Hope: A Memoir of Survival in Cleveland

by Amanda Berry

He still won’t let us go up and down the stairs by ourselves. And when he leaves the house, he locks this place down like a prison. He rigged a homemade alarm on the front door, with wires and an old clock-radio, and he says it will go off if anybody tries to open the front or back door. And he never forgets to bolt my door. So no, I don’t believe this is ending anytime soon.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t blow up at me but seems to want to talk. Jocelyn is downstairs playing, so it’s just the two of us.

  “No,” he tells me. “It’s true. This is going to be over soon. But I’m worried about what’s going to happen to me.”

  He should have thought about that before he kidnapped us, but he’s right to worry, because I don’t see how this can possibly end without him either dead or in prison. He knows he can’t just let us go free, because we would turn him in. He keeps saying he hopes it will all end with a gunfight—suicide by cop.

  In a way, I think he’s confused about who he is. Is he a sadistic rapist or a doting father who loves his little girl? He knows he is both, and that must be terrifying. He keeps talking about how his headaches are getting worse.

  “I realize that you’re scared, but you need to be punished for what you’ve done to us and our families,” I tell him. “You say you have a sexual problem, but that’s no excuse. You should be punished. If you had to go to court and my mom was still alive, what would you say to her? Would you apologize?”

  He thinks for a minute and says, “I would tell your mom I’m sorry. But I wouldn’t take any of this back. I would do it all over again because of Pretty.”

  His love for Jocelyn has blinded him to reality: Taking his daughter shopping once in a while doesn’t make up for the fact that he’s holding her hostage. But as Joce has gotten older and become more aware, he’s started to see things through her eyes. It’s challenged his perceptions. It’s harder to convince himself that what he is doing to us isn’t wrong.

  “I love Pretty, and it makes me sad to think that someday you’re going to get married, and she’ll have a stepdad,” he says.

  “I am going to get married,” I tell him. “I want to meet a man who’ll treat me well, and to fall in love, and to live happily ever after. I want more kids.”

  “I know you’re going to find someone who loves you and takes care of you,” he says.

  A couple of days ago he told me that he showed Joce’s picture to Angie and said it was his girlfriend’s kid. He told me Angie said Jocelyn’s photo looks like Emily, and Joce says his brothers, Onil and Pedro, have seen her driving around with him. Doesn’t anybody in that family think there’s something funny about him spending so much time with this little girl, or that they never see the girl’s mom?

  April 22

  Today I turn twenty-seven, and I feel nothing but anger and resentment.

  I never finished high school, or learned to drive. I haven’t talked on a telephone since I was sixteen. I have spoken to only four people in ten years, and one of them is my kidnapper. I wonder what it’s like to send a text or an e-mail or use an iPad or Twitter—all the stuff I see on TV. I hate him for sealing me off from the world, especially today, on another lost birthday.

  I have changed so much in these ten years. I’m stronger and more aware of the importance of kindness—to the person giving and receiving it. Life is too short to be mean to people. I’ve learned how to be patient. I appreciate all the little things that add up to a life. If I get out of here, I’ll never look up at the sky, walk down a street, or wade in the lake without thinking how lucky I am. I know now how everything can disappear in a second.

  But still, it’s hard. Yesterday marked a full decade that I’ve been inside this house, and I was so anxious to see my family on TV that I set my alarm to catch the 5:30 a.m. news. But there was nothing. I thought the tenth anniversary would be a big story. But there was nothing on the noon and 6:00 p.m. newscasts either. Has everyone forgotten me?

  I spent most of the day trying to comfort Joce, who had a bad toothache. Her gums were swollen, and she barely slept. I didn’t know if it was an infection, so I kept rinsing her mouth with saltwater.

  “I might have to take her to a dentist,” he told me after seeing how uncomfortable she was.

  He’s never said anything like that before. I still doubt that he’d actually have taken her, because it would have been too risky. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because during the day her pain went away and I think she’s okay.

  Finally, on the 10:00 news, there was a story about me. I’m so glad they remembered. Even after all these years I still cry when I see Beth on TV. She was at a vigil for me outside Burger King, but there was hardly anybody there, just a few people standing in a little circle and holding candles. Gina’s mom and dad were right in front.

  The news report was short, and they cut away quickly to the big news of the day: a garbage strike. I guess people can’t keep hoping for a miracle forever.

  May 1

  “Hey, Nandy, come look at this,” he says.

  I walk over to the living room computer, where he’s looking at Facebook.

  There I am! Somebody created a Facebook page about me, with my picture and a lot of information, including my height and weight, when and where I went missing. It says nobody should give up on me. I’m so happy I feel like screaming, because I thought people had forgotten me.

  They list all the people who liked the page, and one of them is Angie! She helped him set up his own Facebook account a couple of months ago. His profile picture shows him wearing a hat—like always—and a necklace, which has a little marijuana leaf charm at the end. He doesn’t smoke that much weed, but he thinks the charm makes him look cool.

  We were looking at Facebook a while back and we saw there was a page for Gina. But there wasn’t one for me then, so somebody must have just created it. I wonder who cared enough to do that. It’s hard to keep thinking that everything is a sign that something good will happen, because I’m tired of being disappointed. But this has given me such a boost that I have to believe that God is telling me not to give up hope that someday I will be free.

  I write an entry in my diary, addressed to my mom and Beth, telling them about all this, and saying, “Keep faith!”

  I flip over to the last page of my diary notebook, where I start a wish list.

  Beneath it I write the two things I want more than anything:

  1. To have my mommy back.

  2. To be home with my family.

  May 6, 2013: Escape

  Amanda

  “Daddy’s gone! Daddy’s gone!”

  Jocelyn is shouting as she comes running up the stairs. She can’t find him anywhere and she’s confused.

  Our bedroom door is unlocked. Whenever he leaves the house, he’s always careful to lock us in, so he must be somewhere downstairs. But I can’t help her look for him, because going down on my own would be breaking one of his most serious rules. I don’t want the chains back.

  “Go check the backyard,” I tell Joce. “He’s probably out there.”

  It’s a warm day, so he must be outside messing around with his cars or motorcycles.

  Joce heads back down the stairs, wearing a long black wig because she loves playing dress-up. She peeks out the back-door window, which is locked from the outside. I hear her little footsteps as she races around the ground floor, looking in every room.

  She climbs back up the stairs, huffing and puffing, agitated that he seems to have left without her. She likes to go for drives in his little blue Mazda Miata with the top down. He loves that car. He sold it last year, but then he bought it back from the same guy a couple of months later because he missed it.

  “Daddy’s blue car is gone!” she says.

  I freeze.

  No him? No car?

  Could this really be it? My chance to escape after all these years?

  Ginar />
  Michelle and I are in our room, watching a Hilary Duff movie, According to Greta.

  The door to Amanda’s room is closed, but I hear Jocelyn say he’s not home. I hear her running around the living room and kitchen looking for him. But if he’s really gone, why is their door unlocked? How did Jocelyn even get downstairs? He always locks the door.

  Michelle and I look at each other: Oh, my God. Maybe this is the day. Maybe we can actually get free.

  “Let’s run!” I say.

  “You want to do it?” she asks.

  “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

  But then I stop, wondering if he’s testing us to see if we’ll run. He’s always threatening that if I try to escape he’ll hang me upside down.

  “It could be a trap,” I say. “Let’s just stay put.”

  We don’t say anything to Amanda.

  Amanda

  I tiptoe barefoot out into the hall, listening for any sign of him. But I’m too scared, so I hurry back into my room.

  I want to get out of here, but I don’t want to risk getting killed. I don’t want him raising Joce. But then I think about Beth and all she has endured, and how I have to get back to her.

  He’s taken away all my electricity for not speaking to him, so I can’t imagine what his punishment would be for trying to escape. But I missed a chance to get away seven years ago when I was in the van—I hesitated instead of pushing that gas pedal. I have regretted that ever since and I can’t let it happen again.

  I leave Joce in the room and make my way as quietly as I can halfway down the stairs, trying to peek into the living room to see if he might have fallen asleep on the couch and Joce didn’t spot him. I can’t see him anywhere. The radio isn’t on. That’s weird. He almost always leaves it blaring when he leaves. Is he hiding down there?

  I’m wasting too much time thinking. If he’s really gone, I have to move now!

  I run back up to my room and pull on my high-tops.

  I don’t say anything to Gina or Michelle. If this doesn’t work they might tell him I tried to escape. But I also don’t want to risk getting anyone else hurt, so I’m not going to involve them.

  If he catches anybody, it will be just me, alone.

  Gina

  There’s a little knock on our door that sounds like Jocelyn.

  “No,” I hear Amanda whisper, “leave them alone.” So we don’t open the door.

  We don’t hear anything else, and I wonder if Amanda may be trying something. But I’m not sure. That would be crazy.

  I turn back to Hilary Duff on TV.

  Amanda

  I gently pull Joce away from Gina and Michelle’s door, then crouch down in front of her and whisper.

  “Mommy’s going downstairs for a minute to do something, and I’ll be right back,” I tell her quietly. “You stay right here in the room. But if Mommy yells for you, then come downstairs as fast as you can.”

  “Okay,” she says, a little anxiously, “but what are you doing?”

  “Just stay here until I call for you,” I tell her. She knows something is going on. She has never seen me downstairs by myself.

  “Can I tell Chelsea and Juju?”

  “No, we’re not going to tell them right now. Just wait here.”

  I step back out in the hall and over to the head of the stairs. I know I have to go right now, but I am so terrified that I can’t make myself move.

  Mom, please give me a sign. Give me strength if the time is right.

  And just like that, I swear I feel something, like my mom is pushing me.

  I go.

  I start down, as slowly as I can, one step at a time on my tiptoes. I’m shaking. I can barely feel my legs, and my heart is beating out of my chest. I make it to the landing. I’m terrified he is going to pop out of nowhere.

  But I see no one. I hear nothing.

  My lungs feel like they’re on fire.

  I run across the living room to the front door, which is blocked by a big outdoor swing he brought inside that we sit in sometimes. I shove it aside just enough to squeeze by and get to the front door.

  I see all the wires connected to a clock-radio and I realize I’ve forgotten the alarm. Will it go off?

  It’s too late to worry about that. I have to try, so I turn the door lock.

  No alarm!

  I don’t see any other locks, so I pull on the wooden door.

  And it opens.

  In ten years I have never seen this door open more than a crack, when he reaches out to get the mail.

  I scream: “Jocelyn! Jocelyn! Come down here!”

  She scrambles down the stairs and I pull the door all the way open. We’re free!

  Wait, what’s this? There’s a storm door, and it’s chained shut with a padlock! I had no idea this was here!

  I start pushing and shoving and banging it, but it won’t move.

  Jocelyn sees how desperate I am. She has never seen me like this. She senses my terror.

  “Mommy! Mommy! What are you doing?” She starts to cry and screams, “I want Daddy! Where’s Daddy? What are you doing?”

  “Shh,” I tell her. “Shh. Just be quiet.”

  I’m getting more frantic. Every second feels like an hour.

  Finally I manage to push the storm door open just enough to get my hand out, and then my whole arm, which I begin to wave like crazy. I can’t see anyone on the street, so I scream out the door: “Help me! Help me! I need to get out of here!”

  There has to be somebody out there. And they have to hurry.

  All I can think about is him coming back.

  “Help me! Help me!”

  Gina

  We hear noises from downstairs. The front door is right below our room, and there’s loud banging and Jocelyn is screaming.

  It’s definitely a beat-down. He must have caught Amanda trying to escape and he’s beating her. We strain to hear more.

  “Nandy?” I call. But she’s not there.

  “Oh, no, she got caught,” I say to Michelle. “He’s coming for us next.”

  Amanda

  Oh, thank God! Here comes a guy. He sees me and steps right up onto the porch.

  “Can you help me, please!” I scream.

  He looks confused, maybe even scared.

  “Please,” I beg him, “help me!”

  But he just stands there, looking at me and the door. He can see there’s a chain and that I can’t get out. Why doesn’t he do something?

  Finally he gives the door a little pull. It doesn’t move.

  “Help me! I’m Amanda Berry! I’ve been kidnapped for ten years! Help me!”

  An older lady comes by on the sidewalk, sees what’s happening, and waves her finger at us, saying, “No, no, no.”

  What? What is she doing?

  She’s motioning for the guy on the porch to step away from me.

  This can’t be happening. These people aren’t going to help me?

  “Help me! Help me! I’m Amanda Berry!” I shout again.

  I have never screamed so loud. I keep waving my arm.

  The guy steps down off the porch. He’s walking away from me!

  “No! No! No! Please help me!”

  Joce is standing behind me, screaming and saying, “I want my daddy!” But if her father came back right now, he would kill me. Why is this guy leaving? Why won’t he help?

  Now another guy has walked in front of the house, a tall black guy. He’s asking the old lady what’s going on. She tells him that I can’t be Amanda Berry, because Amanda Berry died years ago.

  No! I’m right here. Who cares who I am? Can’t they help me?

  The tall guy comes up on the porch and pulls on the door a couple of times.

  “Oh, man, this thing is locked,” he says.

  “Plea
se,” I beg him. “Please help me!”

  He looks closely at the door from top to bottom and then, noticing something, starts to kick at the bottom panel.

  “Go ahead,” he tells me. “Finish kicking it out, Mama.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve been trying to push the whole door open. But he’s right. Maybe I can just kick out this bottom panel. It’s just flimsy cheap aluminum.

  “Go on, Mama!” he says.

  Why doesn’t he kick it in for me? He’s just standing there watching me. Why won’t anybody help me? I start pounding at the panel with my sneakers, kicking and kicking until finally I smash out enough of it for me to squeeze through.

  I crawl outside and then reach in and pull Joce out after me.

  “I want my daddy!” she’s screaming. “Where’s Daddy?”

  We’re out but we’re not safe.

  “I need a phone!” I scream as loud as I can.

  “Okay, okay,” the tall guy says. “I’ve got a phone in my house.”

  He lives right next door and starts to run there. I’m right behind him, carrying Joce, who’s clinging to me and wailing.

  He opens his front door, picks up his cell phone, and dials 911. I wait in the doorway and look around. It’s dark inside, spooky, with not much furniture. I’ve just escaped from one scary house, and am not taking Joce back inside another one, so I bolt back out onto the sidewalk.

  A few people have gathered on a porch across the street to see what all the commotion is, so I run over there, still carrying Joce, who won’t stop screaming.

  “Please,” I tell them. “I need a phone!”

  I haven’t seen this woman before, but I don’t think she speaks much English. She doesn’t say anything, but she looks concerned. She hands me a phone and I dial 911, watching up and down the street for the blue Miata.

  Finally a police operator picks up.

  “Cleveland 911. Do you need police, fire—”

  “Hello, police? Help me! I’m Amanda Berry!”

  “Do you need police, fire, or ambulance?”

  “I need police!”

  “Okay, and what’s going on there?”

  “I’ve been kidnapped and I’ve been missing for ten years, and I’m, I’m here, I’m free now!”