Night Journey (28 page)

“Afternoon, Dr. Baker.”

“Afternoon to you, Miz Hardcastle. How’s the treatments goin’?” Baker fixed his stare on Theodora.

“Oh, I get by as long as I have my pain medication.” Theodora nodded and shuffled back to her bedroom. She sat down in a rocking chair, picked up a skein of yarn and began knitting.

Baker turned his attention back to Emma. “Well, I guess we’re gonna have to rename you
Lazarus
, ain’t we?” He winked at Emma and then at Roberta, who attempted to smile. But with the suppurating sore on her face, it seemed more like a grimace. “Yessiree, this is one for the record books! Comin’ back from a coma after what? Two-three weeks?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve lost my memory.”

“Well, what
do
you remember?”

Emma felt like she was being interrogated. Her instincts told her to hold back as much as possible. “The first thing I remember was waking up in the freezer. Then the guard got me out and brought me upstairs and they put me to bed in here. That’s about it.”

“Hmm.” Baker chewed on his cigar. “I wanta conduct a couple of tests, if I may? Can you sit up and dangle your legs for me?”

Emma nodded, but she was so weak, Nurse Roberta had to help her. Her skin crawled when the odious woman touched her. She looked with dismay at the thin, bony legs, covered in soft golden peach fuzz and dotted with bruises.

Nurse Roberta handed Dr. Baker a small metal reflex hammer and he tapped her knee several times before he found the right spot. When her leg finally jerked, he seemed satisfied. He pulled back her thin, lank hair and peered into her ears. Then he put an odd looking stethoscope, with red rubber hoses and a flared metal bell, to her chest. He moved it back and forth until he located her heart, listened for a moment, and then smiled. “Everthin’ seems normal there. I’m gonna ask ya a few questions now. Can ya tell me what today is?”

That was easy. Theodora had just told her that one. “Monday, October 24th.” She didn’t tell him the year.

“Good.” He nodded. “Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Barack Obama—,” she responded, then realized her mistake.

“Do what?” Dr. Baker’s eyebrows shot up.

What a goof. She scanned her memory, but her mind went blank. “Uh, Truman?” No, that wasn’t right. “Herbert Hoover.”

Nurse Roberta gazed at Dr. Baker and rolled her eyes. He pulled his cigar out of his mouth, squinted, and peered closely at Emma’s face.

“Wait! I’ve got it! Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” Emma grinned, knowing FDR was correct.

“Okay, I think that about does it,” said Dr. Baker. He rose and helped her lie back down. “We’ll continue back on the same treatment plan as before.”

Theodora looked up from her knitting, raised her voice, and said. “She’s gonna need morphine.”

“All right. Roberta, see to it.” He nodded and exited the room.

Roberta approached Emma, her damaged face twisted in a sneer. She jerked the covers back, rolled her over on her side, and proceeded to administer an injection in her hip. Emma gasped at the rough handling, but set her mind to endure it. She had to keep this poor, frail body alive long enough to figure out a way to help Ivy and her unborn baby Jonathan—and ultimately, Zan.

By the time Nurse Amiss left, Emma was exhausted. She lay back and closed her eyes, wondering what she should do in the short time she had left. Who was Anna Schmidt and what had become of her? She had so many questions, but she didn’t know how to ask them.

Using all her strength, Emma rose and went into Theodora’s room. The short walk exhausted her, and she sank into the nearest chair. “Theodora, can you tell me something about Anna—I mean, about me? It’s terrible not being able to remember anything.”

Theodora smiled, reached into a drawer on her bedside table, pulled out an old red velvet pouch with a yellow drawstring tassel, and handed it to Emma. “Here, I think this may answer most of your questions.”

Inside the pouch was a small composition notebook. She pulled out the book and gasped when a ring fell into her lap.

Her engagement ring. The ring Zan would give her almost seventy years into the future.

Emma picked up the ring and asked, “Where did you get this?”

“Bob, my cat, dragged it out of his hiding spot a few days ago.” She pointed to the door in the wall. “He was batting it all over the room, playing with the tassel. It’s yours. Does it jog your memory?”

“Sort of…” She couldn’t explain the truth to Theodora. She would never understand how one day this ring and Zan, the man who would give it to her, would mean more than life itself.

“Well, for all the details, just read the notebook. After all, you wrote it.” Theodora put down her knitting and rose. “I’m going to take a walk. These old legs are growing stiff.”

Emma’s hands trembled when she opened the notebook. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the lined pages, but she was eager to read it, hoping whatever Anna had to say would give her a clue to her purpose in this bizarre adventure. She settled herself in the chair and began to read.

My name is Anna Bernstein Schmidt. I am thirty-three years old, childless, and a widow. Today is Sunday, October 2nd, 1938 and I am a prisoner of Dr. Norman Baker. I know that I am somewhere in the hospital, but I do not know where. By the time you read this, I will most likely be dead. It is with hope in my heart that I remain coherent to tell my tale so whoever reads my story will understand my plight, and perhaps take action to halt the evil that is perpetrated in this place.

The room in which I find myself is small and dark. The only furnishings are a small metal cot, a wooden stool, and a chamber pot. There are no windows and the walls are covered with some sort of spongy material. A single fixture on the ceiling is my only source of light, and the shadows make writing difficult. I apologize if this is hard to read, or if I ramble.

I found this pencil in a crack in the floorboards. The point is dull and I must guard against breaking it, as I have no means to sharpen it. When they brought me here, they left my valise, which contained a few of my personal possessions. They took away my
Torah
, calling it
Pagan
. But I am grateful they did not remove this small writing tablet, as it gives me something to do and serves as an outlet to assuage my fear.

They took my sapphire earrings, but I managed to hide the matching ring and bring it with me. The ring is very old and beautiful. It is made of pure gold and is set with a large diamond, surrounded by sapphires. My beloved Manny gave it to me, along with the earrings, so it is very precious to me. That is what they really want, but I will die before I let them have it.

The pain in my belly grows stronger every day and I know that I am dying. I had so much hope when I came here two months ago, but now I see that it has all been an exercise in futility. My doctor back in St. Louis told me that the cancer in my ovaries had spread too far, but one never wants to give up hope.
Monday, October 3rd
. A long, miserable night has passed and I find myself weaker and in more pain. I intend to write something every day for as long as I am able. I fear that writing in this journal will be the only thing to prevent me from going mad. I jump at every noise I hear, afraid one of them will walk in on me and catch me writing. If they knew what I was doing, they would take this notebook away and then I would be left with nothing. I hide it inside a loose plank in the floor beneath my bed and I pray they will not find it.

Nurse Amiss came to tend me this morning, if you can call it tending. She brought some thin gruel and water. And she emptied the chamber pot. She brought out a syringe I know was filled with morphine and held it out where I could see it. I felt so relieved, thinking that my pain would at last go away. But then she asked about the ring and I refused to tell her, so she took the needle and left. I am in agony.
Tuesday, October 4th
. I lacked the strength to get out of bed when Miss Amiss came into my room. This time she brought eggs, bacon, and coffee. It smelled good, but I was too weak to rise. And then, remarkably, she gave me the morphine injection, and I felt much better. I drank the coffee and ate the eggs like a starving dog, but my faith would not allow me to eat the pork. She sneered at me and called me
finicky
, but she promised me she would return later that evening. There was nothing in the chamber pot to empty because I was so weak, but she did change my nightgown and bed sheets without scolding me for making a mess.

I am suspicious of her kindness. It is most likely a ploy to confuse me and make me give up the ring. But I have it hidden away, where I keep this notebook, and I am determined not to tell. The days and nights are growing more and more difficult to distinguish, locked away as I am. I will continue my daily prayers for as long as I am able, especially through this holy season after
Rosh Hashanah
. I was greatly comforted after the morning
shaharith
and the afternoon
minhah
. The evening
maarib
will help me through the night.

My only reference of time is the smell that slips through the cracks in the door: the smell of coffee tells me it is morning and the odor of disinfectants means the maids are at work in the afternoon. When one is devoid of all stimuli, one notices small things.

Today I smelled beans and it reminded me of the
cholent
I used to make, which was Manny’s favorite. He always insisted on remaining Kosher. How I miss him and the life we shared in our home above the jewelry shop in St. Louis.

Sometimes I wonder if the antique sapphire earrings and matching ring he purchased several years ago were not the beginning of our troubles. The man who sold them had been down on his luck and was happy that Manny had been so fair. But with this great Depression that has dragged on for years, Manny was never able to sell them, so they became mine.

But it wasn’t until two years ago when the same man and his well-dressed wife returned, that our bad luck began in earnest. This time he wanted to sell a necklace, which matched the earrings and ring.

I was in the shop and, admiring the necklace, I picked it up and put it on. Manny got angry and made me take it off. I was humiliated and left the room. I did not hear what else transpired. All I know is that Manny did not buy the necklace because, he said, it was cursed. Six months later I discovered I had cancer.

I am sure you think this is all just the crazy rambling of a dying woman, but my instincts tell me to stand firm. I feel there is something sinister happening and that if I give up the ring something terrible will be perpetuated.

I fear every day for the plight of my relatives in Europe, being persecuted by the madman named Hitler. I have no faith that the
Munich Pact
signed last week between the European nations will ensure the peace they hope for. Something tells me that if I let the ring go, it will somehow end up in the hands of the Nazis.

The last time I spoke with Manny on the hospital telephone he told me some men had come to the shop asking about the necklace and that he had felt threatened. He said he recognized the younger one from the newspaper social pages as a rich businessman named Covington. The other one was tall and paunchy, with bad teeth and foul breath. The young one kept waving an old, out-dated pawn ticket, insisting it was for a sapphire and diamond necklace he wanted to redeem.

Manny tried to explain that he didn’t have it and that the ticket had been for something else, but this had only enraged the rich man. He’d walked around the shop, smashing the glass of the display cases with his silver-tipped cane, while the big man stood with his arms folded, as if daring Manny to react. That was when he’d noticed the stickpin on Covington’s lapel—shaped very much like the necklace he was seeking. It was then that Manny knew something terrible was about to happen.

The very next day, Manny was dead, killed in a fire that destroyed the jewelry shop, our home, and everything we owned.

That same day, Dr. Baker informed me that since my husband was dead, he would need my jewelry to fund my treatment, room, and board. When I refused to give the jewels to him, they took the earrings from my ears and locked me away in this padded cell when I refused to tell them where I’d hidden the ring. Now you know how I came to be here.
Wednesday, October 5th
. I spent a tolerably good night last night. Miss Amiss came in the evening with a delicious meal of soup and bread. Today is
Yom Kippur
, the Day of Atonement, and normally I would fast today. But since I am so ill and under the circumstances, I am sure God will forgive me. Miss Amiss gave me morphine and even brought me an extra blanket. She is now coming to feed me twice a day. But I noticed her staring under the bed. Something is up.