The Diary In The Attic (Part 4)

[Timl1980]

Part 4: The Cost of Neutrality

 

Some battles are fought with weapons. Others are fought with conscience. Anna opened the diary to find her family caught in the latter.

 

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and burnt coffee. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in a pale, sickly glow. Anna sat curled in the corner chair, a blanket draped over her knees. The vinyl seat squeaked whenever she shifted, and the air was too cold, as if the hospital wanted to freeze every germ into submission.

 

Her mother was at the reception desk, filling out forms with a pen that kept running out of ink. Her father had stepped out to take a call, his voice low and tense in the hallway.

 

Anna slipped the diary from her bag. She had started carrying it everywhere...hospital, car rides, even to bed. It was more than a book now; it was a lifeline, a thread binding her fragile present to a past that felt stronger, braver, steadier.

 

She opened to the next entry.

 

April 6, 1917 Dearest Diary,

 

The United States has entered the war. Emil has been drafted. He says he will not take up arms, for he cannot kill. He is willing to serve in other ways, but the men at the draft board mocked him. They called him a coward. I fear for him. I fear for us all.

 

The antiseptic smell of the waiting room faded. Anna blinked, and suddenly she was standing in a crowded hall in 1917. The air was thick with coal smoke and nervous whispers. The benches creaked under the weight of men and women who leaned close to one another, speaking in hushed tones.

 

The room was tense. Brothers and sisters whispered in corners, their voices low. Some had already been arrested for distributing literature that spoke against the war. Others faced ridicule in their towns, neighbors turning cold, employers threatening to fire them.

 

At the front, Sister Clara stood with trembling hands, holding up a copy of The Finished Mystery. The book looked ordinary...worn cover, dog‑eared pages...but the way she held it was as if it were a torch in the dark.

 

“They say this book is treason,” she said softly, her voice quivering but clear. “But it is truth. And truth cannot be silenced.”

 

The room was silent. Anna could hear the faint crackle of the stove in the corner, the shuffle of shoes on the wooden floor. Then, one by one, heads nodded. A brother whispered, “Amen.” Another sister dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

Emil stood near the back, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked both furious and afraid. When someone muttered that refusing to fight was cowardice, Emil’s voice cut through the room: “It takes more courage to stand still than to kill.”

 

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

 

That night, Anna Müller wrote in her diary: “If they come for us, we will not be afraid. Jehovah is our refuge.”

 

The lamplight dimmed, and Anna Fischer was back in the waiting room. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. She closed the diary, her throat tight, her fingers pressed against the worn leather cover.

 

She looked around the waiting room...people scrolling on their phones, a child crying softly in his mother’s lap, a man coughing into his sleeve. The ordinary sounds of waiting, of life suspended.

 

She thought of Emil, mocked for refusing to fight. She thought of Clara, trembling but unafraid. And she thought of herself...seventeen, bald under her scarf, fighting a battle inside her own body.

 

Her mother returned and touched her shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”

 

Anna nodded quickly, blinking back tears. “Yeah. Just…reading.”

 

Her mom smiled faintly, though her eyes were tired. “That old book again?”

 

Anna pressed it to her chest. “It’s not just a book.”

 

Her mother studied her for a moment, then simply nodded, as if she understood more than she let on.

 

Her name was called. The nurse stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, her expression professional but kind.

 

Anna tucked the diary back into her bag and rose slowly, her legs trembling. She whispered under her breath, echoing her ancestor’s words:

 

“Jehovah is my refuge.”

 

And she walked toward the treatment room.