, I kept telling myself, despite all evidence to the contrary. His face was gaunt, cheeks pale, hair threadbare from the most recent rounds of chemo. They had removed the lower left half of his jaw, searching for remnants of the disease, and his mouth hung slack and uneven. Even so, he kept trying to smile, to lighten the mood. His brown eyes danced when no other part of him could.
“There was a bunch of beeping and then they kicked us out of the room,” my oldest brother told me. “They were able to revive him, but we’re still waiting to see what happens.” “The Gestapo are at the corner,” she told them. “They are rounding up Jews. They are coming for you.” As the Bergers, they were given new identity cards and sent to live in Lückendorf, near where the Czech and Polish borders met in the East. They shared a house with other bombed-out families, including the wife of a Nazi officer. My dad went to school, where he learned to “heil Hitler” and sing Nazi chants. There was constant fear, as well as the stress of daily deception, magnified by a war raging around them.
As his health continued to fade, I stayed in my parents’ home, helping my mom care for him. I took three months of family leave from my teaching job, and we started in-home hospice care shortly before that time was up. On the night before I was set to head home, he looked at me intently.We shared a hug, a long look into each other’s eyes. Once so full of wisdom and joy, his brown eyes now held only pain. I kissed his forehead, and we hugged again. I think we both knew it would be our last.