It's been 37 days and 14 hours since Gus has not been burdened by personhood. Since then, I have played more video games than ever and have reread The Price of Dawn so much that the binding is all but gone. I don't know if I'm searching for some hidden insight or just pathetically clinging to my lost boyfriend.
I like to imagine Augustus has found that Great Perhaps. Who knows? Maybe he did. If anyone could, it would most undoubtedly be Augustus Waters.
I fiddled with my Anne Frank magnet from the Netherlands. My dad knew how much I enjoyed the museum (though obviously not the entire reason), so he had ordered a souvenir copy of the of deceased list from the Anne Frank house. Only this one included more than Jews, it included civilian deaths during World War 2.
Isaac says I have a morbid obsession with the list. I can't help it. I am fascinated by the names. I was one of the few who knew the real Augustus and who can carry on his memory. All the names on The List were people who had a story. Who is carrying on their memories? Maybe they had a great job or an incredible love story. But their legacies have been snuffed out.
One part of The List includes civilians from Germany that died in the Himmel Street bombing. Ironically, Dad and I learned Himmel Street means Heaven Street. I guess life really does enjoy turning the tables.
Being a time bomb gives me loads of time on my hands. Ironically. I began looking up these people that thought they lived in Heaven, but got taken away just like any other person. There was an accordion player, an apple thief, a widow, etc.
These lives were easy to look up because someone named Annelise Vandenburg had put together a database. Apparently her relative was one of the few survivors of the bomb that wiped away most of the street.
I loved this database. At least during the injustices of war, memories were still preserved for people like me to learn about.
The list of Himmel Street contained many children, but I was always drawn to one name. Rudy Steiner. He is described as 'a boy with hair the color of lemons who wanted to be Jesse Owens and who aided a foster child in her thievery. Rudy's life ended too soon, but he lived more joyously and fully than many who reach adulthood.'
Clearly the archivist admired and was fascinated by this boy. I found myself working on the little bit of homework my class at the college provided, only to look down and see 'Rudy' written all over the edges of the pages.
When the thoughts of Augustus got too overwhelming to the point I couldn't fathom his memory coherently, I turned to my newest quest. I was imagining Rudy's life and wondering what sort of relationship he had with the survivor, whose memories make up my archive. A brother? Neighbor? Crush?
Whoever Rudy Steiner was, he would never know how much I owed him for keeping me sane.
The next few weeks passed slowly as I ate, slept, studied, and read. My world had grown larger because of Augustus, yet smaller than ever in his absence. No one was here now to explain the metaphor in a tree or the wind to me.
I asked my mom if she had ever heard of the tragedy of Himmel Street.
"Oh Hazel, what are you even talking about?" she asked, without even looking up from her laptop screen.
Life is a vacuum. It produces a great life, then sucks it away, barely leaving a crumb or really anything to hold onto.
Everyone deserves to have his memory preserved. I logged onto my computer and looked at the archive again. For the first time, even with all the hours I have spent on here, my eyes were drawn to the bottom right hand corner. In tiny letters the words 'Contact Information' seemed to leap off the screen.
A sudden realization I could learn more about Rudy made my heart race. Maybe Rudy isn't that special and perhaps I have built him up way too much in my mind. But hanging on to this obsession with him made the rest of my life have some semblance of meaning, no matter how tiny and pathetic.
I quickly clicked on the words and watched another screen pull up. Annelise.V appeared. I felt my fingers begin to shake. What could I even write? How could I explain to this person the need I felt to preserve Rudy's memory in my mind.
Dear Ms. Vandenburg,
My name is Hazel Lancaster. I was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago and since then have met the love of my life and lost him to cancer. Cancer is just a side effect of life. My journey has been no better or worse than others. However, my particular predicament has taught me this. Cherish the memories and legacies of those you have. One day, they will be gone and you will be the only person who can tell others about they way they found a metaphor in everything. Or the way they cared deeply for their friends and would do anything they could to elicit a laugh or smile from them, if their friend was sad. Or they way they would smile with only half of their mouth, but their eyes would crinkle in joy. Memories are important. And since I have discovered this website, I have become increasingly curious about the memory of the survivor of Himmel Street that was kind enough to share part of their memory with the rest of us.
I am particularly drawn to the description of Rudy Steiner and was wondering if perhaps anyone had more information or stories on him that they would share with me?
Thank you for your time and I hope you realize the significance of what you have given to me.
Hazel Lancaster
I did not expect a reply, but knowing I had tried made all the difference to me.
Four days later, I was sitting on the porch with Isaac, when my mother came out. "Hazel, would you email your professor and find out if you still have class Friday? If not, I am going to use the car to go to Noblesville for a lecture on social behavior," she said, handing my laptop to me.
Nodding, I logged in and went to email my professor. Just then my heart froze. 1 new message from annelise.v was flashing on the screen.
"Isaac! You'll never believe it! They replied!" I squealed.
"Who replied to what? What are you talking about?" Isaac asked.
"Ok, don't make fun of my obsession, but I emailed the people that made that Himmel Street website and they replied!" I shrieked.
"Well, what did they say? And you have no idea how hard it is to keep the obsession jokes in my head only."
I rolled my eyes. Then stopped. I had been so excited to see there was a reply, that I hadn't even read it.
I opened it and read aloud, "Dear Hazel Lancaster, thank you for your kind words. The survivor is actually my grandmother, Lisel Vandenburg. She was only fourteen when the bomb was accidentally dropped on her street, wiping away most of the occupants. She has a special interest in Rudy Steiner's life and would love to meet with you. When I informed her you lived in the States, she was distraught, as we live in Holland now. She then asked me if it would be acceptable to you if we flew to you so she could personally tell you the story. Please let me know if this is at all okay with you and send reply here. Thank you, Annelise V."
"So let me get this straight. Your knack for turning up authors and archivists keeps leading to the Netherlands, but instead of going there this time, they want to come to you? How convenient," Isaac teased.
The irony was not lost on me either. How I wish I could call Augustus…but then, he had never even heard of Himmel Street. This was a art of my life I didn't share with him. I was moving on with life.
"Mom? Mom! Would it be okay if we had guest from Holland?" I called, trying not to lose my calm exterior.
"Hazel Grace, what do you mean?" Mom demanded, rushing out onto the porch.
As I explained the situation to her, I already pictured Lisel arriving, probably quite old, and telling me stories of her neighbor, just wanting to have someone to talk to.
Two weeks later, a taxi pulled up in front of our house and I went to the door. Annelise had told me they would stay at a hotel, but planned to stay a few days so that the story would not be rushed.
When the doorbell rang, I opened it to find a tall blonde with brilliant blue eyes and a tiny, elder woman with the same lively eyes.
"Hazel?" the tall woman asked.
"Yes, it's me. Are you Annelise?" I asked, looking next to her at Lisel, I assumed.
"Yes, and this is my grandmother, Lisel. Grandmother, this is Hazel."
The older woman came forward and grasped my hand in hers. "Thank you for taking an interest," she said quietly.
"Please come in," I said, leading them to our living room. Mom was sitting in there already and rose to greet them. I knew she found all this odd. Heck, I did too. But she and dad supported me and were willing to do anything to help me move on.
"You asked my grand daughter about Rudy Steiner. I never even thought people would read what I wrote about my street. All those people, I thought we slipped through the cracks. You see, Himmel Street saved me. I was a foster child and had no real education or ambition until I arrived there to live with my foster parents. And Rudy? He was my best friend. My comrade in any scheme we could come up with. And my first love, though he never knew it," Lisel said, her voice slightly brittle and wispy, but sure and steady at the same time. Her eyes lit up as she told me about losing her brother and meeting a man who played the accordion and housed a Jew, who later became her husband, Max Vandenburg. She then began her tale of a mischievous boy, who covered himself in mud to be Jesse Owens.
"He was always trying to earn a kiss or sneak a kiss or bribe a kiss from me. And his hair, why it was the color of lemons." She often said.
For three days, Annelise and her grandmother came and filled in the cracks I had only dreamed of filling about Rudy's life.
"When the bomb dropped, he must never have known. He was asleep and even in death, looked like he was only dreaming." Lisel said softly, her voice cracking a bit.
"My Max has been dead now for almost two decades. I have my children and grandchildren and a lifetime of memories that help me through each day. There is great evil in the world. But Rudy taught me something early in life. Yes, things are cruel and unfair, but we have each other. We have our friends to make each day fun and to find meaning. Even during a confusing and violent time, he helped me dream up schemes that we then carried out that made each day fun and worth living, even in such a dark time. Find those people, Hazel. Find people like that young man you so beautifully described in your letter to Annelise. People that make ordinary days extraordinary just by filling them with life."
With that, Lisel looked down at her bag, and with slightly shaky fingers, she withdrew a thick piece of paper. It was a photograph.
"I have carried this around for over half a century. I want you to have it. This is Rudy. It's also a reminder that ordinary people make up the best life. That's what I want for you, for my grandchildren. A life that never loses meaning." She finished talking and gently pressed the photograph into my hands. I figured this was the original by the thickness and the discoloring. It had to be her only visual reminder of Rudy. Yet, she was giving it to a perfect stranger.
When I looked up again, Lisel had tears in her eyes, but smiled warmly. "Keep on fighting Hazel. But don't spend all your time doing that. Don't forget to live too. Thank you for caring about my family. And Rudy. Thank you," the last words became a whisper.
She then rose and turned to Annelise. "Let us go, so I can rest before our return flight."
Annelise rose and hugged me softly. "You don't know what this means to her," she whispered in my ear.
"It means the world to me too. It means people can live on forever," I replied, just as quietly.
I watched them leave and turned to my mom, who was smiling and had bright eyes from holding back tears. "What an extraordinary honor, Hazel."
It has been three years since my meeting with Lisel Vandenburg. Annelise emailed me four months ago that Lisel passed away peacefully in her sleep, with her beloved books and photographs and family around her. It may not seem the most heroic ending, but it is the best kind.
I have finished all my classes in literature and have taken an interest in writing. It's an introverted thing, I tell my concerned mother. Oh, and my cancer is getting stronger again. With the time I have left, I have been compiling stories of two ordinary boys who saw the world with extraordinary eyes. Rudy and Augustus, two boys that have changed the course of two girls and their lives. My parents say it is good enough to publish. Perhaps I will try that one day. I read part of it to Isaac. He says I embrace Gus' metaphorical views all too much, but his eyes were glistening at some parts, so I'll take that as a good sign. Maybe I won't ever be written about or told about. But my life and the lessons I have learned are contained in my book. The people that inspire me are, for a time, immortalized in my words. That is enough for me. My ideas and dreams will live on in my manuscript, and that's all I could ask for.
"What will you call it?" Dad asked, as he finished the last page.
I smile, thinking of the similarities between the two main boys in it. "The boy with lemon colored hair."