by Tia Souders
He drew closer, then paused in front of her—so close she could smell the tobacco on his breath. Wrinkles marred his olive complexion. Though he smiled, there was no relief in the gesture, and when he reached a hand out to her, he offered her the dark object.
Her eyes moved to his bony grip, taking in what appeared to be a leather-bound book.
“Abigail Bridges?” he asked, with an accent so thick, she hardly registered her own name.
Her gaze darted back to his face. The acknowledgment shouldn’t have surprised her. Still, her eyes widened, and unable to speak, she nodded.
“I have something for you,” he said, his voice harsh like the sound of crunching gravel.
He extended the trembling hand and offered her the book. Though she hesitated, she eventually reached out. With sweat-dampened palms, she took the offering, noting the velvet-smooth feel of the cover, the crooked spine, and the worn edges peeking out from underneath it like years of wear had caused the pages to come loose. The book looked like it had lived a million lives.
She searched his dark eyes, unsettled by what she saw in them—sadness and pain like she had never seen before—and the weight of responsibility pressed down on her as she realized the burden of her grandmother’s dying wish was squarely on her shoulders.
Part of her wanted to give the book back, to drop it and run, while a part of her wanted to shake this man until his bones clacked and he gave her answers.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Read it.”
For the second time that night, Abby wasn’t sure she wanted to be a part of this—unraveling the truth of her family secret. Not if creepy old men and questionable gifts were involved. Not if it had the power to turn her life upside down as GG had hinted.
She found her voice. “How did you know my grandmother?”
“That doesn’t matter now.” He raised a trembling, liver-spotted hand. The veins bulged from his skin like blue spaghetti. “Just one thing. You must only read it in private. No one can know you have this.” His voice shook with conviction. “No one.”
Abigail inhaled a shaky breath, caressing the book with her fingers. Glancing around her, she scanned the horizon for any sign of Kaden. Had he seen them?
Once she confirmed the empty playground, the stars in the sky, and the wind in the trees were the only things to witness their exchange, she turned back to see the old man had returned to his car. “Wait!”
She stepped forward, motioning for him to stop, but he ignored her. She couldn’t let him leave. Not yet.
“Stop!”
She lunged forward, as the car’s engine roared to life. With one final bone-chilling glare at her, he backed out of the lot and left.
Clenching the book tighter in her grip, she watched him drive away. Adrenaline surged in her veins, and her limbs quaked. Her breath came in ragged puffs. Swallowing, she hugged the book close and headed out of the gravel lot, toward home.
Whatever was inside this book must be important, yet she had more questions than answers as she pumped her legs in a half-walk, half-jog as fast as her feet could carry her. She wanted nothing more than the safety of her bedroom. Part of her wished she had never left it. Part of her wanted all this to go away, while the other part of her clung to this gift GG had given her. Because as long as she was getting letters from the grave, it was like she wasn’t gone, and Abby didn’t have to think about it. She didn’t have to mull over the fact they’d never speak again or how she was never coming back.
As long as she had this shared secret—whatever it was—Abby could pretend GG was still alive.
CHAPTER TWO
By the time Abby arrived home, book in hand, a war had waged itself inside her head. Open the book and pursue GG’s secret or hide it in the deepest, darkest depths of her closet and pretend none of this ever happened?
Abby closed the front door, her head reeling from her encounter at the park. With little light to guide her, she stumbled in the dark. She found the bottom of the stairs with her toes, then took them slowly, careful not to make a sound and wake her grandfather sleeping on the first floor. Or worse, her parents. When her feet hit the landing, she turned into her room and shut the door behind her. Flicking on her bedside lamp, the soft, creamy walls greeted her—a sanctuary to her muddled thoughts.
She held onto the book, fingers clenched around the peeling spine, contemplating her next move. The silky-smooth leather had grown ragged around the edges. No longer rigid, the spine moved to the touch. Could she ignore whatever was inside? Could she stuff GG’s letter under the flap and never look back?
She imagined waking tomorrow, going downstairs for breakfast and pretending nothing happened tonight. Like a complete mystery wasn’t sitting in her closet like a lost child, waiting to be found.
Then she thought of GG, her bright smile and even brighter eyes, slightly green in the sunlight. The way she always dressed up for dinner and carried butterscotch candies in her pocket. She thought of all the ways she had made Abby into the woman she was today. The impact on her life and the loss Abby would feel in the coming years was so profound it formed an ache in her chest. As lame as it sounded, she had been her best friend. She had always been a beaming symbol of virtue, automatically having the answer for any of life’s problems to be solved. When Abby needed advice, she turned to her. Sturdy and reliable, GG had always been there.
And now her grandmother needed her. In her final days, this secret must have weighed on her thoughts, but she was old and broken and could do little more than write Abby a letter. And though Abby had no idea what this secret was about, she would not let her down. She wouldn’t fail her. Not now.
Abby squeezed her eyes closed, her hands curling by her side. When she opened them, she headed for her desk and took a seat in the fuzzy white chair. She gripped the book with two hands and mustered her courage. She had no choice, not really.
She pushed her shoulders back, inhaled, and opened the book before she could stop herself. A slip of paper fluttered onto the surface of her desk. With it, a jolt of recognition zipped down her spine. For the second time that day, she took in the familiar scrawl of her grandmother’s handwriting and the scent of her rose perfume.
Longing reached into her gut as she read GG’s words.
Dear Abby,
The man who gave this book to you was a dear friend. I knew I could trust him with the safekeeping of this journal after meeting him years ago at an event for the museum. He is a survivor of the Holocaust, much like your grandfather.
As you begin to read, you will wonder what possible relevance this has to your life. You are young yet, growing more and more into the woman you are to become every day. I’m sorry I’ll miss that.
What makes a person who they are? What determines who you will be? Your family? Your heritage? Your legacy? Or is it simply our choices? Do we choose who we become? Do we have the control, or are we merely a product of environment, time, genetics...circumstance? These are age-old questions you will need to ask yourself on this journey. Questions you will need to search your heart and find the answers to if you proceed.
As you read the entries in this book, you won’t yet understand the connection, but this is both the beginning and the end of unraveling the secrets I keep.
I know your inclination will be to rush, but take your time. Read carefully. Often, it is in the details and the little things that we find the answers.
Keep this in a safe place where no one will find it. Do not tell anyone. Until you’ve unraveled everything and decide what to do with the information you discover, this is our secret. Okay? A pact to the grave.
Hehe. See what I did there?
Love,
GG
Abby lowered the letter. Take your time? Easier said than done. She may as well hand a perfectly wrapped gift to a five-year-old and tell them not to open it.
Abigail paused and pictured her grandmother writing the letters. She imagined her puff of white hair as she bent over t
he stationary with her favorite pen, and her wrinkled brow furrowed in concentration as she decided what she wanted to say.
Where had she written? At the little nook in the kitchen with her stationary? At the desk beside her bed, where her small lamp burned while night settled in behind the windows? How long ago had she written them? There were so many questions she knew she would never get the answers to.
Clearing her throat, she wiped her damp eyes with her shirt sleeve, then turned her attention back to the letter.
Did she believe GG about the old man being an acquaintance? Something felt...off. Or maybe it was the creepy vibe of the entire night. Meeting him in the dark and receiving a mysterious gift with little explanation other than tell no one wasn’t exactly heartwarming.
For a moment, she wondered if the secret was an affair but shook off the thought as quickly as it came. Of course it wasn’t. Not only was the woman Abby had known loyal to a fault, the secret was something she had stumbled upon, something she never actually proved.
Abby grabbed the journal and opened it. The ink inside had dulled to a washed-out gray, and the pages had yellowed at the edges.
She blinked at the words, unable to comprehend what she held in her hands. The writing was in another a language, but as she peered closer, her two years of German taught her enough to recognize the dialect.
Frowning, she flipped the page to reveal a small slip of paper inserted behind the first entry. She plucked it out and unfolded it to reveal what appeared to be a journal entry written in English. The second page revealed the same thing: more German followed by an insert with what she assumed was the translation.
Abby swallowed. Goosebumps covered her arms as she flipped back to the beginning with shaking fingers. Bracing herself for the moment of truth, she began to read.
APRIL 10, 1943
Seventeen years on this earth and I’ve never wanted to both live and die more than in this moment.
I risked my life today. Why, when every day here is like walking a plank? To be remembered? Because I fear that I will never leave this place, and the one thing that makes the thought of dying here bearable is telling my story? Of someone—anyone—knowing who I am, where I am, and what I’ve gone through?
And so, I write...
On a stolen journal, in the dark—so dark I can hardly see the words as I scrawl them onto the page—I jot down my truth and, with them, my fears.
It is by far the most foolish thing I can do, and I am sure I will eventually be caught. But here, death feels inevitable. So what does it matter that punishment will undoubtedly result in my murder?
Call me a fool, but from the moment I saw the small book fall out of the SS. Officer’s bag, I knew it had to be mine. I knew I would risk life and limb to get it. After all, it had probably belonged to my people long before he stole it, pillaged in one of their raids. Possibly the raid from my own hometown in Krakow. And so, when I walked by the fallen book, I didn’t think. I only reacted.
I threw myself in the mud over the top of it, feigning a fall. As my heart thudded in my chest like a bass drum, I moved my hand underneath me, clutching the small prize to my chest. Even when the guard rushed to my side, my fear was only for the book to be ripped from me before I had a chance to share my story. But my fears were assuaged when he kicked me in the side—three swift blows to my ribs and one to the back—allowing me the excuse to shift my arms around my body and slide the journal underneath the hem of my shirt.
Standing, I gripped my waist with one arm, holding it in place as he shouted at me. Spittle flew from his lips as his ice-blue eyes blazed with indignation, shouting threats and promises of what would happen if I didn’t return to my bunker.
When I made it the eleven feet, which felt like 1100, back to my nightly resting place, I dropped to my knees on the wooden plank that served as my bed. Wedged between dozens of men, like myself, I remained in this prone position as they fell into another night of fitful sleep. Some cried out in the dark. Others prayed, their ominous chant to God falling on deaf ears. Newcomers sobbed, their masculinity forgotten with their depth of despair. Some took their last breath.
When night fell, and the cries ceased, I removed the journal. Only then, did I slip the tiny pen from the sleeve and write this entry.
This minor win, this medium for sharing myself, is the first thing to give me hope in the month since my arrival here at the camp. But the spark inside me won’t last long. And I have a feeling it will be the last...
“THAT’S IT?” ABBY ASKED the silence. She flipped the page to find a fresh entry.
She looked up, allowing her gaze to focus on the darkness outside her window. A weird buzzing sensation coursed through her veins as she tried to take in the words she just read, to fully understand what she held in her hands.
Leaning back, she took a deep breath. Frustration bubbled up inside of her as her thoughts soared, piecing together what little information she had.
GG had said the old man who gave her the journal had been a Holocaust survivor, much like her grandfather. Her eyes zeroed in on the date. 1943. The German writing, content, and timing of the entries all added up.
This was written by a prisoner.
But why did GG have it? If this journal had anything to do with the secret, and the secret pertained to her heritage, then...
The hair on Abigail’s arms stood up.
She had been told of their family history as a child. Growing up, she thought little of it, not appreciating what it had meant to be Jewish. She hadn’t the depth of understanding nor knowledge of what the Holocaust was. She only knew her grandfather’s past held memories too painful to speak of.
Throughout the years, GG had taught her about the forties, WWII, and her grandfather’s place in it—much like she had her mother. Once Abby grew older and learned about Germany in the 1940s and the Holocaust at school, she had ached for her grandfather. Having learned about such unspeakable evil and loss, she couldn’t imagine what he must’ve gone through. But their family’s silence on the matter was a given. Somewhere along the line, she had learned it was a topic never to be addressed and one she was forced to learn about from a distance.
To this day, her grandfather would take no part in any conversation of his family prior to the war or his past. He was beyond closed-off. For the most part, everyone respected his wishes. Abby only remembered a couple occasions where, out of frustration, GG had urged him to share. But he never did. They pieced together his story through spurts of conversation and bits of information revealed over the years.
Her mother said his dark memories were his past, and he wanted to keep them there. Their family celebrated no religion. Growing up, other than what GG had taught her about history, they ignored their heritage like they had none. They kept their family close, tight-knit, never speaking of those they had lost. This was normal for Abby. She had grown used to it, and only now did she question the rationale behind such passive resistance.
Her gaze skimmed over the entry once more, then flipped to the next one, searching for clues she may have missed, something to tell her why she had it and what her grandmother wanted her to find. Words popped out at her more so than the first time as she remembered what little details of her grandfather’s past she knew.
On the next page, the word Krakow stood out. She remembered the name. It was her grandfather’s village in Germany. Wasn’t he a teenager when he entered the camps with his family?
The most obvious explanation for why GG had possession of this journal was because someone gave it to her, perhaps the author. Could the author be her grandfather? And if it was, then why did she keep this tucked away? Why didn’t he have it?
Frowning, Abby turned the book over, then opened the back cover. There, etched onto the paper in ink was a name.
Abby gasped. Yoel Gutman stared back at her from the inside flap.
A lump formed in her throat as she smoothed her fingertips over the ink, marveling at the treasure she gripped in her
hands. These were words from her grandfather during the war. Such a firsthand account of what he went through was almost too good to be true, which made her wonder why he had withheld this from them all these years.
Abby hugged the journal to her chest and closed her eyes, the secret nearly forgotten with the profound revelation that she had possession of something so invaluable, so personal to her grandfather.
“Oh, grandpa,” she whispered.
CHAPTER THREE
Abby’s entire body turned to lead as she fingered the pages of the journal. So many entries...
The discovery weighed on her as she prepared to read another passage. Moving her arms took great effort, and her fingers didn’t want to turn the page as exhaustion fell over her thoughts like a thick fog.
GG’s letters, the secret, the journal, her death, and the emotional strain of the day culminated inside her, a steel blade gouging into her heart.
She snapped the journal closed. Not tonight. It was just too much.
Standing, she turned, surveying her room as she remembered the old man’s warning and wondered where she could hide it. She struggled to keep her eyes open as she plodded with heavy footsteps across the plush carpeting toward her dresser. Opening her underwear drawer, she stuck the journal inside, then thought better of it. Too conspicuous.
Picking it back up, she struggled to find a better hiding place with her muddled brain. Opening her closet door, she found an old messenger bag tucked away in the corner. She placed the journal in the front pouch, zipped it closed, and then buried it underneath a pile of junk, where she hoped it’d be safe.
