Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

Choice and Chance (Part 6)

        The two sat in silence for a little while.
        “You died in a coma,” the boatman said quietly. “I’m allowed to know that information because everyone wakes up differently depending on how they died. They told me you didn’t get enough oxygen to your brain so you might have been disoriented and have a headache when you woke up, so I had to be patient while you recovered a bit.”
        The pain in Ted’s head started to return again in a small wave. “That…explains a lot, actually. I think I’m going to be sick.”
        “Put your head down,” the boatman said. “But you won’t get sick. There shouldn’t be anything in your stomach and your body is dead so nothing can poison you.”
        Even in pain, Ted chuckled at the logic. He felt sick and no one could argue with that, but the pain was starting to subside, even if the nausea just hung at the back of his throat. Ted shook the last of the headache out and finished shuffling the cards, dealing them slowly.
        “I’m sorry,” the gondolier said quietly. “That’s got to be really hard to hear.”
        Ted didn’t answer. After pushing back the sinking feeling that arose while he studied his sorry hand, Ted looked up and found his opponent looking at him with embarrassed intensity, his cards still in a haphazard stack on the table.
        The boatman took a deep breath. “Let’s make a different deal,” he said. “I’ll take you to the city if you let me see your wife.”
        “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ted said, flipping the first card face-up.
        “There’s a way to do it. If we go quickly, no one will know you have died, I can take your place in your body just for a few minutes and…”
        “And, what? She probably knew the second I died. In modern hospitals, machines notify you the second someone stops breathing or their heart stops.”
        “I know that! But, some people die twice, I’ve seen it.”
        Ted sighed. “Why do you want to see her?”
        “Because she sounds like an angel and all I get to see down here are people at their worst. You think things change when you die, they don’t. This isn’t heaven, this isn’t hell or purgatory, it’s the world all over again but when everyone is immortal and I’m sure you’re learned enough to know that immortality is a curse.”
        “You fell in love with her from just hearing me talk? I can’t believe it.”
        “It’s not love,” he answered back, quickly. “I’m just…curious.”
        “Why torture yourself over something you can’t have? You get a few minutes and that’s it; then you get an eternity of memory.”
        “I don’t have any other memories. Please let me have one happy one.”
        Ted sighed. “No. Let’s just stick to our original deal.”
        “I let you win, you know,” the boatman said, playing his card.
        “What?”
        “I let you win those last two hands,” he said, taking a card from the deck and playing another.
        “Well they were close hands, but I’m getting the hang of it. I could probably—”
        “No you couldn’t.”
        Ted turned red and angrily put down his card. Almost immediately, it was followed by another play and the game continued in silence as the two sped through the deck of cards. All strategy was thrown out the window, Ted realized when he got to the second half of play, but he was so angry at being challenged, that he didn’t care.
        He lost, just as was predicted.
        “Please let me see her.”
        Ted leaned back in his chair and stared his small collection of cards. Who knew what lie ahead in the city, but it was probably better than drowning again at the hands of regretful spirits in the water. His opponent might have been young and naive in every respect except his card-playing, but Ted felt bad for his companion and the more he considered the less he could see the problem of the new bargain.
        “All right, but don’t do anything brash and unexpected and don’t say anything stupid, either. I don’t want her to suspect that it’s not me and I don’t want the last moments to be ones she’ll be scared about.”
        The boatman smiled and helped Ted back onto the boat. Just as soon as he was seated, the platform rapidly diminished and then faded into darkness. For the first time, Ted felt tired and trapped at his predicament. He wanted to see Michelle again, but it was probably just as well that he couldn’t. He knew no one had ever cheated death and the world he had to leave behind was probably worse than the monotony he was going to face in the afterlife. They reached the ledge where Ted had woken up, although there was now a ladder on the far wall across from the river. The gondolier got up and helped Ted out of the boat with a nervous warning not to follow and then quickly climbed up the ladder into the darkness that Ted had assumed was a ceiling.
        Ted stood for a bit, getting used to the feeling of solid ground, and listening to the sounds of water lapping against the stone ledge. Maybe he had made the wrong choice in letting the boatman up the ladder into his body. If he had cheated death thus far by avoiding swimming the river, maybe he could get away with just returning back to the surface. Besides, the men who had gone after him and nearly killed him might return for Michelle and the kids to pay the debt.
        But then again, they didn’t really kill him; they had just gotten really close. They might have been caught and punished and then Michelle had been safe. He had made far too many mistakes in his lifetime and maybe it was time for once to follow the rules. Besides, he had a chance to start over. It seemed like it might be a completely alien world but from what he had seen, it wasn’t so different from the last one. He was lucky for second chances.
        Soon the gondolier came back down the ladder and once his feet had reached the platform, the ladder disappeared.
        “Thank you,” he said, smiling. He put a cold hand on Ted’s shoulder in a warm, friendly gesture. “Really.”
        “Thank you,” Ted said. “For breaking the rules.”
        The boatman chuckled and led Ted back into the boat before pushing off the ledge and down the dark river until they reached the glittering stone pier of the City of the Dead. Thousands of people milled about the banks performing jobs that Ted couldn’t describe. For being some place in within the darkness, the city was brighter and more vibrant than a living counterpart. Ted took a deep breath and actually felt a bit of excitement.
        “Well, this is it,” the boatman said, cheerfully. “Come on, let’s get you the employment office and then a place to sleep.”
        “That sounds great.”

Author’s note on post 418: Finally, the concluding segment. I re-wrote the ending, which is why it took so long. I couldn’t figure out how I wanted to fix it, just that it needed fixing. So, I think this is the final I’m going with and I’m not going to keep you hanging any longer. I have a post for tomorrow, so tune in next time. I don’t have a ton of time to be writing (this weekend is just a fluke, honest), so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to post again. I might go back to doing 10-minute stories; we’ll see.

Choice and Chance (Part 5)

Why, hello there! Miss me? It took me a little while, but I’m back to writing and editing. To catch up with this portion of the story, click here.

        Without a word, the boatman dealt the cards and started the game. He remained quiet through most of it, but he seemed less focused on the cards. Ted tried to take full advantage of his opponent’s spaciness, but didn’t feel to confident about the outcome of the game.
        “What was her favorite flower?” the boatman asked.
        “Whose?” Ted asked absentmindedly.
        “Michelle. What was her favorite flower?”
        Ted stopped, his mind blank, even though it was his turn to play a card. It was odd hearing someone else say her name, and so innocently, that it threw Ted off guard. Luckily, his opponent was in no hurry and didn’t rush either the game or his answer. But no matter how much Ted tried to think about his wife, he had no idea what her favorite flower was. He vaguely remember her favorite color as yellow, but they seldom had any yellow flowers in the garden. Except marigolds.
        “Marigolds.”
        “Really?”
        “I don’t know, maybe.”
        Ted looked up in time to catch a glimmer of disappointment on his opponent’s face. Ted frowned slightly and played what he card he thought was best. They continued in silence with Ted gaining more and more cards. He felt more confident, but a fighting worry that he would get cocky and lose still gnawed at his conscience. Play it like your Poker games, he thought, and you’ll be fine.
        Memories of his last Poker game came back in a haze. Then came flashes of the beatings, the moldy basement, and the weight of the hand holding his head underwater while his lungs marked the milliseconds like an extremely precise bomb before exploding into darkness.
        “You won again,” the boatman said a little too cheerfully. Ted was breathing hard and fast, and he swallowed hard to try and calm himself down. He stood up and tried facing the water, but the dock swayed with his sudden movement and almost sent him into the darkness at his feet.
        “Careful,” a somewhat panicked voice called out from behind him. The jolt of shock at almost being dropped back into water caused Ted to sober up and he sat back down at the table and grabbed his cards.
        “I counted those already,” his opponent said, but Ted ignored him and counted them again. There were some high cards in the pile that he didn’t remember playing, but he took them anyway and then gathered the remaining cards to shuffle.
        “Are you all right?”
        The question seemed clear enough, but Ted wasn’t sure how to respond. “I—” he stopped and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking as he put down the deck. “I just had a flash back to how I died. Or how I think I died, I don’t know.”

Author’s comments on post 417: Another cliff hanger, but there will be answers next time…whenever that is…

Choice and Chance (Part 4)

        “What’s your name?” he asked his opponent as he dealt the thirteen cards for the game.
        “I can’t remember,” he said as if he was talking about a forecast of consistently sunny weather. “That’s the problem of being led down the Lethe. You forget things.”
        Ted surveyed his cards. “How many rivers are there?”
        “Five.”
        “And where do they go?”
        “The Underworld doesn’t really have a name, which is kind of weird, now that I think about it. And, well, only people who can afford it go, but it’s not a bad existence. You get assigned to a job and you do it. Once they find you a perfect job, you stay there. I haven’t gotten there, yet, though. We’re still trying to figure it out.”
        Ted nodded and they continued play in silence before the gondolier asked, rather quietly:
        “Do you remember?”
        “Remember what?”
        “Your name, how you died. Anything from when you were alive? Some people do, but I don’t talk to them much because they’re either crazy from shock or too snooty to bother talking to those of us who don’t.”
        “Um, well, I remember my name is Ted Ryner and I worked as a security guard and I played black market poker on Saturdays. You couldn’t have picked Poker, huh?”
        The gondolier smiled. “I’m not very good at it.”
        That’s a shame, Ted thought as he studied his cards. He was doing better than he thought he might.
        “What is black market poker?”
        “We would bet on illegal stuff that people would represent with vouchers. Don’t worry, I always got cash since I didn’t want anything too incriminating on me if the cops stopped the game. I had a wife and kids to worry about.”
        The game seemed to be taking a turn for the worse for Ted. Panic hit him again, but he managed to push it out of the way.
        “You had a wife?”
        “Listen, you’re better at this game than I am. Do you mind if we don’t talk so I can concentrate?”
        “Sorry,” the boatman said so quietly Ted almost didn’t catch it. At the end of the game (Ted ended up winning), the boatman shuffled the cards and repeated his question.
        “Yeah. Michelle was her name. We met in high school and weren’t really close, but she was the only person I knew in college, so we became friends. It took me a long time to realize she was the girl I wanted to marry.”
        “Was she pretty?”
        “Kid, she was beautiful.”
        “What was she like?”
        “She became a physicist in a small lab almost right out of school and she stayed working there. She was incredibly bright and a hard worker. And she loved to sing. She played piano or guitar to accompany herself when she thought I wasn’t home or the kids needed calming down. She used to sing to herself, too, when she thought she was alone. I don’t know if she loved singing more than physics, but she certainly did it a lot when she was lost in thought. She loved gardening too, which was fine by me. As long as she had a garden and plenty of yard, she was quite content.” Ted stopped talking, still stuck on his wife and the last time he saw her. The kids were out in the garden, it was sunny, and she was bent over some pink flower he had never heard of. And then, there was a knock on the door and…
        He snapped back to the game. “Are you ever going to finish shuffling?” he asked, not meaning to sound hostile but coming across that way all the same.

Author’s comments on post 416: Sorry for the ending, gang, but that’s how I’m going to have to end it for a little while. The whole thing thus far should be up on the page called "Choice and Chance" for your convenience.

Choice and Chance (Part 3)

        Ted stepped onto the boat and sat down instinctively to avoid the craft from tipping over, but it barely reacted to Ted’s step or the added weight. All at once, the boatman pushed the craft forward quickly down the river. It soon got dark in the tunnel, which brought to Ted’s attention that he hadn’t noticed a light source earlier, but he could definitely see the alcove and river as if there had been a dim flood light. Only the sound of sloshing water gave any indication that they were making progress until the boat turned sharply to the left and Ted could see an island ahead as if it was under a spotlight. Under different circumstances, he might have rolled his eyes at the overly dramatic setting, but the pain had returned to his head when panic hit his stomach like a bullet.
        When they had gotten closer, he could see that the island was a floating deck held to the riverbed by four chains. In the middle of the deck was a table and two chairs opposing each other. The gondolier stopped the boat and helped Ted onto the deck, which did give under his weight letting a little water lap at Ted’s shoes. He quickly walked to the center and sat down in a chair, then realizing that a chess board and scattered deck of cards were already waiting for them. The gondolier took his seat across from Ted and, after pushing the chess pieces aside, he gathered the cards, expertly shuffling them for what seemed like several minutes.
        “German Whist,” he said. “That’s what we’re going to play. Have you ever played before?”
        “No,” Ted said, trying to take an inconspicuous deep breath to calm himself down as panic mounted.
        “It’s pretty easy,” his opponent said and cheerfully went through the rules while Ted asked a few questions to try and wrap his head around the game. “I want to make this fair to you since you don’t know how to play, so should we say best out of three? No, best out of five, ok?”
        “Best out of five sounds fair.”
        The gondolier finished dealing the cards and placed the remainder of the deck on the table. The first hand started fairly slowly as Ted tried to figure out the best strategy; his opponent was patient while he fumbled and fussed with his cards. The first hand went by in silence with the gondolier winning. Ted wasn’t surprised, but he wasn’t comfortable with the fact, either. He shuffled the cards in heavy silence and tried to talk himself out of an increased feeling of doom.

Author’s comments on post 415: I’m almost on my way to Hong Kong and I’ve got a million things to do to prepare. So, I’m having trouble getting everything in order with this story before I go. There might have to be a small break after tomorrow for me to iron out the ending while I get frantically ready for the trip. My sincere apologies, but, that’s life.

Choice and Chance (Part 2)

        “Look, I’m sorry. But I really have to go. I hate to leave you like this, but…good luck.”
        “Wait,” Ted called back a little softer. “Is there any other way I could pay for passage?”
        “Well, I don’t…nobody told me…I can’t imagine…” the gondolier looked nervously downstream and then glanced up at the ceiling above the ledge.
        “What if we gamble for it?” Ted said quickly.
        “G-gamble?” The gondolier looked at Ted like a wounded deer cornered by hunters. Ted felt a little sympathy for the boy in the boat; he looked no older than Ted’s twelve-year-old son and as if he hadn’t slept for years. Of course, Ted thought, mentally kicking himself for his naïve reaction, he probably died long ago.
        “Sure!” Ted said more enthusiastically than he felt. “If you win I’ll swim to shore and if I win, you’ll take me there in your boat.”
        “No, no, I can’t…I can’t…”
        “What have you got to lose?” Ted said shrugging, although he knew the gondolier had more at stake than he did. He swallowed his worry for fear of breaking the illusion that he was in control of the situation.
        “A lot, actually. But…no, I haven’t played in a while and you shouldn’t get the advantage. But…” the gondolier bit his lip and looked downstream, “Fine, you’ve got yourself a deal only if I pick the game.”
        “Deal,” Ted said extending his hand.
        “But we can’t play here,” the gondolier said, ignoring Ted’s gesture. “Get in the boat and I’ll take you to a place we can.”

Author’s comment on post 414: More of the story.

Choice and Chance (Part 1)

        Ted Ryner noticed the pain in his head before he registered that he was awake. He rolled over to his side and a flood of nauseating pain filled his body. Groaning, he fell back, a little too hard, to the surface beneath him. He lay in the darkness, afraid to open his eyes and make the pain worse, slowly realizing that wherever he was, it was cold, flat, hard, and had plenty of salty, wet air. As the pain subsided, he registered the soft ebb of water against what might be a dock. He rolled over again, with more success this time, and managed to sit up and open his eyes.
        It looked like he was sitting in a stereotypical sewer as the wall opposite him was closer than he had expected and guided the flow of a dark river of water. He was sitting on a stone ledge in a brick alcove which had a set of stairs leading into the water. At the bottom of the stairs was a gondola manned by an incredibly pale gondolier with dark circles around his eyes wearing a quizzical expression. When he caught Ted’s gaze, he smiled.
        “Welcome to Styx! Or rather, the area upon which you will be traveling is called Styx—I mean, the river. We call the area around it…” the gondolier stoped suddenly and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a lot of people to escort, so I’ll answer your questions on the way. Provided, of course, you have money to pay for your voyage. You do, don’t you?” Ted rubbed his temples and shakily stood up. Even in the haze of his headache, he remained upright as he fumbled through his pockets.
        “Sorry, I don’t,” he mumbled.
        “Oh, er, that’s a problem,” the gondolier said. “If you can’t pay for your passage, you’re going to have to swim. And no soul that swims in the water ever survives.”
        “What?”
        “I said, no soul that swims in the water ever survives. They get pulled under by the other ones and get absorbed. It’s a sad fate, but improves the shoreline much better than when they had souls wandering around here. Or, at least, that’s what I was told. I don’t know having just started this job and…” he stopped again and sighed. “Well, if you don’t have payment, I have to go.”
        “Wait!” Ted called after him, although the man had not gone very far away, “at least tell me where I am and what I’m doing here.”
        “I told you, you’re at Styx. And, um, I’ve never been very good at leading into the subject, so I’ll just jump right in: you’re dead.”
        Ted laughed. “No, really. What’s going on? What day is it? Did the boys put you up to this for my birthday?”
        The gondolier didn’t laugh. “I’m sorry to say you must have died because only the dead come here.”
        The smile melted off of Ted’s face. “You’re kidding…” his voice was quiet and diminished to a whisper as he stepped back towards the wall and slid down, his eyes focusing on a spot of space in front of him. Once again, the only sound was the water sloshing up against the stone ledge and even though the gondolier didn’t say anything, he bit his lip and kept turning down river as if expecting something to come barging from upstream.

Author’s comments on post 413: What’s this? Well, that should be fairly obvious, n’est-ce pas?

I wrote this in one sitting and it’s somewhat short, and since it’s meant to be taken as a whole thing, I had a bit of trouble chopping it up. So, there might be some odd spots where it just ends, but I will have another post up the next day, so you only have to wait a little bit for the next installment. Enjoy : )

Ghost of the Past (Part 4)

If you haven’t read the story thus far, please do so before reading this.

Later, he would apologize to Rachel and explain what he did and why. She managed to forgive him after a long time, but I still haven’t found it within myself to completely let go. I think about it from time to time: the choices he said he had to make, the compelling persuasion of survival, the rebelliousness of youth. No, I could never understand the horrors that took place in Auschwitz, but who’s to say that in the right circumstances I wouldn’t make the same choices he did. It’s a thought that occasionally haunts me to this day and a question I could never answer.

Author’s comments on post 412: The end! This is a really short segment, so I might publish something later today. If not, come back tomorrow and I’ll have something.

Ghost of the Past (Part 3)

Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already), before continuing.

        Telling someone that you found out they were a murderer is harder than you might think. I knew I was in no danger, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my grandfather. It was only after finding my mother’s photograph while cleaning my room one Sunday that I found the guts to say something to him. My mother’s lifeless visage and the rose-colored memories they evoked finally brought me to my senses. I never saw my mother as a person because of perfection and I felt fearful dislike for my grandfather because he wasn’t perfect. The irony motivated me to leave my room and seek him out.
        I found him in the living room sweeping. A pile of dust and dirt sat next to the door and in front of the dustpan. He looked much different from the young man in the photograph and yet, as Rachel had said about her father in Auschwitz, the connection was there.
        “Opa,” I started, quietly.
        He turned around and smiled. “Ah, Christel. It’s good to see you back to your lovely self again.”
        He meant this as a compliment, but it only made me feel slightly guilty.
        “Something’s been bothering me these last few weeks.”
        He sat down in a large plush armchair and I took the chair across from him. We sat in silence for a few moments before I found my voice again.
        “When I last cleaned the attic I found a trunk with…some of your old things. Opa, why didn’t you tell me you were in the SS?”
        My grandfather’s smile disappeared. “It’s not something I’m very proud of, Christel.”
        “You seemed pretty happy about it then.”
        My grandfather frowned, puzzled.
        “The photograph with you and the other officer in Auschwitz in front of all those—”
        “Maybe I was, at the time. It was an honor to fight for your country.”
        I shook my head. “But you didn’t fight for your country.”
        “Just because I wasn’t at the front lines—” He paused and took a deep breath. “I thought I was doing what was right. Now, before you get defensive, I never wanted that part of me to see the light of day again. I wasn’t happy with what I did by the time the camps were liberated and I did grow to love Rachel and her family, despite my secrets. I thought by letting you and Rachel be friends that it would make up for what I did in the past.
        “I know,” he continued, cutting off my next interjection, “that nothing I do will make up for the atrocities I helped commit. But in the beginning I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. You’ll never understand what it was like. I joined the Hitler Youth and then when I got old enough, the SS. I did it because I had faith that it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t stand the Germany I grew up in. We were on top of the world before The Great War and afterward, the scum of the Earth. We watched the West take revenge on us for nothing and we watched as our friends, family, and neighbors fall to abject poverty. There was never enough money and the government did nothing about it. At least, not until Hitler came along. Hitler brought us out of the hole into which we had sunk. He gave us answers to all the questions of why. He gave us hope and gave us something to be proud of. I wanted to help my country.
        “Even though I was obligated to join the Hitler Youth, it didn’t feel like an obligation. At first, it was just about leaving home for a while. School was never particularly enjoyable and home was even worse. The Hitler Youth gave me the freedom and the fun that I wanted—that I needed. I had good friends join with me and I made more while I was there. We all loved Germany and Hitler and we loved being part of the Youth and SS guard. For once, I had a direction in life. Surely, you understand the feeling of being lost in the vastness of your future. I had found my way out of the frightening unknown. Someday, you will know what that feels like.
        “Once I was assigned to Auschwitz, however, I began questioning my devotion. You cannot imagine the things that I saw each day, the things I was asked to do. It quickly became a matter of survival; I followed orders because if I didn’t, I would be labeled a traitor and put in the camps. I knew more than the prisoners about what went on in the camps. Call me a coward, if you want, but you have never had to live where there was nothing but survival. That feeling where free will seems only a figment of your imagination because the alternative is worse than your current predicament. I lived for each day, hoping that I would get reassigned. But I never was.
        “When the camps were finally liberated I couldn’t get rid of my uniform fast enough. I burned all the photographs that I owned and only kept my uniform out of fear that Germany would accuse me of deserting the army. Your grandmother kept all the letters and photographs in that trunk. I refused to look at what she put in there.
        “I’m not proud of what I did, Christel. Don’t think it doesn’t haunt me. Every day. But I have to move on with my life. I don’t expect you to understand. To understand is to experience and I would never wish that upon anyone. ”
        There were so many other questions going through my head, but for a while, none of them were able to voice themselves. He stood up slowly and resumed his sweeping while I continued to sit trying to organize my thoughts. I couldn’t and I had nothing to say. I stood up and left the room.

Author’s comments on post 411: I feel like I can do a little explaining at this point. This was done for a class about genocide, as I already mentioned. My final project was to research why people were driven to aid in genocide. The research was difficult because there was no reason as to "why" and I don’t think anyone will ever know. I did the best I could to justify the grandfather’s position based on my research. If you want to know my sources, I’d be happy to send them to you upon request.

I also want to mention that I do not want to justify genocide in general or the Holocaust, specifically. I feel that the whole situation is very complicated and worth studying, but I do not want my words to be used as some sort of fuel for an argument when taken superficially. Thank you.

Ghost of the Past (Part 2c)

Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already) before continuing.

        If I knew Rachel’s mom, she didn’t take that as much of an answer, but she didn’t press us with the rest of the family waiting for our arrival. My grandparents gave us a bit of a puzzled look when we arrived to the table, but Rachel’s father started with the service before they could ask us any questions.
        The Seder went exactly like it was supposed to even through dinner. My grandparents were sitting on the other end of the table so it was easy to avoid them and I noticed Rachel being very careful to avoid contact with my grandfather. I only caught my grandfather’s eyes once and even though he smiled at me, still oblivious, I felt just as sick and fearful, especially of the possibility that I might have to confront him in front of Rachel’s entire family, some who had gone through Auschwitz and would not react nearly as quietly as Rachel had. I felt like what I knew was completely transparent and also that there was a possibility Rachel might let slip what she knew. It felt like I was stranded on thin ice.
        After dinner, while the adults continued to talk in the living room, Rachel pulled me aside and back into her room.
        “I think you should tell him what you found,” she said. “He needs to know what’s bothering you.”
        “What about your family?”
        “Well, you won’t tell him here, silly. My family shouldn’t know. They don’t need those horrible memories coming back and they don’t need a living reminder of the horrors they experienced. I’ll eventually forgive but you need to reconcile with him. At least I have an excuse to be mad after what he helped do with my family. You just have a horrible feeling on principal.”
        “Rach, it wasn’t right and even though he’s my dad, I can’t forgive him for killing people.”
        “If you love him, he has a right to know what’s got you so mad. You should let him explain and then decide whether you’ll forgive him or not.”
        “What about you?”
        Rachel shrugged. “I don’t live with him. Besides, he can confront me one day if he wants. Otherwise, I’ll work it out on my own.”
        My grandmother arrived just then and told me they were planning on leaving. I gave Rachel a final hug and she thanked my grandmother for coming. She stayed in her room while we left, probably to avoid my grandfather, while I left with my grandparents.

Author’s comments on post 410: End of part 2. The beginning of part 3 will start tomorrow. Hopefully this isn’t too heavy for some people, but if it is, there is just two more parts to the story, so in two days, you can come back for something different and skip the rest of this story all together. I’m sorry it’s not very happy, but not everything in life is and stories are more interesting with conflict, anyway.

Ghost of the Past (Part 2b)

Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already) before continuing. 

       We arrived at Rachel’s house early and I followed my grandparents at a short distance while they walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. The interior was strangely warm and friendly compared to my mood. Her family was already bustling around the house, most of them trying to get into the kitchen to help her mother. Her father was in a heated discussion in the living room about baseball with her uncle and some cousins. Rachel herself managed to escape the kitchen and skipped over to me when we arrived. My grandparents, used to us going off when we arrived, were not bothered when the two of us set off for her room. I, for one, wanted to get away from my grandfather as soon as I could. For the moment, being with Rachel was a welcome diversion.
        But it wasn’t long before I felt like leaving her, too. The cold fear came back when I realized that Rachel’s last name was Scheinburg. My next thought was whether I looked transparently afraid of what I knew. I tried to talk myself down. There were probably hundreds of Scheinbergs living in Germany and it felt like an odd coincidence that the person my grandfather vividly remembered from the camps would be related to my best friend. But the name sounded too familiar and I had a bad feeling that they were the same. The air felt frigid going into my lungs, but I tried to calm down by reminding myself of the probable facts.
        “Oh,” Rachel said plopping down on her bed with a fatigued sigh, “I love my relatives, but man, I’m glad to get away from them. That kitchen was crowded.”
        “Did you make anything for tonight?”
        “I always make the matzo balls and my mom actually let me make her kugel. We’ll see how it turns out,” she said with a wink.
        I mustered up a small smile.
        “What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
        “Nothing,” I lied.
        “Yeah, right,” she said, snorting ever so slightly. “Come on, Chris. I can tell if something’s bothering you.”
        “I’m just tired.”
        “Well, all right. If you don’t want to talk about it.” Rachel lay down on her bed and stared at me, smiling. “Did you clean out the attic recently?”
        “Yeah.”
        “Did you find anything interesting? Any cool vintage clothes we could use as costumes?”
        I paused. “Do you have any connections with the Holocaust?”
        Rachel stiffened ever so slightly; anyone else who knew her less would have never caught it. She paused before saying, “Yeah, I had family who died. Why?”
        “Do you know who?”
        It was Rachel’s turn to pause. “My grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. Why are you asking me? What did you find in the attic?”
        Nausea filled me. I thought I was going to be sick. “Do you know your uncle’s serial number by any chance?”
        “What did you find in your attic, Christel?” she asked sitting up.
        “Nothing,” I said, the sickness getting stronger.
        “Like hell, it was nothing. What did you find about my family?”
        “A trunk. My grandfather had hidden away some papers and photographs from his youth.”
        Rachel looked at me critically. “I think you should just tell me. Get it out.”
        “I—I don’t want to find out that it really was…” I had to stop. The excuse weren’t working and she was right. I had to say it, even if it wasn’t to her. Even if it was just to the room in general; I had to get it out in the air.
        I took a deep breath. “I found a trunk with my grandfather’s old things from his time in the SS. He wrote several letters and I’ve been staying after school with Herr Andres to translate them. My grandfather mentioned a boy—Benjamin Scheinberg. I was just afraid…that he was…”
        Rachel remained silent. She was looking at the floor in front of her, perfectly still. Then she looked up at the ceiling and started walking around her room. The silence was much too heavy and I started crying. It was so simple a reaction that it felt like a rain after thunder and yet, I wanted to be able to stop and I couldn’t.
        I looked up briefly to see Rachel giving me a Kleenex, but her gaze was still past me. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.
        “I had an uncle named Benjamin who died in Auschwitz but that doesn’t mean your grandfather knew him.”
        This statement didn’t bring any comfort to either of us. She sat back down on the bed and looked me in the eyes. Her eyes were red and glossy, but her stare was more intense than a bullet and it cut through me like paper. “Most of my family suffered in Auschwitz. My father worked in Auschwitz. He was thirteen when they were taken to the camp. He told me that was why he never had a Bar Mitzvah. That’s all I know about it, except that I shouldn’t ask anything else. I’ve read a lot, Chris. A lot about what life was like in the camps and I cannot connect my father to that place. And yet…the connection is there.” She stopped to grab a Kleenex for herself. “And now you’re telling me that the man who is practically a father to my best friend and who acted like the grandfather I never had growing up is responsible for the death of, not only my family, but hundreds, maybe thousands of other Jews? Other people, for God’s sake!”
        She let out a short half laugh smoldering with anger. “God damn.”
        Her mother called Rachel’s name sharply from the dining room making both of us slightly jump. Rachel looked at me a little panicked.
        “Do I look like I’ve been crying?” she asked.
        I had to laugh a bit at the sudden normality of the question. “A bit. How do I look?”
        “Awful,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully no one will ask any questions.” She paused at her bedroom door and turned to me. “I’m not mad at you, Chris. I know you’re pretty broken up about it, too. It’s just…really hard to take in. So…help me and I’ll help you, ok?”
        I reached out and hugged her hard. “Of course.”
        Rachel’s mom opened the door just as we were about to leave.
        “What is taking you so long?” she said, sharply. “We’re about to—Rachel, are you ok? Chris, what’s wrong?”
        “Nothing, mom,” Rachel said. “Let’s go.”

Author’s comments on post 409: A little more drama. Ok, a lot of drama. Here is the main problem of the story: forgiveness. You’ll see more later and whatnot.