Since 1945, my story has remained hidden deep within the corners of my mind and blacked out as if with permanent marker, in hopes that no one else would ever know. I've been holding on to these silent memories for such a long time, but I'm becoming weak. I've always known that the truth might someday be stronger than my will to be silent, but I can't imagine what my secrets would do to those I love.

This may be cliché, but I'm going to start my story with a once upon a time...except my life hasn't been a fairytale—far from it. In fact, for a long time, I believed a happy ending meant death.

During my early years as a child, I had a perfect life. The sun shone golden rays across Bohemia’s breathtaking sky and bore its warmth down on the silky, green-grass-covered soil. I lived in color—rich with vivid hues, and I danced through the mustard fields, twirling my dress as my hair blew like weeping willows in the breeze. My heart was protected, my life blessed with knowledge, and I was surrounded by love. There was a lightness in my mind and a feeling of completeness in my soul that made each day feel like a gift from above.

Then, a day came when the sun was taken away. The sky became dark with heavy clouds, and my world turned gray. Raindrops that once fell from the sky bled into the tears that burned down my cheeks.

I thought darkness was all I had left after losing everything I'd ever known and loved, but through a cloud of dust and despair, I found a glimmer of hope—a smile amongst the sunken cheeks and rotting corpses.

He should never have smiled at me, and I shouldn't have acknowledged him when he did, but once it started, there was no turning back. I never considered the possibility of how it would end until I felt the heartbreak of loneliness again. His smile was gone, the warm touches we shared through my cold shivers would never heat my body again, and the worst part was that all hope was lost.

It was all for nothing. It would have been easier to have never felt that kind of love because once I knew how good it could feel, I didn’t think I’d ever feel that way again.

As the world caved in on itself, I allowed the pain and misery to pour from my eyes one last time before making a silent vow to never give another ounce of power to those who wanted to dominate the weak.

I traveled through the phases of bitter denial, revenge, hate, sorrow—and finally, the emptiness that would be a part of me forever.

When the sun returned and the grass grew back, those who had survived slowly allowed their wounds to heal, but there was a numbness inside all of us—protection from feeling the pain of the memories that would last a lifetime.

To forget and move on as if it never happened was the only way to survive. I tried to convince myself that I hadn't lived through the most demoralizing and destructive five years this world has ever seen.

I moved to America, leaving the enemy behind. I lived on, shielding myself from the memories. I lived up to society's moral standards and expectations by getting married and having children. I cooked, cleaned, and supported those I love. Then, over time, my past became a part of the earth like the bones and ashes in that far away land.

There is one exception, though, and it's the part of me I have only pretended to forget—my secret. In fact, some would consider what I did to be as wrong, and equally horrendous, as what the heartless ones did to my whole race.

In my heart, I will never consider that it was wrong, and I will stand by my actions and beliefs because the heart wants what the heart wants. Sometimes, even the toughest warriors who survive the odds and somehow escape the shadows of death, can still fall helpless and weak at the mercy of love.

CHAPTER ONE - EMMA

Great, I'm going to be late again. I glance over at the clock on my car radio, feeling anxiety set in as I wait for my phone to ring. I don't understand how I can be expected to predict the exact moment I will arrive somewhere. Mom thinks that because I work for myself, I make my own hours, but that’s not the case. I have a job and deadlines to meet, but Mom clocks in and out of her beloved receptionist position at the town hall, so her lunch hour is the same every day. Even though mine doesn't always match up, I try my hardest to be punctual, but I can't foresee my daily schedule and traffic.

I fly into the parking lot of Panera and see Mom standing in front of the entrance, her hip cocked to one side, an annoyed grimace covering her face, and her fingers frantically searching for buttons on her phone.

Not-so-shockingly, my phone rings five-seconds later, just as I put the Jeep into park. If she weren't busy calling me, she would see that I pulled into the parking lot a minute ago.

I decide to ignore the call as I walk toward her, watching her talking to herself. I'm assuming my voicemail is picking up right about now, and as soon I step foot onto the curb, five feet from where she's standing, she'll begin her, "Emma, where are you?" message. "You're two minutes late, and I'm worried something may have happened. Please call me as soon as you get this."

"I'm right here, Mom," I tell her, smiling in hopes of erasing the angry look on her face.

"Oh," she says. "I was looking for you. You know lunch is at one."

"I was working with a client, Mom, and I'm only two minutes late," I remind her. I give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before taking the few steps over to the door.

"I'm sorry, I'm just having a bad day," she says.

My heart sinks for a moment, going through the list of things that could be wrong for her to have the despondent expression I see tugging at her face. "What happened?"

"Nothing actually happened," she begins.

"Is Grams okay?" I ask. Ever since Grandpa passed away ten years ago, we have been taking turns checking up on her since she refuses to be "taken" from her house and "placed" in an assisted-living environment, or a morgue as she calls it.

"Yes, she is fine but just angry today, I guess."

"Why?"

Mom places her hand over her eyes and shakes her head. "I don't know, Emma. She's getting those palpitations in her chest again, and she's sure she's going to die today." Mom tends to be overdramatic at times, but Grams doesn't typically throw around the topic of death, so I can see why she is concerned.

"I'll go check on her after lunch, and I'll let you know when I find out she’s okay. That will put your mind at ease."

Acting as if I didn't say a word, Mom opens the door to Panera and walks inside. I totally understand that she can't handle the idea of Grams not being around, and I feel the same, but she's making herself sick with worry every day.

Mom silently takes her place at the back of the line, squinting her eyes at the menu before pulling her glasses out of her purse. "You always order the grilled chicken sandwich. Are you getting something new today?" I ask her.

"No, I'm just looking to see if they've added anything new to the menu."

"I don't think they have since last week," I tell her, trying to save her the time of scrutinizing each column. She removes her glasses, then slips them back into her bag and looks around at the few people waiting in line to order. "Emma," she whispers, "do you see him over there?" She's pointing toward the front of the line at a man working the register. Therefore, he must be single and available…unlike me, who is in a relationship. She'd like to pretend otherwise, however.

"No," I tell her. "Don't."

"He's cute, though," she says with a grin. I'm glad she's feeling better now, but it is at my expense.

"Please, stop it, Mom," I mutter without hiding my aggravation.

"I want grandchildren," she responds in a singsong voice.

"I'm only thirty-one," I argue. "I have plenty of time."

"I don’t want you to wait as long as I did, Emma. I feel like an old hen around you and I don’t like it. Plus, whether you like it or not, your clock is ticking, and you’re with the wrong man," she feels the need to add in.

"Do you really think I should get involved with a cashier at a fast food restaurant? I’m a career woman with some long-term goals, and memorizing the value meal numbers isn't one of them."

This is how lunch goes whenever I meet her during the week. I love Mom to death, and I enjoy spending the time with her, but we don't see eye-to-eye on my love life, my career, my lifestyle, or diet. As a matter of fact, sometimes I kind of feel like I'm on a different planet than she's on. "Mom, don't worry about me so much, okay? I'll figure things out."

"I'm always going to worry about you, Emma. You're my daughter. You're not happy, and it's obvious."

"I am happy," I lie, forcing a smile to try and end the conversation, but no one knows me better than she does. I'm like an open book to her.

"You're not living life to its fullest," she argues.

"Mom, Dad left you fifteen years ago, and you've been living alone ever since. How is that happiness? Are you living life to its fullest?"

"You are my happiness, Emma."

Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming, and I think she knows it.

The moment I slip back into my car, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I silently curse. Between work calls, Mom's calls, and Mike's calls, which have increased to an irritatingly excessive level as of late, I rarely have a moment to breathe. I pull out my phone and see Mike’s name on the display. I do not want to talk to him right now, but the calls will continue until I pick up, so I exhale heavily and answer.

"Hi," I say cordially, as I pull out of the parking lot.

"Do you have a minute?" he asks, then clears his throat. That’s what he does when he’s nervous about something.

"Sure," I tell him, though I don't want to hear what he plans to say. Sorry doesn't work for me anymore, and I'm worn out from the endless arguments.

"Em, I'm sorry for what I said last night," he begins, sounding nearly robotic, or like he’s on auto-repeat. I’ve heard the same spiel a million times now.

"Okay," I reply.

"What's going on with us?" he asks? The remorse in his voice deliberate, verging on the line of fake. Things are never about us, they’re about him.

"I don't think this is an issue between us, Mike."

"Why is it always me?" As usual, he immediately initiates an argument. What else could I possibly want to do at two in the afternoon during my lunch break?

"I wasn't the one who came home in a drunken rage last night," I remind him.

He grunts indignantly and says, "I wasn't drunk."

"I could smell the whiskey from across the room, Mike. Why do you lie about it? I've been very understanding of you going out several nights a week with your friends, even when you come home smelling like weed and perfume. I keep telling myself that you're just a little immature and you'll grow up eventually, but we’re in our thirties and I’m getting tired of waiting." My life consists of hopping from one Starbucks to another while seeking work-day scenery changes, meeting Mom for lunch, and checking on Grams, while I dread going home each night to the small, desolate house I share with Mike. "On top of that, the house is always a disaster with your socks tossed in every corner, dirty underwear and towels in the entryway of the hall bathroom, and empty pizza boxes stacked up on top of the full trash can—all strategically placed so I have something to clean when I get home at night." How can I see myself living like that forever?

"So, what, we’re breaking up for the fourth time this month?" he asks as if it doesn’t faze him. It doesn’t mean anything to Mike because I haven’t been able to keep my word when I tell him we’re done. The worst part is, he’s told me so many times before that I don't have the "balls" to leave him, reminding me I have nowhere to go and that being a freelance designer doesn’t offer me a dependable salary.

"I don't know if I can be with you," I tell him honestly. I don't love him like I thought I once did, and despite having to admit that Mom might be right, this isn't the life I want.

My current state of calmness is unusual for how I typically come off during one of our arguments, because I'm passionate about what I believe in, so I become overheated easily, but now, I feel nothing. "Fine, then move out. I don't care," he tells me.

That should have hurt me, but I still feel nothing. I don't know what to say, but I know this is the closest I've come to walking away from Mike. I just need to keep going without looking back this time. "I'll come get my stuff tonight," I tell him.

"Whatever," he says. "You'll be back tomorrow, telling me how much you love and need me. We've been through this crap a million times, Emma."

I pull into Grams's driveway knowing that I need to end this conversation with Mike before I go inside. Her feelings on Mike mimic Mom’s thoughts. "Are you going to be home tonight?" I ask him with a tone of finality to rush this along.

"I had plans to go out with the guys. Devin is leaving for a month sabbatical tomorrow, so we're having drinks."

"Okay then, I'll probably be gone by the time you get home."

"Right," he snickers. "You'll be asleep in my bed. This drama is unnecessary, Emma, so just stop. I have to get back to work now that I've wasted my entire lunch break listening to your empty threats."

You’re the one who called me; I want to tell him. "Okay," I calmly say again. "Have a good day?" I hang up the phone and wish I could erase Mike from my life as easily as I could delete him from my phone contacts. Whatever the case, I need to remove that man from my thoughts for a bit so I can put on a smile for Grams. She can always tell something is wrong by the way I blink.

I let myself into her house, finding her leaning against an end table in her living room. "Grams, what's wrong?" I ask.

She appears startled as she jumps and clutches at the collar of her blouse. "Emma," she huffs. "I wasn’t expecting you."

I look past her, toward the microwave. "It's two fifteen on the dot," I say. It's the same time I come by most days. Mom checks in on her in the morning before she goes to work, I usually check on her midday, and Aunt Annie checks on her just before dinner time. Thankfully, we all live in a close vicinity.

"Oh, right, right…sorry," she says.

"It's okay," I tell her as I gently place my hand on her shoulder and guide her into the family room. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," she says, the word vibrating against the hollow of her throat.

"Are you in pain? What's going on?" I ask, immediately filled with concern, but I already know about the palpitations she was getting earlier.

"I think I'm going to die today," she says, sounding helpless.

"No, you're not," I say as I help her take a seat.

Grams sits carefully, sinking into the plushness of her worn heather gray recliner. "I'm ninety-two, Emma. It's seventy-four years longer than I expected to live."

I take a seat on the arm of the chair and rest my head on her frail shoulder. "Why are you talking like this?" I ask.

With an exhausted sigh and a slight shake of her head, she replies, "I don't know." Her hand drops to her lap, and her eyes go wide as if she's staring through a wall across the room, or staring at a ghost. "It's just the truth. I shouldn't be here." I'm very confused by what she’s saying, and I wish Grams would explain herself a bit more. "My heart aches. My hands are shaky and my voice always quakes, but I know I’m not ready for the end."

I spring to my feet. "I'll call 9-1-1, then your doctor. Did you take a baby aspirin this morning?"

"No," she snaps before tugging at my arm so I'll sit back down. "It hurts inside. I’m scared."

"I don't understand what you're talking about?" She doesn't speak this way. She’s strong and brave, never afraid.

"It has been more than seventy-four years," she says again.

"Since what?" I ask.

"It isn't important," she says as she presses her head into the indentation she has made on her chair over the years. Her eyelids close, and she places her soft hand on mine. "Emma, you will always be my sweetheart. You know that, right?"

"Grams," I shout, startled. I press my hands into her shoulders and shake her. "Grams!"

No, no, no! I run to grab my phone, trembling as I dial 9-1-1, and the world freezes in time as I wait what seems like an eternity before my call is connected.

CHAPTER TWO - EMMA

Minutes have turned into hours as Mom, Aunt Annie, and I sit in the waiting room, panicking with anticipation. How did she know something bad was going to happen today? We don't even know if Grams is alive, and the feeling of the unknown is making us sick to our stomachs, which is evident since there are no words exchanged between us.

"She was acting kind of strange right before it happened," I mutter while plucking a loose thread off my torn jeans.

"Like how?" Mom asks.

"I don't know. She was talking about it being more than seventy-four years for something. She seemed confused."

"Seventy-four years?" Annie repeats.

I place my phone down on the little wooden table in front of us, annoyed by the constant vibrating messages from Facebook, incoming calls, and work emails.

"Who is sending you so many messages?" Mom asks.

"I don’t know," I mumble against my fist.

"Well, can you tell them you're busy with a family emergency?"

Rather than doing that, I lean forward to shut the phone off completely, but of course, Mike must call at the exact second I'm pressing the power button.

I pick up the phone since I've already somehow pressed the answer button. "What?"

"Really? We're there now?" he asks with exasperation like he’s the one I should be concerned about right now.

"Mike, I don't have time right this second. Grams passed out—we’re at the hospital. We don't know what’s going on. It's just not a good time. We’ll talk later."

"Oh, shit, Emma, I’m so sorry," he says. "Which hospital are you at?"

"Mass General," I say. Not like it matters to him.

"I’ll be right down."

"Mike, no, its fine—" He disconnects the call. It is neither the place nor the time to try and reconcile our problems. I’m sure he has an apology floating around in that empty head of his, and he thinks he’ll catch me in a moment of weakness with Grams being ill, but I don't want to hear it today.

"Don't tell me he’s coming down here?" Mom groans.

"What was I supposed to do? He hung up on me."

"Well, call him back and tell him no. It’s family only."

She's right, and I go to call him back, but just as I find his number, a doctor opens the door to the tiny waiting room we’re occupying. We all stand as if waiting to be sentenced in a courtroom. "Doctor, what's going on?" I ask.

The doctor is young, maybe fresh out of residency, but I already appreciate his bedside manner, seeing the reassuring smile on his face. "Amelia is going to be just fine," he says.

Without thought, we all lunge at him and wrap our arms around his neck. "Oh my gosh, thank you so much," I tell him. Out of the three of us, I'm probably the only one who can speak since Mom and Annie are crying. "So, what was it?"

We peel ourselves away from the poor man, and he pulls up a chair as the four of us take a seat. The doctor has kind eyes—a look that emanates ease and comfort. His smile is sort of charming, and it’s clear he knows how to handle a roomful of teary eyes. "First, I'm Doctor Beck." He places his hand on his chest before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I’ve been the one taking care of your mother—grandmother," he says, looking between Mom and Annie, then me. "Amelia did have a mild stroke, but we were able to dissolve the clot with a special drug meant specifically for these situations. Fortunately, we were able to prevent the stroke from progressing and doing more damage."

"But you just said she was okay?" I question.

"What's the damage?" Mom finally asks.

Dr. Beck sits up and leans back against his chair, maintaining a level of comfort, which keeps us calm. "As of right now, there doesn't appear to be any physical damage other than a very slight weakness in her left arm and leg, but she does seem a bit confused, which is normal after a stroke."

Annie is breathing heavily, losing herself in thought like she often does. I know her well enough to assume she’s going through the long list of "what ifs" in her head. "Will the confusion subside?" she asks.

"In most situations, it resolves itself with time. In my experience, I’ve seen mild cases of memory loss or delusion, but with cognitive therapy, it's something that can improve." Dr. Beck folds his hands on his lap as he continues to explain everything to us in a way we understand. "To be honest, though, we should be focused on the fact that this could have been much worse, and since you acted so quickly, she has minimal damage." Mom and Annie place their hands on my back, silently thanking me for being there when this happened. It was just luck, though. I hate to think what could have happened if I wasn’t there.

"When can we see her?" Mom asks Dr. Beck.

"Just as soon as we go over one more thing," he says. "Amelia has a condition called atrial fibrillation. This condition causes an arrhythmic heartbeat. Basically, when the heart is beating erratically, it can cause the heart to spit out blood clots. The clot can then become lodged in an artery, causing a shortage of blood to the brain, which is more than likely what caused this stroke."

I feel like I just heard a whole lot of gibberish. "What does that mean? She could have another stroke?" Annie asks. The tone of her voice is one step away from a total meltdown. I can sense it coming.

"What I'd like to do is place a pacemaker in her chest cavity, which will hopefully keep her heart beating in a regular rhythm. Doing this will help lessen the chances of another stroke."

She's ninety-two. This can't be a good idea.

"What if we decide against the procedure?" Mom asks.

Dr. Beck pulls in a sharp breath and holds it for a second before continuing. "Honestly, the likelihood of another stroke is moderate to high," he says.

I look over at Mom and Annie who appear to be struggling with the decision. "Do it," I tell him.

"Emma!" Mom snaps.

"It's the right thing to do."

"What about the risks involved in the surgery?" Annie questions.

"In my opinion, the risk of inserting a pacemaker is small, but the risk of another stroke without a pacemaker is concerning," Dr. Beck says. "You can come on back and see her now. Talk everything over with her, and let me know when you’ve made a decision."

We follow Dr. Beck through the door and into the ICU. The sounds of odd beeps and air pumping through machines behind closed curtains are noises that I never want to hear again after today. My chest tightens as we reach the end of the hall, knowing how hard it’s going to be to see Grams lying helpless in a hospital bed.

She has been a force of nature my entire life. Nothing has ever slowed her down or kept her from doing the things she's wanted to do. Up until now, she has driven her own car, shopped, taken walks, and she even goes out for dinner with friends. I can only hope I'm the same way at her age. Now, though, when I enter the room, she's lying quietly in a hospital bed, asleep, with wires hooked up to various parts of her body. She's pale, and her hair is a mess—this is not the woman I know. My heart breaks at the sight of her, and I grab my chest as if that will help me hold its broken pieces together.

"Grams," I say softly, making my way to the side of her bed.

"Mom," Annie follows.

Grams opens her eyes slowly as a tentative smile presses against the corners of her lips into the dimples of her soft powdery cheeks. "My girls," she says, sounding so frail. "I thought today was going to be the day."

"We're not letting anything happen to you," I tell her, taking her limp hand within mine as I stroke my thumb across the wrinkled skin on her knuckles.

"Where is Charlie?" she asks as her forehead furrows with concern?

"Who is Charlie?" Annie asks Grams.

"Oh, you know Charlie, girls." She laughs at us as if we're ridiculous for not knowing this man.

Grandpa's name was Max, so I don't think she'd be confusing the names. "We don't know anyone named Charlie," I tell her.

"Oh, sure you do, silly. Of course, you know Charlie Crane."

I share a look with Mom and Annie, each of us as confused as the other. Dr. Beck has been silently standing behind us, patiently waiting to check in with Grams. "This is the confusion I mentioned," Dr. Beck says. "She was sharing some stories from the past, and I'm not sure she understands what year it is."

"You all have such beautiful hair," Grams says, struggling to lift her hand before twirling one of my waves around her finger. "So…beautiful."

I don't understand why she’s talking to us this way. "Thanks, Grams," I tell her, taking her hand back within mine. "You're going to be okay."

"I know, but you three may not be if you don't get out of here soon. I don't want the Nazis to find you in the sick bay."

That word fills my chest with a dark fear. We know little of Grams's history, mainly just that she survived the Holocaust, but her story stopped there. She didn't want us to know details or to live through the same nightmare she did, so we promised never to talk about it.

"Emma," Grams whispers, pulling me down toward her face. "Get my book, will you, sweetie?"

"Book? Grams, I don't know what book you're talking about."

"My special book," she says louder. "Please." She’s clearly agitated with my confusion, but I've never seen any unfamiliar book in her house. The only books I’ve seen are the mystery thrillers she used to read, and I don’t think she’s referring to one of those. "Please find it and bring it to me."

Dr. Beck places his hand on my shoulder, and as I glance over, he nods his head for me to follow him into the hallway. "I'll be right back, Grams."

Mom and Annie don't seem to notice the exchange or the fact that I've followed the doctor out of the room, but I may have an easier time finding out more information without their emotions getting in the way. After walking around the corner, we stop, and Dr. Beck's eyebrows rise a bit. "I'd like to do this surgery immediately. The faster we can do it, the safer she will be."

I inhale heavily and release the air slowly through my pursed lips. This is so much to take in at once. "I understand. I'll do what I can to convince my mom and aunt that it’s what’s best. I don't think either of them are thinking clearly."

"Understandable," he says. "I'm sorry you're going through this." The kindness and sincerity written across his face breaks through the last of my strength I tried to maintain for Mom and Annie’s sake. Tears fall uncontrollably from the corners of my eyes, and I cup my hand over my mouth as I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing this wasn't happening.

"I'm sorry," I choke out.

Dr. Beck wraps his arm around my shoulders and walks me down the corridor, stopping in front of the restroom. "I'll make sure to take good care of her, okay?" He dips his head down to grab my attention and focus. "I promise."

"Thank you," I whisper. "You’ve been really kind and I appreciate it." Most doctors I’ve been around haven’t had such a passionate understanding of how difficult these sorts of events are for families.

"Emma!" As the slightest bit of turmoil briefly lifts from my chest, another heavyweight drops down on the same spot, compressing all my organs into a painful mess. "Emma, there you are." I glance down the hall toward the sound of his voice, wishing I was imagining it as I stifle a groan. Mike is jogging down the hallway with a phony appearance of worry written on his face. Is this a new act he’s trying out?

Dr. Beck lifts his hand from my shoulder and presses his lips into a firm smile. "Well, I'll give you some space. I'll be back to check on your grandmother soon."

"Thank you," I offer with sincerity as he takes off in the other direction.

Mike’s out of breath as he forcefully pulls me into him for a hug. "How's Grams?" he asks while cupping his hand over the back of my head. The exchange feels awkward and unnatural.

"No," I tell him. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend like you suddenly care." He knows I’m weak right now, and that’s his game.

He places his hand on my cheek, making a scene, here, in the intensive care unit’s hallway. "I love you. What more do I need to say? I just want to show you that I'm here. I want to be here."

And I want to be alone.

After a nearly sleepless night mixed with worry and hope, I got up early this morning to search every nook and cranny of Grams's house, searching for the "special" book. Mom and Annie told me not to worry about it—that she must have been confused like the doctor said, but I sat awake for hours last night replaying her words in my head. They must have been right though because I don’t see any book out of the ordinary.

I put everything in Grams’s room back the way I found it before heading into the hallway. As I place my hand on the doorknob of her bedroom, another tear falls from my eye as I consider the day we’ll need to clean this room out. I can’t bear the thought of losing Grams.

Just as I’m closing myself out of the bedroom, my focus settles on a small wooden box beneath the bed. I've seen it there for years, but it never spoke to me until now.

I reopen the door, fall to my knees, and crawl forward a few feet until the box is within reach. It's heavy and full, but I pull it out and find that it isn't just an old box. It has intricate carvings alongside the brass hinges and brackets. The wood is tattered and soft as if it had been touched a thousand times before, yet I get the feeling it has sat here, sealed shut, for years.

Feeling a sense of guilt for prying, I remind myself that she asked me to find her book, and as vague as her plea was, I want to honor her request. I run my fingertips across the aged cover before releasing the clasps, then tug the lid open, listening to the groaning creak fight against the weathered metal springs.

Inside the box there are stacks of old photos and a soft, worn leather-bound book with a red ribbon draped over the top. My heart races at just the sight of the book, wondering what it contains, and questioning what Grams may have hidden from us all these years. I'm not one to spy or eavesdrop, and this feels just like that, so I’m nervous to do much more with the contents. As much as I want to know what this is and what's inside, I carefully pull out the book and hold it against my chest, inhaling the scent of aged parchment paper. Beneath the book are several more Polaroids of Grams in what looks like her early twenties, standing in front of the Statue of Liberty with her beaming smile that has apparently never changed.

I have begged for her story, wanting to know what her life was like, but she was never shy about refusing to discuss the past. She always said, "The future is the only thing that matters." In truth, I'm afraid of what I'd learn if she were ever to fill in the gaps of her life, but I also fear the day that her story could be buried alongside her.

Leaving the rest of the box behind, I stand up with the leather book and eagerly make my way out to the Jeep.

Less than a minute passes after settling into my seat when I feel the book staring at me—begging to be opened and brought back to the life it left behind.

My phone rings, and I’m thankful for the distraction as I pull it out of my purse, finding Mom's name on the display. I answer the call with a clear sense of urgency masking my attempt to sound calm. "Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yes, yes," she says. "We've gone ahead and scheduled the surgery for tomorrow morning. I just wanted to let you know."

Relief overcomes me, knowing I won’t have to argue with her about this decision. "I’m glad you agreed. I think it’s best."

"Me too," she says, still sounding unsure.

"Oh, by the way, I found Grams's book," I tell her.

"What book?" she asks.

"The one she was asking for."

"I know, but what is this book?" Mom asks.

"I have no idea, but it’s old and looks like it contains a lot of stories or memories. I’m taking it over to her now."

"Mike isn't with you, is he?"

"No," I respond through a groan.

"That was very nice of him to stop by yesterday, but we don't need him hanging around the hospital right now."

"Mom," I say, trying to stop any further incoming comments on the subject.

"Emma, you know how I feel about him."

"I do. It’s not like you’ve been subtle about your hatred for Mike. I understand and partially agree with everything you feel."

"I'm glad to hear that," she says. "You should probably stop stringing him along then, and just break it off."

"Mom."

"Emma," she counters.

"I'll only be at the hospital for a little while. I have a deadline for a client this afternoon, and if I don't get the ad design to her, she’s going to find someone else." Business doesn’t end at 5 p.m. in my world, and therefore, neither do my contracting hours of operation.

"And why can't you tell them you have a family emergency?" she argues.

"Mom, it's my business, and I can't cancel all of my jobs. I'll handle it all, don't worry. I'm going to be right by your side tomorrow morning and whenever you need me to be with you."

"Okay," she sighs. "Just wait there until I get back, so she's not alone. I need to take a quick nap and a shower."

"No problem," I tell her.

Since my phone call lasted the entire drive to the hospital, it broke up the eagerness to open Grams’s book, but now that I’m here, excitement is rushing through me as I slide my hands along the warm leather binding. I need to know what’s inside.

I guard it within my arms like a lost treasure as I make my way into the hospital and over to the ICU.

As worried as I was yesterday, I must not have noticed how far the walk to the ICU was, and I'm out of breath by time I reach Grams’s room. Though, it’s perfect timing as I nearly run right into Dr. Beck.

"Emma," he greets me.

"Oh, hi, Dr. Beck. How is she today?"

"That woman…" he points behind him, "she is a spitfire." He laughs and looks over his shoulder at her. "She's doing well."

"Thank you for taking such good care of her," I tell him.

"It's my job," he says. "Will you excuse me, though? I have to tend to another patient right now."

I'm left without words, a bit mesmerized by his sparkling eyes and engaging demeanor, as well as the noticeable fact that he has the most perfect butt that I probably shouldn’t be staring at while he’s walking away. However, I've never actually seen a man's butt fill out a pair of scrubs so perfectly before.

"Emma, is that you?" Thankfully, Grams’s voice interrupts my inappropriate stare and thoughts, and I enter her room.

"It’s me, Grams. I found your book, I think." I rush to her side and gently place it down on her lap. The corners of her lips perk into a smile as she keeps her focus set on the ceiling above our heads.

"The nice doctor told me I might not be able to see very clearly for the next few days, but you know what?"

"What?" I question.

"I can see he's very handsome," she says through weak laughter.

My cheeks burn, knowing Mom is a replica of Grams in every way. Both want nothing more than to point out the obviously attractive men in this world, constantly reminding me that I'm still not married and don’t have children. It's becoming a running joke—one with an underlying meaning I've gotten good at sweeping under the carpet. "Anyway," I try to change the subject, "I hope this is the book you were referring to."

"It is," she says, glancing down at it. She lifts the cover, and the spine crackles against the tug as she flips through a couple of pages. Grams appears to be reacquainting herself with the pages as she runs her fingertips down the center of a handwritten page that looks like a diary entry of some sort.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I wrote this after I arrived in New York, back in 1945. It's so hard to remember the details now, but that's precisely why I wrote everything down while the memories were fresh in my mind."

"Memories?" I question. I know Grams arrived in New York around 1944 or 1945, just after the end of the war, but beyond that, I know very little.

She tries to lift the book, but her hands shake while attempting to do so. "Would you mind?"

"Mind?"

"Yes, Emma, would you please read me this page."

I take the book from her hands and turn around in search of a place to sit. I pull the blue plastic bucket chair over to Grams's side of the bed and take a seat. With the book resting on my lap, I scan the page, admiring her beautiful handwriting along the yellowed lines of the cream-colored paper. "Are you sure, Grams?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks, sounding confused.

"You have never wanted to share much of your past with me," I tell her, assuming that's what is contained within these pages.

"It’s time I tell you what happened," she responds without hesitation. "So, please, please read my words. I need to remember Charlie."

CHAPTER THREE - AMELIA

Day 1 - January 1942

Mama said to close my eyes and take a deep breath when I got scared. It would offer me a moment of distraction from whatever was making me upset. So, I counted as I inhaled, wishing the sounds would go away and leave us to the little freedom we had left. With my eyes closed, I was more aware of my racing pulse and the rhythmic sound of my unsteady breaths.

The clothes covering my body smelled of clean soap—a scent I had always enjoyed after Mama and I brought the dry laundry in from the clothesline outside. I knew at that moment that I wanted to remember the fresh smell because it was home, and that’s what they were there for—our home.

Heavy footsteps on the creaking floors sent shivers through my soul. I heard them moving through the darkness of our small house, then a beam from a flashlight bounced off the walls and worked its way through the makeshift cloth doors I was hiding behind.

"Their plates are half full, and the food is still warm," one of them said. "They're in here somewhere." As the voices continued, I heard one of them chewing the food Mama had just prepared for us. It made me sick.

We knew the day was coming, but we didn't know when. I had foolishly suggested we run away and hide, but Mama and Papa said it wasn't a possibility because there was no place to hide.

We were stalling, hoping for a miracle, but there had been no miracles in Prague for quite some time, and the hope we once held onto was fading by the minute.

As I listened, feeling helpless and full of fear, I could hear them in Jakob's room, tossing his books and tearing his drawings down from the walls. Then, a loud crash followed the smaller sounds. A tear skated down my cheek as imagined the noise had come from his bureau or bed.

A groan followed every bang, and wrestling noises ensued. "No, no," Jakob screamed.

"Who else lives here with you?" a man asked.

"No, one," Jakob shouted. "I live alone."

Jakob was a little less than two years older than I, and at nineteen, he was trying to protect our family from what was happening, but even the smartest and bravest couldn't seem to conquer the army of Nazis hunting us down.

"You're a liar." The man continued yelling at Jakob in a thick German accent that was hardly understandable, but then I clearly heard the man follow with, "I can see the nervous look in your eye." Our walls were thin, and I heard every one of Jakob’s nervous breaths. He always had trouble breathing in stressful conditions, and that situation was making it so much worse.

The sounds of wrestling continued and I squeezed my eyes shut while trying to imagine being somewhere else, but it was impossible to block out the truth.

Papa stormed through the hallway, interrupting the interrogation in Jakob’s bedroom. I knew it was him by the way his shoes clapped against the wooden floors—it was different from the sound of a boot's thud. "Let go of my son, now!" Papa yelled. "Jakob, run!"

"He was lying," one of the Nazi's said again—the man’s voice was calm and apathetic about the torment he was causing our family. "How many more of you are in here?"

"There is no one else here," Papa said. "Take me and leave my son; he is of no use to you."

"You're a liar too," the Nazi said, playfully, as if he were enjoying the anguish. I didn’t know how many of those soldiers were in our house, but I was sure I heard at least three different voices.

Boots charged through the hallway, and as the echoes grew louder, I realized they must have known exactly where I was hiding. They were heading straight for me.

The cloth hanging in front of my closet’s opening were torn from the rod as the glow of their flashlights pierced through the fabric that was still draped over me.

I was kicked hard—hard enough that I may have normally squealed or let out a cry, but I held my breath through the pain, trying my best to be brave. "What is under here?" a man questioned. I felt as though I was being teased and toyed with, just as Papa was. It continued to be a game for them as the clothes were peeled away, one article at a time, until I was uncovered and exposed as I cowered in the corner while their light blinded me.

My racing heart felt as though it were free-falling through my body like a lead weight, and I felt numb as I was pulled up to my feet. Fear, unlike anything I had ever known overwhelmed all my senses, making it hard to breathe. A hand cuffed my arm tightly and the soldier yanked me forward, forcing me to trip over my dress as I stumbled to keep up with his pace. "No!" I shrieked. "Leave us alone!"

"Do not fight with us, Jew. Grab a coat and a bag. You’re coming with us."

"I have a right to be here! This is our home, and you are trespassing." Papa often told me that my mouth would get me into trouble someday, but if that were the day, I would rather it be because I was trying to protect my family versus giving in without a fight.

"You no longer have any rights. You are a Jew—you're nothing more than an animal." The Nazi stared down at me, pausing before dragging me out the door. His lip snarled as if he were an angry dog. I couldn’t understand what I did to make anyone hate me that much. He didn’t know me or my family. He didn’t know any of us living in that town, but he hated us because someone told him to feel that way.

"I am a human being, like you." I spoke so softly, my words were probably inaudible, but I had to say it. He needed to hear how I felt, even if it meant nothing to him.

Despite my efforts, however, it was obvious my words had no effect on him. All that seemed to matter was that he knew I was weaker than him, and I didn’t have the physical strength to resist his power as he pulled me out of my house. He dragged me by my heels behind him as we followed in the path of Papa and Jakob.

"Please," I heard Mama cry out. "Please don’t take my family."

"Mama, go back inside," I shouted at her.

"Let my children go!" she shouted. "Those are my babies. I put them on this earth, and you cannot take them away from me. They’re mine!"

"They are not children or babies," one of the Nazis said.

"Let them go, you monsters!" she shouted louder as she tried to jump on the man pulling me. She clawed at his back, pounding her fists against him, but did little, if any, damage. "Run, Amelia. Run!" Mama told me.

The Nazi soldier didn’t loosen his grip on me for a second. I could have pulled as hard as I wanted to, but he had me trapped. "I can’t get away, Mama."

Another Nazi took hold of Mama and dragged her away. I watched over my shoulder as she was pushed down to her knees while cradling her hands around the back of her head.

I prayed to God, begging him not to let them hurt her.

"Amelia, turn around and go!" she cried out. I had never heard Mama cry before then, not once in my entire life.

I cried softly to myself, begging them not to touch her. I kept saying, "No," over and over, but none of them heard me. No one cared.

The world froze around me and a cold sweat coated my skin as that Nazi screamed a line of obscenities at Mama before pulling out his gun. I watched as he aimed it at the back of her head, and again, I prayed he was just trying to torture and scare her, but the sound of a loud click changed that thought. "Mama!" I screamed. "I love you, Mama. Please, don’t hurt her!"

"Amelia," she sobbed, looking up at me. "Fight and be strong. For me."

"Mama, no," I whimpered as the blast from the gun thumped against the inside and outside of my chest. I tried to escape the hands pushing me along, but when I saw Mama fall, crumpling to the ground like a rag doll, I froze in place—I felt paralyzed. "Mama, please don't leave me!" It didn’t matter how much I begged. My voice wasn’t heard, and if it was, it was ineffective and too late.

Brokenhearted and shattered, I was shoved into the back of a line of other Jews who were also being shuttled down the cobblestone street.

I stumbled backwards, watching as blood sprayed from the side of Mama's head, painting the old cobblestones burgundy as her life poured out of her and trickled down the street.

I cried silently among the gasps of surrounding bystanders. I thought maybe I had imagined it, but no matter how many times I blinked, the scene was still in front of me.

She was gone and there was nothing left of her.

Tears filled my eyes as agony shuddered through my chest. I just watched Mama die—she was murdered. I tried to swallow but my throat was drier than sandpaper.

She was just trying to protect us, but without mercy or a chance for real goodbyes, they took her from me. There was no sense of humanity among the soldiers. Just as we had heard thousands of times before: as far as Hitler and his army were concerned…Jews were nothing.

As we were herded like sheep, I leaned to the side, looking for Papa and Jakob. I caught Papa’s gaze as he was muttering words to himself. I assumed he was praying and reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish for Mama, but it was only a brief second before he was pushed around the corner. His eyes looked empty as if all the life had been sucked out of him.

Mama and Papa had been married for twenty-two years. They were as happy as two people could be together, and in the timeframe of a few minutes, our family had been torn apart, and Mama was dead. While realization consumed me, a hollow feeling in my chest engulfed my entire body, I pulled at the collar of my dress beneath my coat, tearing the material in an expression of my grief. Since I had never lost someone close to me, I’d never had cause to do so before, but as I felt the threads tear, I immediately understood the purpose and meaning behind the Jewish tradition. It was like a reflection of what was happening inside me—I felt my heart shredding to pieces just like the cloth, as if it were made from nothing more than a thin piece of paper.

Adding to my devastation, the fear of where they were taking us bled through me as I continued to pray it was all a nightmare.

A hand squeezed my shoulder, and a woman's voice whispered into my ear. It was as if that woman were placed in that spot at that moment just to tell me exactly what I needed to hear. "You need to stay alive. You must stop crying. I understand your pain, but your mama would want you to be strong now. Do it for her."

The woman kept her hand on my shoulder as we continued to shuffle behind the line of others. It gave me little comfort, but at least I wasn’t alone.

I knew I wasn't the only one who wanted to know where we were going. Despite being told that there would be shelter for us once the Nazis took over our homes, no one knew where the shelter was.

When the line stopped moving, I was no longer able to see anything happening in front of, or behind me. The sun had set, and the streetlights weren't bright enough to offer much visibility.

I needed to be with Papa and Jakob, and I wanted to stop shaking both from the cold and the utter horror I had witnessed. I couldn't stop thinking about Mama and the fact that she was probably still sprawled out in the middle of the street in front of our family's home, lifeless and alone.

There was a time when we had everything, or so it seemed, but in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Nothing would ever be normal again. Carefree, happy days had already been taken from us several months earlier, but I knew then that the hope of finding those times again were gone forever. I needed Mama; she was my best friend, the closest person in my life, and the one who was always there for me—even during her last moments. I did everything I could to hold back the tears. The pain was unbearable as I kept visualizing that scene of Mama’s murder repeatedly playing out in my mind. What was she thinking right before that man shot her? Did she know she was going to die? Did she suffer, or had she died instantly? I prayed she didn’t live long enough to feel the agonizing pain. I prayed she went to heaven peacefully and quickly. Then, there was a part of me was envious of her because she didn’t have to go on with a broken heart like the rest of us would.

I closed my eyes to block out my surroundings, but all I could see behind my eyelids were blurry pools of blood and splattered red blotches painting a landscape of death. There was no way to escape. I wanted to drop to the ground and scream and cry, but I was too scared. It was so hard to hold it all in, and accompanying my pain was a mortal fear beyond words.

The woman who stood behind me tugged at my shoulder that she was still holding onto, forcing me to turn around and face her. She was young, maybe just a few years older than I was, but she was pregnant and cradling her belly with her free hand. "Are you okay?" the woman asked.

"No," I whispered. No one was okay. We were all freezing, waiting for whatever the soldiers had in store for us.

The only sounds within the narrow alleyway were heavy breaths from the others, along with a light breeze that blurred the line between reality and hell.

"Do you know where we are going or what they have planned for us?" I asked the woman I was facing. She shook her head as she pulled her wool coat tightly over her protruding belly. "No. They came in, raided our house, and forced us out," she said.

"Are you alone?" I asked her, wondering if I was the only unlucky one to be separated from my family.

She twisted her head to the right and took a man's hand—I assumed he was her husband—and pulled him up alongside her. "It’s the two—well, three of us, God willing," she said. "What about you?"

Once again, I looked for any sight of Papa or Jakob, but I didn't see them anywhere. "My Papa and older brother are up ahead in the line," I told her. "But my Mama was—"

The woman placed her hand on my cheek and hushed me. "I know." Her kindness forced a wave of emotion to unravel within me. A lump caught in my throat, but I managed to pull in a bit of air with the hope of maintaining control. I knew I couldn't cry. Along with being terrified that those heartless men would try to make an example of me just as they did with Mama, I also knew I couldn't let them see how much they had taken from me.

The woman lowered her hand to mine and squeezed it tightly. "I'm Leah," she said, peacefully. She was like a brave angel.

"My name is Amelia," I told her in the same soft tone.

"We have to be strong, Amelia. That’s all we can do right now."

The meaning of strong had rapidly changed throughout the previous hour. Before that first day, being strong meant holding in my tears when I scraped my knee as a child, or learning to keep my chin up when a boy at school would tease me. I was strong when Grandmother passed away, knowing she had lived a long, fulfilling life. At that moment in time, though, I didn't know how to be strong—not after watching Mama murdered in cold blood.

The worst part was that I had no idea how much stronger I would need to become in the coming weeks.