"Wow, pricey soup," I joke as I place the tray down so I can retrieve my wallet.
"I get that a lot," the woman responds.
I hand her a twenty-dollar bill and lift my tray back up from the metal grate. She punches a few numbers into the register and the drawer pings open. She places the twenty-dollar bill under the bill flap and reaches for the small pile of tens. "No, no," I tell her. "That's for you."
"Sir, I can't accept—"
"Sure you can," I tell her. "Thank you for your help tonight."
The woman's eyes narrow as if my act is suspicious. "Did you receive good news tonight or something?"
It shouldn't be so hard to believe that a stranger wants to leave a woman a nice tip.Maybe the tip will cheer her up. In New York, it's a sign of respect. Or so, I think of it as so. "Not exactly, but I got to see the love of my life for the first time in seventy years. So, that's something, right?"
The woman looks more confused now than she did when I offered her a tip. "God bless you sir."
"Yes, we are all blessed to be here."
I spot Emma taking a seat at one of the empty tables just a few feet away from the buffet. She takes her phone out of her pocket and brushes her thumb up and down the screen. Gosh, I remember a time when people would take the opportunity to look around a room when sitting down for a breather. Now, all anyone ever does is tend to their mobile devices. It's as if there is an entire world happening behind the shiny screen.
As I take careful strides to the table, making sure my soup doesn’t splatter out of the bowl, I notice Emma places her phone back in her pocket. "Anything interesting happening in the world?" I ask, taking a seat across from her at the table.
"What do you mean?" Emma responds.
"Your phone. Surely something interesting must be happening on that face journal program." I know the website is called Facebook, but I feel the need to act the part of the role I'm playing.
"Facebook," she corrects.
"Yes, that program."
"It's just a website," she says, chuckling softly.
"Oh, what's the difference, right?"
Emma takes a sip of her coffee and presses the other cup over toward me. "I'm curious to hear your story," she says.
I nearly choke on my first sip of soup, hearing her statement. It's not that I wasn't expecting her to ask me about who I am. I would be inquisitive too if I were her. "My story," I say after swallowing the mouthful of broth.
"Yes, I mean, I read my grandmother's version of your story, but I'm smart enough to know there are two sides to every story. Isn’t that right?"
Emma mentioned she had read Amelia's diary, but I don't know what Amelia wrote about me or didn't write about me, which means there is a chance she doesn't know the full breadth of my past.
I take a deep breath and straighten my posture. "Well, what would you like to know first?"
Emma takes another long drawn-out sip of the steaming joe, unblinkingly staring at me. "What's your beginning?"
"My beginning?" I repeat, stalling to answer, because there isn't a simple response.
"Yes, where did you come from, Charlie Crane?"
Chapter 3
Twelve Years Old - 1935
Bavaria, Germany
It was a Sunday morning, and Mama was preparing breakfast made up of fresh Dutch apple pancakes with a heaping dollop of whipped cream. The house smelled sweet, like confectionary sugar and roasted coffee beans.
Sunday breakfast was my favorite time of the week. It was the only morning no one had to rush around before six a.m. There was time to rest, while we sat as a family and ate until we were full to our hearts' desire. "Charlie, sohn1, how was school this week?" Papa asked.
