Last Words: A Diary of Survival

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Will you still be my doctor then?” Grams asks.

  “Of course,” he tells her. “I’m the cardiologist on your case, so you're stuck with me.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” I press my elbows into my thighs and drop my head into my hands. It’s abundantly clear that Mom and Grams are both equally determined to arrange a marriage for me. At least they’ve picked well this time. “All right then, it was nice to see you again. Emma was just about to read to me for a little bit, but I look forward to our next check-in.”

  Jackson laughs at Grams, just like everyone else on this floor seems to be doing. I don't know what she would do if she didn't have an audience and someone to make the center of her jokes all the time. “Emma, can I borrow you for just one quick second? I'll return you to your reading duties after.”

  I stand up from the chair, still not sure if I should be angry or laughing “Don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere,” Grams says.

  “I wasn't worried,” I tell her, sticking my tongue out as I leave the room.

  Jackson walks ahead of me, guiding me down to the waiting area, which worries me that he may have bad news about Grams’s vitals, though he didn’t seem concerned while he was looking at the reports.

  No one else is in the waiting room, and he closes the door behind us. “Is everything okay?” I ask, feeling my words catch in my throat.

  “Yes, she’s doing great considering what she went through yesterday. I honestly think she’s going to make a full recovery.”

  “Oh,” I exhale, clutching at the neckline of my shirt. “Thank goodness.” I let out a few more heavy breaths before I remember that he said he needed to talk to me. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Could it be the fact that his personal life was put on display this morning without my knowing? I hope that’s not the case.

  “I was stupid last night,” he says.

  Disappointment fills my chest, and my heart feels as though it is splitting down the middle. Last night was too heavy. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have involved you in that story or—”

  “What?” he asks, appearing confused.

  “I'm sorry if I made things uncomfortable for you.”

  “You made things incredibly uncomfortable for me,” he says, placing his hands on his hips.

  His words wind me because I was trying to be extra careful last night. I didn't want to seem desperate like Grams probably made me out to be, and I was honest with him about Mike. I don't know what I could have done differently. Dating is obviously not my thing, and I'm starting to see Spinster Cat Lady as my future title.

  “I'm sorry, Jackson. I can make myself scarce around here. I never meant to cause any problems…honest.”

  “You should be sorry,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I was trying to do the right thing last night, and as a result, I couldn't sleep for those last few hours of the night I had left. It's because of you that I have already had six cups of coffee this morning.”

  “I'll get going,” I tell him. “I just need to read to my grandmother for a bit, and after that, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “No,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  The glossy look in his eyes has me pinned, and I don’t understand the look written across his face. I take a couple of steps back, but he follows in my footsteps, causing my heart to pound. I don’t understand where he’s going with this conversation. My back hits the door, and yet, he doesn't stop moving toward me.

  His hands cup around my cheeks, tilting my face so I’m looking up at him. With his body pressed against mine, Jackson lowers his face slowly, and I think my racing heart has stopped short, or maybe my lungs have stopped working. Either way, I might need resuscitation from the distress he’s causing me.

  His mouth hovers over mine, and I inhale a slight scent of cologne, as well as the coffee he must have been drinking—I can taste it, but none of my other senses are working. “You have been making my head spin, and I knew if I didn’t say goodnight last night—” Without giving me a second to understand what he’s saying, his lips connect with mine, his fingers weave through my hair, and I can't feel a thing except for his mouth on mine. What is happening to me? I need air, but I don't want him to stop. My knees feel weak, and I let the weight of my body fall into him. His arms loop around my back, keeping me upright as my head falls against the wooden door. I must be experiencing the true definition of a kiss because every other kiss in my life up until this moment has been nothing in comparison. This is so much more. This is two people sharing something beautiful and passionate, an intensity I didn’t know existed.

  I don’t know how many minutes I've gone without breathing, feeling, hearing, or seeing, but when our mouths part, a burning tingle remains on the flesh of my lips. I’m at a loss for words, and I’m not sure if I remember how to talk. “Wow, I feel better now,” he says. He takes my hand and pulls me away from the door before placing one last kiss on my cheek. “I might need another cup of coffee now.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sounding a little mindless. “Coffee.”

  “I'll let you get back to your reading, but I’m going to hang out in here for a few minutes.” His statement strikes me as odd, and since I’m trying to figure out what he is talking about, I probably seem a little naive as he says, “Sorry, scrubs leave little to the imagination, and I can't leave this room without risking my job.” I assess him, still not understanding until I see what he’s talking about.

  “Oh!” I gush as if I just figured out the answer to life. “I'm sorry!” I grab the door knob. “Oh my, um—yeah, I ah feel the same way, it's just not as apparent.” Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I just said that. My face must be redder than a fire hydrant.

  “Lucky you,” he says through laughter. His cheeks are also quite red, and it’s more adorable than funny, but I can't stop giggling.

  “I'll see you a little later. Good luck with—yeah.” I let the door close, and pinch my lips together, savoring the effect of the kiss as I mindlessly make my way back to Grams’s room. Wow. Wow. I need to pretend like I was just talking to Jackson rather than experiencing the best kiss of my entire thirty-one years, but there’s no way to wipe this expression off my face.

  I reenter the room and Grams is patiently waiting for me with her hands folded on her lap. An all-too-telling smile is impassively lined across her lips, but she doesn't anything.

  I sit down and pull out her diary, also without saying a word. “You can continue wherever you left off. Don't worry,” she says.

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “Yes, oh and sweetie, you have a little smudge of lipstick on your cheek. Here,” she says while reaching over with a tissue, then presses it to my face. Her pursed lips and deep dimples tells me she knows exactly what just happened. Just perfect.

  I take a quick minute to regain my composure before opening the book to the page I left off with last night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Amelia

  Day 120 - April 1942

  The turnover rate in my barrack had been more than fifty percent. Anyone over the age of sixty eventually passed away from starvation or pneumonia, and the others had been transitioned to a new location.

  The loneliness had begun to take a toll on my mind as I stopped talking to the other women with whom I shared tight quarters with. Becoming close to someone meant heartache when they would die or be taken away. Therefore, many nights were spent lying awake, staring into the stained ceiling above my head as I pondered if death would be the same, better, or worse than the life I was living. I continued to feel jealousy of those who passed away, leaving me there to continue on with the hard labor my body was enduring on such little sustenance.

  With desperation at a high, an idea clouded my head. While it seemed to hit me out of nowhere, I knew the thoughts had been percolating, drip by drip, into the empty cavernous space my mind still had available. Being a puppet for the Nazis freed me of my own thoughts, leaving me capable of conjurin
g a way to free myself from that life.

  April fourteenth would be the day I survived or died, or so I convinced myself. I couldn’t go on being a prisoner, living among disease and swill. It was only a matter of time before someone would notice I had not thinned out as the others had. It would be obvious that I was being helped by a person of power.

  I set up my papers for the day, leaving the reports on Glauken’s desk. She had stopped watching me so closely after some time, evidently convinced I was doing as directed without a fight. I was easy to manage, and hoped her trust would work in my favor.

  With a line for the sick bay encompassing most of the camp, there was an opportunity for me—one set up by an attempted escapee who did not make his way out. Charlie said he was executed for trying. I told Charlie that execution sounded like the exit door. I was done being someone’s puppet. I was going to run.

  The sun was rising slowly above the thin layer of clouds, casting a dim shadow over the russet-colored dirt. My eyes felt larger and my pulse faster, possibly because I hadn’t considered a plan for what would happen past my attempt of escape. I figured anything would be easy to navigate after surviving hell for six months. My first priority was to regain freedom. I knew my odds of surviving were slim to none, but if I managed to escape, I would figure the rest out later.

  As I got closer to the opening on the opposite side of the hospital block, I went over the plan in my head. It was a matter of going inside and climbing out of the second window, then shimmying along a ledge that would lead me to the open field between the prison and freedom. I didn't hesitate when the open door came into view.

  I looked around, meticulously inspecting every person in the area, noting there were no guards in sight. I moved with caution, inconspicuously bringing myself within feet of where my journey would begin. The sensation of fear was no longer present, as I had already lived in fear for far too long. In addition, death no longer scared me. Instead, the idea of winning that battle was feeding adrenaline through me like a powerful drug, offering me the strength to continue.

  Less than a step away from the entrance, hands clamped around my shoulders. I was pulled away from my plan and dragged across the dead grass to the shower room where I was faced with another goodbye.

  I learned not to fight when being pulled against my will because it would only cause more pain. Therefore, I waited for the hands to release me before I turned to find Charlie at the other end of what I thought to be threatening hands. My heart thudded against my fragile ribs, slowly, but hard enough to cause a ripple within my breaths.

  “What is this?” Charlie shouted. I didn't know if he was shouting at me or my friend, Leah, who stood before us naked, with a distended belly. She was clutching her stomach, and there were red marks from the pressure of her fingernails across her thin skin. Blood pooled at her feet as she began to hyperventilate.

  “Amelia, you must help me,” she cried out. I turned back to Charlie, wondering what was going through his mind. He had to keep up the charade in front of Leah and everyone else in the vicinity, so understanding what he expected me to do, left me at a loss. “He's going to kill my baby and me.”

  I knew Charlie would do no such thing, but I couldn't explain that to Leah. Charlie needed to put on a show of hatred for my people, or he would be noticed, expelled from his position, and likely murdered for not following regulations. Charlie hadn’t told me that, but I had no doubt it would be the outcome if either of us had let our guard down. He was my friend—my best friend, a comrade with a different view, a human who didn't hate humankind, a son, a brother, and a man who wanted a future in finance, not murder.

  “You take care of this situation and tell me when you are through. You are aware of protocol, yes?” Charlie gritted through his clenched jaw.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  “What’s happening?” Leah whimpered.

  Charlie turned on his heels, leaving the shower room as he closed us in by the metal door. “The shower has been locked for maintenance,” I heard him shouting. “Go elsewhere.”

  I took Leah's hand, offering her all the compassion I could, knowing she was the only person who was there for me when Mama was murdered. “Everything is going to be okay,” I told her, hoping my words weren't a lie.

  “I'm so scared,” she said, shaking beneath the cold drizzling water drops. We weren't given the luxury of towels, but there was a dress left behind by another prisoner who likely died somewhere in that space. I took it from the wet floor and placed it down on the ground. “Come here and lie down,” I said. I helped Leah onto the ground, wondering how I would assist her further without any knowledge of delivering a baby. “Do you know how far along you are?”

  “It has been more than nine months,” she said. “I'm overdue by a week.”

  I carefully separated her legs, staring down into the bloody mess. “I'm not sure if you’re ready to push,” I told her honestly.

  “I can’t stop myself,” she cried out in pain.

  “How long have you been in pain?” I asked.

  “More than a day,” she groaned.

  Leah didn't look the same as she did the last few times we had run into each other. Her face was almost skeletal, as were her legs and arms, but her belly was swollen, just not as large as I thought it should be at the end of a pregnancy. The poor girl needed food to nourish her unborn baby, but instead, she was being systematically starved to death. A scream escaped Leah's throat as her pale face turned red. She clenched every muscle in her body, followed by a wave of exhales as the contraction subsided. I peered down between her legs again, that time seeing a fleshy-colored dome moving in and out along with her uneven breaths. “I think if you push once more the baby will come out,” I told her, unsure if what I was saying held any truth. I feared hurting her or the baby, but if I called for help, I knew what would happen to them.

  Leah held on tightly to everything within her reach. Her toes curled with each contraction, and sweat dripped down her face even though there was a chill around us.

  The baby’s head was nearly halfway out, giving me an opportunity to assist her. “Push a little harder, Leah,” I said, trying to keep her calm.

  She pushed again through a silent groan, and I guided the baby’s head out. My hands were covered in blood, but my only focus was on that innocent baby being born into the hellhole we were in. I didn't need to tell Leah to push again because she did it on her own, delivering a tiny little girl that fit snugly between my two hands.

  I wrapped the baby in a kerchief I found in the corner of the room. It was dirty and torn but better than nothing, and I handed Leah her baby, watching the immediate bond between them. The outside world temporarily disappeared as she took in a moment that no one could steal from her. My only hope at that moment was that she would have a lifetime to share with her child.

  As I watched Leah and her baby, I realized I would probably never experience another moment like that. It was as close as I would ever come to experiencing the miracle of birth. However, the only miracle needed then was a way to help Leah and the baby. I had no medical supplies on me, no blankets to keep the baby warm, and no tools to cut the umbilical cord from the placenta. On top of it all, blood was still pooling from Leah, and I didn't know if that was normal. All I did know, was she needed more time in that current moment—anything life could grant her. However, without air, the baby would die, and until I cut the cord, she would have no air.

  I pressed against my knees, bringing myself to my feet as I walked to the metal door, knowing I was about to reveal the crime of a hidden pregnancy. The door opened, and Charlie was waiting on the other side with a blanket and a small medical bag. “You must go quickly.”

  I couldn't help the look I gave Charlie at that moment. Something within me was so moved by his compassion that it filled me with a type of emotion I had long forgotten. Seeing people wanting to help others was a dying trait among the survivors of the war. Each person was out for themselves, and all of
us were pitted against each other like dogs fighting over a steak bone.

  The door shut quietly behind me as I handed Leah the blanket. I rummaged through the medical bag, finding scissors to cut the cord. I cleaned Leah up with the excess material of the dress hanging below her and found her clothes across the room.

  “Let's get you dressed,” I told her.

  I helped her with her with the clothes, then held her baby girl while she secured her buttons, listening to her soft moans with each movement. The baby was unscathed, unaware of what she had been born into, and I prayed for her to find peace.

  It was a struggle to help Leah up to her feet, but as I did, we bundled the baby up inside the smocked dress, and I carefully led her through the back exit. “You must go to your block, hide there, feed your baby, and do whatever you can to keep her safe and quiet.”

  Tears ran down Leah's pale skin as she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “I will never forget you,” she said. “You are a gift.”

  “No more tears,” I reminded her. “We can’t show our weakness, remember?”

  She sniffled and offered a faint smile before shuffling off behind the barracks.

  I reopened the metal door, finding Charlie still standing guard. “She and the baby are okay,” I whispered. “I sent her to her block.”

  Charlie looked at me with a dark stare. “They’re going to kill them when they find her,” he said.

  Without replying to his statement, I swallowed hard, pushing away the thought—the truth. “I’m leaving,” I told him.

  “Amelia, you can’t.”

  “I’m making a run for it,” I told him again.

  “How many times have we talked about this?”

  “I think I can do it,” I argued.

  “No, Amelia. No.”

  I stared at him so hard I thought maybe I'd be able to see a hidden motive within his eyes, but instead, all I saw was the unmistakable worry in the creases of his forehead.