2

“Wait, you said you almost died, when?” I ask, confused. I didn’t hear my great grandmother mention a near-death experience. Plus, that sure was a short story.

“I’m getting to that.” She replies. I nod in response. 

“So,” she starts again, “My father died a few weeks before the start of November. Everything had gotten somewhat better, but that changed on November first. It started like a normal day, my mother was cooking breakfast; my brother was in the living room, in his crib; and I was getting ready to take our recently-bought dog out for a walk. There was an aggressive knock on the door, and I hurried to answer it. In the doorway stood two Nazi officers, who then shoved me out of the way and hurried into our home. I stood in shock, my heart felt like it was running a marathon. They went over near the crib, and my eyes widened. ‘Dana, who’s here?’ my mother called out from the kitchen. I told her to come to the living room, and she did. ‘What are you doing?!’ my mother asked the Nazis, they replied in German, but she understood them. She knew German, but I didn’t. I didn’t have to, to know what they said, because then they picked up my little brother, and left. I yelled at them, but my mother told me it’s no use, and then hugged me.” 

“How did you guys get grand-uncle Steve back?” I ask. I would be too scared to even be in a ten foot radius of a Nazi. 

“You’ll find out soon.” My great grandmother tells me. She’s always loved being suspenseful. I sigh, and tell her to continue on. 

She does so, “For the next couple of days after that, it was like a dark, thunderstorm cloud had divulged our house. There was not a single second that I felt happy, and the same went for my mother. My baby brother was the only thing keeping her going at the moment. I mainly stayed upstairs in my room, in bed, with the light off. I wouldn’t even describe my emotion as ‘sad,’ or ‘depressed.’ I honestly think there isn’t an emotion that could describe what I was feeling. It just felt like my heart had been ripped apart, poorly-glued back, and then ever-so-slowly fell apart again, shattering piece by piece as it hit the bottom. I was too weak to do anything, really. Which is why I said I stayed in bed. I tried to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I tried my best not to think about what the Nazis were putting my not-even-one-year-old brother through; but, the thought seem to keep forcing its way into my mind, which only made me feel worse.”

My heart aches for my great grandmother. How have I not heard about all of this sooner? I can’t believe she's had to endure all of that. 

“It was the fourth day since my brother had been taken. I woke up that morning, and I was tired. I was tired of just lying around, not doing anything. So, I got up, and came up with a plan. I was going to disguise myself as a Nazi, and go into the camp, and find my brother. I told my mother the plan. Her reaction never fails to make me laugh. ‘Oh, great.’ Was her first response, I stared at her in disbelief and then asked her ‘Really?’. ‘No! Are you crazy?!” Was her second.” My great grandmother laughed a bit before continuing.

“Ignoring her response, I went on with the plan anyway. It took me about a week to sew together a Nazi uniform, and then almost another week to think of a German name. I then realized I didn’t look like a Nazi.” My great grandmother emphasizes the ‘look’ part. “So, I cut my hair to where it looked like a boy’s hairstyle. Finally, I could- or at-least thought so- pass as a Nazi. All I could do was pray about it, because if this plan didn’t work, there were going to be some major consequences.”