Hope: A Memoir of Survival in Cleveland

by Amanda Berry

  I desperately want Jocelyn to have a normal life. And on the days that he helps me do that, I actually feel some affection for him. He tells me that we have a special relationship because of her. He says he only wants to be with me, not the other girls, but I don’t believe that. Just when I start thinking there is good in him, he reminds me of how cruel he can be. Yesterday he called me a “nigger-loving bitch” because I wouldn’t call black people the n-word like he does. He actually took my radio away as punishment for catching me listening to rap, which he calls “that black music.” I hate it when he treats me like a child and calls me names. I’m so confused. How can he be so good one minute and so mean the next?

  Today is my twenty-second birthday. I’ve been here five years, and I’m spending the day trying not to let Jocelyn see my tears.

  June 12, 2008: Pulled Over

  A little after eight thirty p.m. Cleveland police officer Jim Simone was sitting in traffic on Pearl Road, about a mile from Seymour Avenue, when a motorcycle whizzed by on his right, cut across traffic, and pulled into a gas station.

  Simone noticed that the motorcycle’s license plate wasn’t attached correctly and was hanging sideways, which is illegal. He followed the rider into the Shell station and pulled up behind him, with his dashboard camera running.

  The rider, wearing a white tank top and baggy shorts, stepped off his bike at the pumps and noticed the police car behind him.

  “Let me see your driver’s license,” Simone said.

  “Excuse me?” Ariel Castro asked.

  “Let me see your driver’s license, please.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “First off, your plate’s improperly displayed. It has to be displayed left to right, not upside down or sideways.”

  Castro produced his driver’s license, and Simone saw that he wasn’t licensed to operate a motorcycle. He recognized Castro’s name; he’d been a Cleveland cop since 1973 and remembered having written up Castro’s brothers for traffic violations over the years. He had also driven down Seymour Avenue thousands of times.

  Simone noticed that Castro’s license plate was registered to a Harley-Davidson, not the Yamaha he was riding. Castro wasn’t wearing eye protection, which was also illegal.

  Simone told him that all his violations could add up to serious trouble, warning him, “You subject yourself to being arrested. Is that what you want?”

  “No, sir,” Castro replied. “I don’t want that.”

  “These plates don’t belong to this bike, do they? What year Yamaha is this?”

  “This is 2000.”

  “Where’s the Harley?”

  “Oh, the Harley. I sold it and I traded it in for this one.”

  “Well, Ariel,” Simone said, “you keep getting deeper and deeper and deeper.”

  “I know,” Castro replied, “but I just got off work. I’m a school bus driver.” The school year had, in fact, ended the week before.

  Simone was known as one of the toughest cops in Cleveland because he had shot and killed five people, and been shot twice himself, over the course of his long career. He could have arrested Castro, but Castro was being polite and compliant, and Simone knew that an arrest could cost him his job as a bus driver. So he decided to cut him a break and wrote him two tickets, one for the improperly attached plate and one for driving without a motorcycle license. He told Castro to push the motorcycle the mile home to Seymour Avenue and wondered if Castro would wait until he was out of sight to hop back on the bike. But about twenty minutes later, Simone spotted him well up Pearl Road, still pushing.

  June 2008: New Names

  Amanda

  “You have to pick different names,” he says. “Jocelyn can’t know your real names.”

  All three of us are in the kitchen, washing dishes. Jocelyn is watching cartoons in the living room. He says now that Jocelyn can talk, he doesn’t want her to repeat our names. He says he might want to take her outside at some point, and he’s afraid that she might mention “Amanda” or “Gina” and make someone suspicious.

  “What do you want to be called?” he asks.

  When none of us has any ideas he suggests to Gina, “How about Hazel?”

  “No,” she says, making a face. “I’m not going to be Hazel. I’ll be Chelsea.”

  We’ve been watching Days of Our Lives a lot, and there’s a character on that show named Chelsea. Michelle picks “Juju.”

  He’s been referring to me as “Nandy” for years, ever since he listened to the voice messages on my cell phone just after he kidnapped me and heard Mariyah calling me that. So he decides that I’m now officially Nandy.

  It’s going to be hard to get in the habit of calling Gina and Michelle by their new names, and I don’t want Jocelyn or me to get in trouble, so I start practicing “Chelsea” and “Juju” over and over in my head.

  September 2008: Night Terrors

  Amanda

  I jolt awake. Jocelyn is howling again. She jumps out of bed and starts running around the room, screaming like she’s on fire.

  She’s been doing this a lot lately in the middle of the night. I don’t know what’s going on. I try to catch her, but sometimes I can’t reach her because of my chain.

  “Baby, what’s wrong? Come here, Joce,” I keep saying. “It’s all right.”

  It’s hard to calm her down, and he comes charging up the stairs and unlocks our door.

  “Keep her quiet!”

  “I’m trying!”

  I know he’s afraid that the neighbors are going to hear her, and he picks her up, saying softly, “It’s okay, my love.”

  When she keeps screaming and squirms away he unlocks my chain so I can help, and we take Jocelyn into Gina and Michelle’s room. They are wide-awake and used to this by now. Their room is the farthest away from any neighbors, and he has already nailed up more plastic and blankets over their window to muffle Jocelyn’s night screams.

  He turns the radio up even louder, which is not going to soothe her, but it might mask her shouting. We’re both trying to calm Joce, stroking her hair and telling her everything is okay. It takes half an hour, but she finally quiets down, and we dry her tears. I lie back down on the bed with her in my arms.

  I don’t know what’s giving Jocelyn these night terrors. He’s alone with her sometimes, but I don’t believe he would harm her in any way. He loves her so much. I know she’s afraid of the closet, which has no door, because she thinks it’s dark and spooky. Even though I try to shield her from what’s going on in this house, I’m worried that she can sense the misery here.

  November 4, 2008: President

  Amanda

  We have a new president: Barack Obama. I never thought a black man would be elected. It’s so exciting! It’s history! I wish I could have voted.

  He sat with me to watch the election returns in the living room tonight, and we waited for Obama to come out and give his acceptance speech in Chicago. I’m afraid to say out loud that I’m happy that Obama won. He has been grumbling about so many black people moving into this neighborhood.

  “I voted for Obama,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask, trying to not show my surprise.

  “Yeah, I voted for him because the other guy is worse.”

  I never know what he’s going to do. He forbids me and Gina and Michelle from watching TV shows with black actors, but then votes for a black president. I don’t get him.

  January 9, 2009: Encounter

  Amanda

  “I talked to Beth today,” he says.

  “You did?” I ask him, shocked. “Where?”

  “We were at Marc’s. She was in line in front of me, buying sprinkles to put on a cake. I asked her if she wanted a water, since I was putting one back, and she said, ‘No, thank you, honey.’”

  Honey? Beth called him “honey”? That makes me sic
k. I know he spoke to her just for the thrill, just so he could tell me that he did it.

  “She had a little pin with your picture stuck to her purse,” he says, taunting me.

  He loves feeling like he’s getting away with this, that nobody has any clue.

  February 16, 2009: Shove

  Amanda

  He’s standing at the door.

  “I need Chelsea to come downstairs and clean,” he says to us.

  I know what he is going to do with her down there. Does he think I’m stupid? I’m so tired of him lying to me and sneaking around like a snake. Gina has told me what happens when he asks her to “clean,” and she has asked me if I could try to stop him. She says he listens to me.

  As he takes her by the arm to lead her downstairs, I stand up with Joce in my arms and block the door to the hallway.

  “I know what you really want with her,” I say. “If you want to clean, I’ll come downstairs and help, too.”

  “Shut up,” he says. “She’s coming with me.”

  “No! If she’s going, I’m going, too.”

  I’m standing right in front of him, looking up into his eyes. I’m mad, and he’s getting furious.

  “Get out of my face!” he shouts.

  “No!” I shout back. “I’m coming downstairs!”

  He shoves me hard, and I fly backward onto the bed with Joce still in my arms. She is startled and starts crying. I’m stunned—he’s never done anything like that before in front of Jocelyn.

  “Shut up and stay here!” he yells, slamming the door.

  June 2009: Bracelet

  Amanda

  It’s Sunday night, close to midnight. Jocelyn is still up watching TV. He just left our room and didn’t chain me. I guess he’s coming back, or could he have just forgotten? When he’s home on Saturday and Sunday he’s started leaving us off the chains, a welcome bit of freedom. It’s less hassle for him because he wants us to go downstairs to clean and wash clothes, and he doesn’t have to keep locking and unlocking us.

  But when he leaves the house or goes to bed, he never forgets to chain us.

  Maybe since Jocelyn was still up he didn’t want her to see him put the chains around my ankle. It’s harder and harder to hide them from her. She’s two and a half now and starting to ask questions, like the other day when the pink blanket I had covering my chains slipped off.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s my bracelet,” I said, as casually as I could.

  We haven’t talked about it, but I can tell he doesn’t like Jocelyn seeing that he locks us up. And he knows the chains make it harder for me to take care of her. He was in our room the other day, and Jocelyn was in the far corner and wanted me to come play with her, but she was a couple of feet beyond my reach.

  Our door opens, and he walks straight through our room and into Gina and Michelle’s bedroom. I can hear him chaining them up. Then he comes to us.

  “Good night, Pretty. Give Daddy a hug,” he says, giving Joce a big squeeze.

  Then he leaves and locks my door from the outside.

  I catch my breath. He didn’t chain me.

  I turn off the light and snuggle up with my baby. It’s been six and a half years since I have been able to fall asleep without being shackled.

  Gina

  This is how messed up things are here: today he didn’t chain me and Michelle, and instead of being happy, I’m scared. I noticed a couple of weeks ago that Amanda was unchained. But just because he took hers off, it doesn’t mean he’ll take mine off. He has different rules for each of us. I wonder if I should remind him to lock me up, because if he gets mad when he realizes he forgot, he’ll take it out on us. He’ll smack me and yell about how he can’t trust me, or maybe put me in the basement. He’ll make it my fault. But it sure does feel good to walk around without dragging that rusting chain.

  “Maybe it’s not a mistake,” I say to Michelle. “Maybe he’ll let us off the chains because of Jocelyn. He still locks the door, so he knows we can’t go anywhere.”

  Another day comes, and he says nothing about the chains. Then another and another, and no mention. Every time he comes in I stay on my bed with my leg under the blanket so it’s not obvious that I’m not chained.

  The room is tiny, so it’s not like I have tons of room to move around, but now I can exercise. I start doing a few push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, and it feels great. I hide our chains under a piece of plastic so we don’t have to look at them.

  It actually feels strange, like I’m suddenly missing part of me. But it’s a wonderful strange. It’s so much easier to sleep without the chain. I keep lifting my right leg and shaking my ankle—no sound! I love that the chain is gone, but somehow I don’t feel free of it. I have bruises and scars on my right ankle that I’ll probably have forever.

  “I don’t have you on the chain anymore because I trust you,” he finally says one day, out of the blue. “But if you do anything, it’s going back on, and I will hang you upside down by your ankles.”

  June 25, 2009: Michael Jackson

  Gina

  Michael Jackson is dead; that’s so sad. He walks in while we’re watching the news about it.

  “Good,” he says. “That’s one less nigger on earth.”

  God, he is so hateful.

  October 2009: Oprah

  The Oprah Winfrey Show came to Cleveland to film a short video segment about Amanda, Gina, and Ashley Summers, another missing Cleveland teenager. FBI agent Phil Torsney described each of the cases on camera, pointing out the places where the girls had been seen last.

  “What’s been hardest for me is just that Amanda has been gone for too long, and I want her home,” said a tearful Beth, wearing a white T-shirt with Amanda’s picture.

  Nancy was thrilled to talk about her daughter on such a popular show, happy that Gina’s photo would be seen by millions of people. But as the crew set up lights and cameras in her living room, she was overcome by emotion as she showed them Gina’s clothes and stuffed animals.

  “Not knowing is what’s tearing us apart,” Nancy said. “But I fight. I’m never going to give up.”

  Christmas 2009: “We’re a Family”

  Amanda

  “Here, Pretty, do you want to play with some snow?” he says, handing her a bucket filled with snow that he brought into the house.

  She’s so excited! She’s never played in the snow. She wanted to go outside, but he said no and instead brought her the bucket, which she loves.

  He has been doing more fun things with her. In August he took her outside for the very first time, and she sat on his four-wheeler ATV. A few times the two of them went into the yard at night to look up at the stars, and once all three of us sat in his Jeep and listened to music. She had never been in a car before and loved playing with all the buttons on the dashboard.

  Last month she helped him rake leaves in the backyard. She loved the smell of them and the feel of the cold fall air. And she loved being with her daddy.

  “We’re a family,” he says to me.

  I never know how to respond to that. He’s Jocelyn’s father. But my family is my family, and he never will be. I want Joce to feel as much love as possible, and when I see him being so kind and loving with her, it makes me think he’s not all bad. I can let him feel like he’s family if that’s what it takes to make Joce’s life better.

  He bought her a nice card for her third birthday and wrote in it: “Princess, May God bless you, and give you good health, and keep you safe always,” addressing it, “To my beautiful little girl Jocelyn.” Beneath that he drew three little stick figures of two parents holding hands with a small child and labeled them “Daddy,” “Mommy,” and “Pretty.” He gave himself a hat and me long hair, and we all have big smiles. We read it out loud to her, and she hugs us both.

  2010: Cutting


  Gina

  Look at the blood. I was opening a can of beef stew in the kitchen, and I cut my right pinkie. I run some cold water over it, and it stings. I can see all the way down to the bone. I’ve never cut myself so deep before.

  It doesn’t hurt, though, and I just stare at the blood flowing from it. It’s like I’m getting hypnotized by the sight.

  He comes over, looks at it, and says, “It’s not that bad.”

  I barely hear him. I can’t take my eyes off the cut. It’s made me forget where I am. When I’m looking at it, it’s the only thing I think about. I don’t think about him or the disgusting things he does to me all the time. I can just block all that out, and I like the feeling.

  All it’s taken is this one little cut. Nothing that’s going to kill me.

  It’s better than banging myself in the head. I’ve been doing that since I got here, but a lot more lately. I punch myself as hard as I can in the side of my head, then pull my hair until it really hurts.

  I’m so frustrated by this place, and by him. And Amanda.

  Sometimes we get along fine, but usually she doesn’t talk to us. And it’s so much easier for her in here. It’s like they are a little family, and we are garbage.

  I have almost no control over anything, but nobody can stop me from cutting myself.

  • • •

  I start with a butter knife.

  I drag it across the inside of my forearm, where it’s soft. I don’t go deep, because I don’t want to really hurt myself. At first I just scratch a little, then I put more pressure on it, and then pull the knife across my arm quickly and just hard enough to get it bleeding.

  Look at the blood. Little drips of red on my soft, white skin.

  It’s working again. My mind flies away, and all I think about is the warm blood dribbling down my arm.