September 10, 1943
I haven't been able to write. And there's been nothing to write about. Just aloneness and emptiness and blankness. I still go to the market to buy food, but that's all. The money I have—a hidden stash of my father's, a bit of my own, and an emergency stash of Edwin's that he made me keep—will run out eventually, but I have no job to go to. Mr. Jonas has closed his shop; he's somewhere in hiding, and Mr. Lazar has been pushed out of the hotel. No one, it seems, wants Jews to be seen any more.
I have a daily routine. I know that I need to force myself, or I'll succumb to the desire to lie in bed and think of nothing but the past. I get up, brew coffee, and read for a few hours. I've long-since finished the books Edwin gave me, but I re-read them, and I read my father's theology books. Even the dull ones pull me from my thoughts, a welcome distraction.
I can't make myself eat at midday, so I pray—Hebrew prayers, mostly. They remind me of my mother's soft voice and my father's low and confident one.
In the afternoon, I cook, something complicated that takes a long time. I don't eat most of it, but I take it and leave it on Mr. Bokori's doorstep. I never see him come outside, but it's always gone in the morning.
In the evening, I let myself cry. I put on the phonograph and dance alone in my living room, remembering my husband's strong arms around me and my father's ready smile. There's no one to see me and judge or laugh.
I fall asleep with Edwin's robe wrapped around me. It still smells like him, like home.
Sometimes I get angry. I recall in vivid detail the day I argued with my husband, told him I wouldn't let him sacrifice himself for me. I yell at him in my head, asking him why he'd insisted on being noble and self-sacrificing when he could have stayed here with me. I'd rather have been taken, when the inevitable comes and all Jews are removed, than knowing he's been arrested in my place.
But I can't stay mad. His face and voice keep intruding on my recollections, so kind and loving and reasonable. He reminds me of our first day and our picnic and our wedding. "I vowed to protect you," he whispers in my mind, softly.
"I'd rather have protected you," I answer back, but he's not here to argue, and somehow that means he always wins. Every time, I end up falling asleep curled up in the soft fabric that he used to wear.
It's not that I was incomplete before I met Edwin Jarvis. I could have lived out my days well, even if I'd been alone. But something changes when you meet the person who—I can't explain it, really—but it changed me. I didn't need anyone before I met my Edwin, but afterward, now, I realize that he's become half of myself. Now that I know him, I'll always need him. It's the piercing ache of feeling like half of me is gone.
I'm scared tonight. I can hear someone outside. The walls of my house are not very thick, and I detect the sound of feet on the ground. All Jews in Budapest have learned to be vigilant. The sound is getting closer. I wish I could believe that I'm just paranoid, but it's unmistakable.
Who would come at this time of night? It must be the police, with their guns and their boots. I'm mouthing a prayer for protection. Perhaps this will be the last entry I write. I don't know if anyone will ever find this book, but if they do, I hope it serves as evidence of what a good man Edwin Jarvis is, no matter how his country decides to punish him. He only did what he did because he had no choice. The most principled man I've ever known followed his beliefs, even when they conflicted with the law. I believe he'd have done the same to save any person, and that's why I love him so very much.
I can hear it; they've come to my house, but there's no knocking at my door. Instead, someone is trying to force the latch of the living room window. I'm under the bed in my room, trying to breathe silently, but I'm confused. Why would the police force a window open when they could bludgeon the door down?