After tying my hair in a ponytail and cleaning up my running makeup, I slip into what my mother refers to as “low-maintenance pjs” and head back down the stairs with the full intention of doing chores.
Before stepping outside with my bag of waste, I check that my neighbors, especially Sam, are not out front. I don’t want anyone seeing me this way. It was bad enough I had to look in the mirror when I put my hair up. Insults from earlier today, about Roger saying how I’m “over my talk time” and I “use the bathroom too much” flood my thoughts as I walk to the curb where my garbage can sits. I give the bag a good shove inside, then let the lid fall. Turning to head back, surprise sends me backpedaling until my butt hits the can.
“Hey, Ferrin. Nice night, huh?”
I find myself speechless as I stare into Sam’s eyes. My mouth falls open and some sort of squeaky gibberish that I can’t even interpret falls from my lips like rocks landing on glass.
Finally able to form a single word, I greet him. “Hi.”
He lifts the lid on his can and shoves a box of books and photos into it.
A photo falling on the damp grass catches my attention, and I call out, “Hey! What’s all this? Why are you tossing these?” I bend and pick up the picture.
Sam shrugs and even that motion makes my insides quiver.
Staring at the photo, I applaud what great shape it’s in despite looking over seventy years old. Unabashed by my actions, I dig into the box and pull out books.
“You can’t throw this out. It’s history.”
His lips curl into a sly smile as he watches me with an entertained expression. “You can have this stuff if you want it. I’m clearing out my attic.”
With a huff, and amazed at his lack of nostalgia, I lift the box from inside his trashcan.
“There’s a couple more on my back porch if you want those, too.” He smiles.
“Can I come get them tomorrow?” I look up at the darkening sky. “I think it’s about to start raining again.” Internally I congratulate myself on coming up with a plan that allows me to interact with him.
“Not a problem. If I’d known you’d be interested in this old junk I wouldn’t have tried throwing it away.”
“I’m shocked at your lack of appreciation for history, Samuel,” I mock, scolding him and trying my best at flirting. Shaking my head, raindrops pelt the top of it as I hustle toward my front door.
His infectious laughter from behind me gives me a boost of confidence. I almost turn and invite him in to go through the box, but self-doubt squashes any hopes of having this marvelous man join me. With a glance behind me, I nod and smile before going inside.
Placing the heavy box down by the front door and rejuvenated by my interaction with Sam, I listen to the rumbles in my gut and go to the kitchen to make dinner while kicking myself for not having the nerve to ask Sam over.
Setting my freshly washed dinner dishes in the drying rack, I go through my normal routine of packing lunch, showering, and getting ready for bed. Before stepping upstairs, my eyes land on the box I rescued from Sam’s garbage can. Stooping, I rummage through pictures and old newspapers, some of which crumble with my touch, before my hands land on a book. Picking it up, I open it.
To my intrigue, a phrase handwritten in German is the first thing I see. I think of how lucky I am to have studied the language in high school and college. Tucking the journal under my arm, I head upstairs. In my room, I place the book on my nightstand and turn down my bed, glancing regularly at the diary. My excitement grows, wondering about the contents waiting inside. My love for history and reading spikes my heartrate as I think of the adventures that may lie inside the pages of this antique book.
“Otis!” I call.
The faint tapping of his paws coming up the stairs brings on a smile. When he struts into the room, his tail waves high.
“Time for bed,” I say, patting my comforter.
With a leap, he jumps onto the bed before circling his blanket several times, finally resting in one spot. Climbing in, the first thing I do once I’m under my covers is grab my glasses and the dusty diary. I blow across the cover and watch dust particles fly off the book. It smells like the old stacks at libraries. A tickle causes me to wiggle my nose, and I laugh a little.
Otis lets out several sneezes, then gives me a nasty cat glance. “What are we reading tonight, Mum?” he asks in my mind.
I lean over and pet his head. “A diary Sam gave us. Promises to be good.”
“For all that dust, it best be.” He closes his eyes and purrs.
Taking care, I open the book to the first page.
2 October 1941
I have heard love described many different ways throughout my seventeen years of life: butterflies, walking on clouds, a star exploding in the sky… With all I’ve been told, I never anticipated how love would actually feel. I’M IN LOVE. I’m in love and I can barely breathe. Joy overwhelms my heart to the point that it may burst from my chest. I am in love…
Chapter 2 – Estherly
2 October 1941
“Estherly?” Mae asks, as she shakes me.
I finally look up from daydreaming and watching two young boys run across the schoolyard to see what she wants. Mae and I have been friends since we were eight years old. She’s dear to me. I’ve never met someone as kind-hearted and genuine as her. Since we started school, Mae and I have eaten lunch together each day on the lawn. Sometimes my ten-year-old sister, Anika, joins us, but today she’s home ill.
“What is it?” I ask.
“He’s staring at you again. He can’t keep his eyes off you. Nazi pig!” she says under her breath, barely loud enough for me to hear.
I roll my eyes and let out a groan. “No, he’s not… he’s watching everyone. That’s his job. Finish your lunch before we have to get back to class.”
Satisfied with my lack of interest in the soldier, she flips her long brown hair to one side and continues eating.
I pop a piece of cold boiled potato into my mouth. I run my hand over the soft, cool grass as the fall sunshine kisses my face and soaks into my skin. For one moment, in the warmth of the striking sun, my life is normal.
Catching my breath, I think of simpler times. I long for the days of my childhood, running barefoot during summertime, playing with my sisters, and being teased by my brother. I can still smell the sweet fragrance of wildflowers floating in the warm breeze that speckled the grounds around our two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of Berlin. We enjoyed being outside together until it was time for dinner.
I remember nights when my mother would call us to the table; the aroma of what she prepared filled the air. I would inhale, taking in the scent, as the six of us sat down to enjoy the meal that greeted us.
Gathered together for dinner, we told stories of our days, shared dreams for our future, and reminisced about times gone by. Sometimes, after dinner, my father would get out his guitar and sing to us. His perfect pitch soothed me.
I close my eyes and think about what he sang to me. The memory warms my heart.
As he would strum, my brother Gavi would chime in with his harmonica, creating an ambient melody. Sometimes the music would stir in my soul, causing me to take to my feet and flutter around the room, my family in awe of the dance I performed. At times my sisters and I sang along, searching for the right harmony, taking turns singing the lead. My mother, not the best singer, clapped along with impeccable rhythm, the love she had for each of us shining in her eyes. Our house was filled with joy. Our house was filled with hope.