“How old are you,son?”
“Fifteen,” he answers while straightening his shoulders to appear a bittaller.
“Ah, so you’re just starting to date then, huh?” I askhim.
He shrugs again. “Eh, the girls at my school kind of su—they’re stuckup.”
“I can understand. Most women were like that back in the forties too, but not my Amelia. She was such asweetheart.”
“Where did you two meet?” He asks the question that makes my throat tighten each time I’m asked, even after seventy-four years. I don’t believe in hiding my story, but it hasn’t gotten much easier to discuss over theyears.
“During World War II in a concentrationcamp.”
Being fifteen, I assume he’s already learned about the Holocaust in his history classes, which is likely the reason his jaw drops. “You survived the Holocaust?” he asks while looking at me as if I were a livingghost.
I glance out the window into the blur of trees we’re passing, stealing a moment to avoid eye contact while I confess the truth. “I was one of the bad guys,” I tellhim.
“You were a—Natz—a—ah.” The word is said as if it’s a cuss—an insult. It should be; the truth hurts whether it was a path I chose ornot.
“We were referred to as Nazis, yes, but I called myself a soldier. I was enlisted by my parents and never given a choice. Sometimes, life takes you for a ride, and when you don’t know where your stop is, you just keep moving until the ride ends?” He doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, and that’sfine.
“Wow,” hereplies.
The look on his face and his gasping word are a typical response from people of all ages. “I was sentenced to ten years in prison, but I had never hurt a fly. I was punished because I did the rightthing.”
“Whoa,” the boy says. “Was Amelia a—um—soldiertoo?”
“No, son, she was thevictim.”
“A Jew?” he clarifies as his eyes widen withshock.
“A person,” I clarify. “A beautiful, wonderful, loving human being who I adored more than my ownlife.”
“That’s crazy,” he says. “And you never talked to heragain?”
“No, I haven’tyet.”
There’s silence for a few moments before the boy continues talking. “Sir, with all due respect, you seem like you’ve lived a long life. What exactly are you waitingfor?”
I lean my head back into my seat and shut my eyes, knowing a nap will make this ride go by much faster. “I’m waiting for the end of this ride,” I tell him, “and it’s almostover.”
“You’re going to see Amelia?” he asks, elated withcuriosity.
“I am, indeed. Seventy-four years late, but I’ll finally be able to talk to my loveagain.”
“That’s awesome,sir.”
“Yes, it is quite awesome, if I do say so myself.” The boy smiles as he lifts his headphones from his lap. “Son, do me a favor,” I say before his headphones are secured over his ears. “Don’t fall in love until you’re ready to hold onto her for the rest of your life.” There’s my unsolicited advice for theday.
My nap aligned perfectlywith the end of the ride as we pulled into South Station inBoston.
“Hey, son, would you mind helping me with my bag? I’ve got a bad arm.” The boy looks down at my prosthetic arm, and his mouth falls open, ready to ask another round of questions, Iassume.
“Is that because of the war?” He asks in a way that a boy would sound when comparing scars for measures oftoughness.
“It’s not an achievement, but yes, itis.”
“Did ithurt?”
