I closed my eyes, wishing away the feeling of nausea. Papa wouldn't want me suffering this way, but there was not much I could do.
Sleep took up much of the ride, and when I woke to a hollering announcement of the next stop, Terezín, I felt as though I could continue sleeping for another ten hours.
The walk from the train station felt like miles, when in reality it was only just a few blocks to my apartment. The night was rolling in fast, giving me a good reason to sleep more of the agony away. I hiked up the stairs to the apartment and let myself inside. Just as the first day I moved in, my gaze fell upon the ball of yarn resting on the floor.
I had not touched anything other than the dirty dishes and the smoking pipe to clean. This home was not my home, which is why I removed my boots at the door and hung my jacket on the guest's coat hook.
My wool socks caught on the splintered floors, reminding me of our floors at home. Mama would hand-make rugs to place over the bad spots, but they were pesky, and the cause of many of my bruised knees.
The bedroom was as I left it a few days earlier. The guest linens were laid out on the cot I found in the closet, and the extra blanket was folded neatly over the white cloth. I still refused to sleep in the bed—the sacred place of a happily married man and woman. If by some miracle they were to return, a bed with someone else's imprint would only add to their sadness. Furniture is never just furniture; they are objects used as a foundation for memories. Just as their furniture doesn't belong to me, neither do their memories.
Sleep did not find me that night. The grooves within the ceiling's paint grew a judgmental face; the shape of a downturned grimace judged me until I broke out into tears—tears so heavy the backs of my eyes ached.
When morning came, there was a pounding in my head, and my tear-soaked skin burned. "I should have fought harder, Papa. The war has stolen so much from so many, and now it has stolen from me too. My grief is stronger than I, and I don't know how much longer I will last in the conditions, watching the suffrage—the condemning brutalities. My nightmares follow me like a shadow." A grown man shouldn't wish for his mama to stroke the side of his face or for her warm kiss on the forehead. He should be comforting her instead. I don't know when I turned from a child to a man, but the transition was not seamless, and I don't feel as though I was ready to close the door on my childhood. The scars in my mind would be with me for life, and my innocence will never return. I felt deprived, but it could be worse. I could be a Jewish man in line, waiting for my death to arrive in the most unthinkable way.
With slow, lazy steps, I made my way to the guard post where I would stand for hours, watching death find many. The sun was high in the sky, bright as ever, but I felt the weight of the spring air, damp, heavy, and foreboding.
Amelia was within viewing distance, standing before her line while checking in the ill. Still, she wore a smile across her sullen face. I could assume Amelia wouldn’t survive much longer, and the days of watching a beautiful girl wither away would soon come to an end. Along with the change in temperature, I could sense a new way of life creeping upon us.
The sick lines were becoming shorter. People were not waiting for medical care as they once were … because most had died. When a short break offered Amelia a moment to place down her clipboard, so she could wring the tension from her wrists, I made my way over. The apprehension I once felt before approaching a prisoner was no longer as jarring as it should have been.
Upon my arrival, Amelia clasped her hands together and stared down at her feet—the torn black boots with frayed laces. Her shoes were proof of the wear and tear she was experiencing. "I am so sorry to hear your papa is sick. The others were talking, and I overheard your name," Amelia said, beneath her breath.
I gritted my teeth and clenched my jaw as I was not expecting to hear those words from her mouth. "He is gone now. I deserve it, but he did not," I tell her.
Amelia's eyes closed, and I placed my hands behind my back, clasping my fingers around my right hand. I had almost forgotten that I must look as though I was speaking to her with authority.
"You are not a bad person," she whispered. "No one should lose their mama or papa."
Not only had Amelia’s mother been murdered, but her father perished in the last month. His body was found in a supply closet. Then, like the other lifeless bodies in the camp, he was sent to the crematory. Even death was not enough of a punishment for the Jewish people.
"How did you get through it?" My words were not much more than air, and it was a question that should not have earned me an answer.
How had she gotten through any of what she had been through thus far?
"Prayer," she uttered. "Life here on earth is far worse than what is next for us all, Charlie. We are the unlucky ones." My throat felt swollen with pain, my jaw tensed, and my face became hot. The pain was unreal, but her words gave me freedom—something I could not offer in return. "I'll say a prayer for you and your papa."
A Jewish woman, being tortured day in and day out was offeringmea prayer. Amelia is the good the world should be.
At that moment, when a hand clamped down on my shoulder, I debated never speaking to Amelia again.
Chapter 18
Current Day
"You looked beyond the nature of our reality, seeing through the uniform, recognizing a warm heart, and separated me from the cold. I didn’t deserve your faith or prayers, yet, you still offered them," I tell Amelia, staring into her endearing eyes. "That was why I chose you, darling. That is why I have always chosen you."
Amelia squeezes my hand. "You could have been killed so many times, Charlie. I wondered why you thought I was worth your life. Whatever the case may have been, my feelings did grow for you, and I questioned my sanity many times. However, not once did you give me a reason to feel ashamed for the way I felt, and I appreciated that."
Amelia struggled to shift her body. She was clearly uncomfortable in the hospital bed, with wires tangled around her arms and torso. After one last tug on the sheet, she folded her hands and rested them peacefully on her chest.
Life has had its way with us both.
"Why are you having surgery tomorrow? We’re old, Amelia. We shouldn’t be going under the knife at this age."
Amelia unclasps her hands and taps my knuckles. "Charlie, when I saw you walk into my room earlier, I knew my life was not over. I have gotten this far in life from trusting my gut. Therefore, I will make it through the surgery tomorrow, and then I’m going to ask you never to leave me again."
After Emma called me the other day, I prayed Amelia would not hate me after having a lifetime to consider who I was to her, but I didn’t expect her to still care for me the way I do for her.
