1917

April 28, 1918

 The news of Gavrilo Princip’s death reached us two days after it happened, echoing through the house like the final note of a mournful dirge. He had succumbed to tuberculosis in the grim confines of Terezin Fortress Prison, a death as harsh as the actions he was condemned for. Yet, instead of relief or satisfaction, I felt a pang of empathy. Tuberculosis had already stolen two of my cousins, and now it had claimed another life. For all that Gavrilo had done, he had been a teenager—a boy, not much older than me.

  My father, however, took the news with a celebratory zeal that was as unsettling as it was loud. “Damn Gavrilo is dead!” he bellowed, his voice ringing out like a toast at a grotesque feast. He laughed, clapping his hands together as though the death of this young man were a cause for joy.

  I sat silently, unable to share in his enthusiasm. My father, noticing my downcast expression, frowned and leaned closer. “Cheer up, Jeremiah! Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked, incredulity dripping from his tone.

  But I couldn’t find the energy to smile, let alone agree. I glanced at the floor, the weight of my thoughts too heavy to bear. “I just feel sorry for the manner that he died in…” I trailed off, my words fragile and uncertain.

  My father’s smile vanished as if wiped away by a sudden gust of wind. His face hardened. “F him! He deserved it!” His fists tightened, his whole demeanor radiating a disturbing satisfaction.

  The enthusiasm in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. Here was a grown man, celebrating the death of a teenager, no matter how infamous. Gavrilo was gone, and for all his faults, he had suffered a slow, agonizing death. There was no denying that fact, no matter how much my father wanted to paint it as a victory.

  “Don’t you feel anything for his family?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, pleading with a wall, hoping for a c***k in his armor of indifference.

  He shrugged, his lack of compassion cutting through me like a blade. “He got what he deserved. That’s all there is to it.”

  I looked away, my stomach churning with unease. I couldn’t bring myself to hate Gavrilo—not like my father did. Instead, I pitied him—pitied the circumstances that had shaped him, the sickness that had claimed him, and the family that would mourn him. In that moment, I realized something about my father that I hadn’t fully understood before: his world was stark and unforgiving, with no room for empathy, only judgment.

  And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be part of it.

  My mother stepped in, her voice laced with anger and exasperation. “How can you be so heartless?” she scolded, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her sharp tone sliced through the tension in the room like a blade. “What if he was our child?” Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

  My father, unyielding as ever, barely flinched. “Then I’d personally execute him,” he replied coldly, without hesitation. His callousness was unnerving, and my chest tightened with a mix of anger and disbelief.

  I couldn’t stay silent. “Think about what you’re saying!” I shouted, my voice trembling with outrage.

  “Why the hell should I?” he retorted bluntly, eyes narrowing in defiance.

  “Because you’re my goddamn father! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?!” I cried out, horror spilling into every word. I felt like I was pleading with a stranger, not the man who was supposed to guide and protect me.

  “First of all, watch your language,” he snapped, sharp enough to make me flinch. “And second of all, this is simply hypothetical. Don’t get your trousers in a twist now.”

  The dismissiveness in his tone only fueled my frustration. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to lash out further. “I’m sorry, Father,” I mumbled reluctantly.

  “What was that? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” he mocked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He could hear me perfectly, but he delighted in making me squirm.

  He was playing a game, and I was the unwilling participant, trapped in the emotional chess match of his design. I wanted to storm out, escape the suffocating weight of his indifference, but I felt rooted, paralyzed by the stark realization of how different we were.

  I settled into the corner of the room, eager to lose myself in anything other than the tension. Flipping open my biology textbook, I came across a section on axolotls. These creatures truly were something out of the ordinary—almost magical in their oddity. I read with fascination about their ability to regrow not only limbs but parts of their head, including brain tissue, if injured. How incredible was that?

  Their diet intrigued me, too. Axolotls fed on small, squirming creatures: insects, worms, even tiny fish. I imagined their gills fluttering underwater as they went about their silent, aquatic lives.

  What stood out most, though, was their appearance. Axolotls, with their frilly gills and wide eyes, seemed to perpetually wear a charming, innocent smile. Of course, it wasn’t real—just the shape of their faces—but the effect was undeniably endearing. For a moment, I wished I had one as a pet, a small companion in a house filled with arguments and unease.

  Their bizarre qualities and perpetual “smiles” made me wonder if they ever felt stress like humans did. Probably not—they just existed, floating serenely in their watery worlds. What a life.

  The house had grown unbearably quiet after my father stormed out, the echo of his harsh words hanging in the air like an unwelcome ghost. My mother stood in the hallway, shoulders trembling as sobs wracked her body. Her flushed, tear-streaked face was exposed to anyone who might look.

  I hesitated, unsure how to approach her in such a vulnerable state. Anger toward my father surged within me—a burning desire to confront him—but the cold reality of his stature and strength quickly snuffed it out. What could I do against him? I clenched my fists at my sides, frustration bubbling just below the surface.

  Instead, I walked over to my mother, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. She turned to me, her red, swollen eyes meeting mine.

  “Are you okay, Mama?” I asked softly, though I already knew the answer.

  She tried to smile but failed, lips trembling. “I’ll be fine, Jeremiah,” she whispered, fragile as porcelain. “I just... I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t often I saw her this vulnerable. I wanted to comfort her, to say everything would be okay, but words caught in my throat. Instead, I hugged her tightly, letting the action speak for me.

  For a moment, she rested her head against mine, her sobs softening to quiet sniffles. We stood together in the dim hallway, a mother and son holding each other against the storm raging in our home.

  The night stretched endlessly, heavy with the weight of unanswered questions and lingering emotions. As I whispered my prayer into the darkness, my voice trembled with hope and desperation. I sought solace, clarity, a resolution—a divine intervention to soften my father’s heart.

  After placing A Tale of Two Cities gently on my nightstand, its pages still warm from my fingertips, I curled into my blanket, the fabric cocooning me from the outside world. The steady rhythm of wind against the windows and faint creaks of the old house became a lullaby. Slowly, my breathing deepened, and sleep embraced me.

  That night, my dreams were vivid, unsettlingly so. I found myself standing in an open field, the sky painted in swirling gold and crimson. In the distance, a shadowy figure approached, undefined but radiating undeniable authority.

  “Jeremiah,” the figure called, voice a mixture of strength and sorrow, echoing inside me and around me. “You prayed for peace, but peace comes at a cost.”

  I wanted to respond, but my voice was gone. The figure raised a hand, and instantly I was transported elsewhere. My father stood before me, different—fragile, shoulders slumped, eyes clouded with regret and pain.

  The image faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by flashes of other faces: my mother’s tear-streaked expression, Michael’s lifeless form, and even Gavrilo Princip, gaunt and pale. It was as if I were being shown the fragility of life, the weight of choices, and the relentless march of time.

  When I awoke, dawn’s first light crept through the curtains. My heart raced, my mind swirling with fragments of the dream. I sat up, the previous night’s prayer fresh in my memory. Somehow, something had shifted—God had heard me—but the answer would not come without a price.