay alive, was all I could think at that time.

  I sat in that dark room for a long while. I contemplated staying there until I died, but then I realized that would mean Papa had died in vain. I couldn’t do that to him. I had to honor his memory by doing my best to make it through that nightmare. I had to find every scrap of food I could get my hands on, and eat it. I promised myself that if Charlie had food for me, I would take it because Papa would want me to do so.

  I pulled out the chicken and sweet bread roll that Charlie brought me and I scraped the bone clean. Even though my stomach felt sick, I knew I couldn’t let it go to waste. “Food is a gift from God that should never be wasted,” Papa would always say, followed by, “It's why I will always be a happy, fat man.” At that moment, though, Papa was all skin and bones—limp and lifeless. His frail body was lying in front of me, but his soul, the part of him that made him the man that he was, had left me there alone. I took his hand and kissed it one last time. “Oh Papa, I love you now and forever. Rest in peace.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Emma

  My hands are shaking, and I feel emotionally drained while closing the diary. I’m completely speechless as I stare blankly into the dark parking lot until an ambulance speeds by and pulls up to the emergency doors. The flashing lights force my eyes to focus and I’m brought back to reality, remembering I’m not alone.

  Jackson's hand tenderly lifts mine from my lap and weaves his warm fingers between mine.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.” Truthfully, I’m baffled. “I feel blindsided.”

  “You never knew any of that?”

  “None of it.”

  “It explains why your grandmother was telling me how to properly set up a pacemaker,” he says with a hint of laughter.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “She must have gone on to be a doctor or nurse, I assume.”

  “No, she didn’t. She worked with the International Services at the Red Cross from the time she emigrated here until my grandfather died ten years ago.”

  “Wow,” he says. “She seemed to know a lot of medical information.”

  “Something else I’ve never known.”

  “She didn’t talk about your great-grandfather?” Jackson asks.

  I place the tip of my thumb between my teeth and shake my head. I thought I knew her. “It’s probably not something she wanted to remember,” Jackson says. “People who experience trauma block out memories without even trying sometimes.”

  “It’s been sitting right under her bed all this time, though.”

  “I think you’re still going to have a chance to talk to her about this,” he says, squeezing my hand as a small smile lights up his face.

  “Yeah, I sure hope so.” My reply comes out through a long sigh.

  “Is it weird that I want to hear more? No one ever talks about that part of history, and I’m completely intrigued,” he adds in.

  “I don’t think it's weird at all. I'm flattered that you are interested, and it’s nice to have someone to share this with,” I tell him. “It’s a lot to process and comprehend.”

  Jackson glances at the time on the dashboard, and I follow his gaze. How is it three o’clock? “You must be a slow reader,” he jokes.

  “Each word felt like a mouthful.” It’s like I have to stop and absorb every fact to remind myself I’m reading a true story.

  “I’m not sure either of us is going to get much sleep tonight, but I suppose it’s okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling bad for keeping him up. He needs his rest to do his job.

  “I think Charlie was a good guy,” he says. “I know he's supposed to be the bad guy, but I really don’t think he was. We always think of all the Nazis as evil, but it sounds like there were young, German men who were forced to serve in the war against their desire.”

  “I guess we'll find out.” I don't know why my heart is racing and my hands feel clammy. Maybe it’s because of Jackson, or it’s because I just finished reading the most terrifying and sad account of something that happened to somebody I love. Either way, I’m too physically and emotionally drained to analyze my feelings any more tonight. “Well, I should let you get some sleep,” I tell Jackson.

  “I should try to get at least a couple of hours, I guess.” I drop the diary back into my bag and open my door. As I step out, Jackson has already made his way from his seat, outside and around to the other side of his car where I am. “Where’s your car?” he asks.

  I point toward the end of the row. “Just down there.”

  “I’ll walk you there. This parking lot can be a little sketchy at night.”

  As we walk side by side, my nerves are on high alert. He is almost too perfect. Nights like tonight don’t happen in real life. “This is it right here,” I tell him.

  I unlock my Jeep with the key fob, and the headlights flash twice. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I'll be here all day,” he says. This is so incredibly awkward. I just had a first date with the doctor who is taking care of Grams. It’s not like he can easily avoid me right now, even if he’s not interested in me. How did I think this was a good idea? I forgot about all the dynamics of dating someone new.

  Jackson is scratching at the back of his neck, looking up at the sky, and I wish I could figure out what’s going through his head. I reach for my door and open it, taking a step toward my seat so I can toss my bag inside. If anyone was watching this right now, they could grab a bowl of popcorn and have a good laugh at this scene right out of a high school drama movie.

  “Okay, I have restraint. Sorry. I just had to refocus my energy for a second. I don’t want to do the wrong thing, especially since I know you’ve had a bad day.” Confused by what he’s trying to say, I stop trying to figure it out when he steps forward and wraps his arms around my back. “A hug is okay though, right?”

  “A hug is more than okay.” I’ve needed a hug all day. It's the only thing I’ve needed today…well, besides a date with a gorgeous doctor. I press up on my toes to reach my arms around his neck. “Thank you again, for everything,” I tell him.

  “Emma, you smell so good that if I don’t let go right now, I may not be able to stop at just a hug,” Jackson whispers into my ear.

  I don’t want to let go, either. It feels good to be in his arms. I didn’t know it could feel like this.

  “It’s not a rebound if my past never felt right in the first place, don’t you agree?” I can’t believe I just said that—the words are obviously flowing on their own accord. I’m not typically so forward with men, but Jackson has a charm about him that I can’t seem to resist.

  “Since this is the first date,” he says, “I think it's bad luck to break the rules so soon.”

  “Rules?” I laugh.

  “Dating rules—you know, no kissing on the first date, no talking about marriage
, kids, or exes, etcetera.” He explains his statement as if there’s some well-known book on the stages of dating. Maybe there is, and I haven’t read it. It would explain a lot in my life.

  “I wasn't aware there were dating rules,” I tell him, still holding on to his neck. “We’ve already broken a couple of them.” Exes—the bane of our existence, I suppose.

  “Oh yeah, there are a lot of them, but only if you're looking for something more than just a date, you know?”

  “So, should I be offended or flattered that I'm not the one-night-stand kind of girl?” I’m pretty sure I just made it sound like I’m easy, and that wasn’t my intention.

  “I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy either, so—definitely flattered.” He pulls away from our hug, just enough to gaze down at me. His hand releases from my back and rests softly on my cheek. “I really had fun tonight. I need to see you again…and not just in the hospital.”

  “I would like that,” I tell him, trying not to sound overly eager since I know men like the thrill of a chase. At least, that’s what Grams has told me countless times; I should never make it too easy for a man.

  “How about Friday? Dinner and a boring movie, maybe?”

  “A boring movie?” I question.

  “Yeah, a boring movie,” he repeats. He moves away, takes my door, and opens it a little wider. “Drive safe and apologize to your mother for me. I know she didn't want you home too late.” A quick wink flutters through his lashes as I slide into my seat.

  “My mom’s house,” I mutter under my breath.

  “She loves you. There's nothing wrong with that. I'd be worried about you too if you belonged to me.”

  I'm not sure I was able to sneak in unnoticed at three-thirty in the morning, but I'm going to play it casually with hope of avoiding the unwanted “date” interrogation. I tiptoe my sock-covered feet down the carpeted hall and into the kitchen, trying to not wake Mom up if she’s still sleeping. Except, she’s standing at the stove in her robe cooking something up. “What are you doing?” I chuckle through my morning hoarseness.