The Truth About Us

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.

Her eyelids drooped as she stumbled back to bed, thinking about the emotional rollercoaster in the days since GG’s death. The aching behind her eyes spoke of unshed tears, but she pushed the emotion aside. Tears wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing would.

All Abby had now was her memory and this secret—whatever it may be. So, she’d hold on to it. Whatever this game of hide-and-seek for clues was she’d cling to it until the very last second because as long as she had a purpose, she could ignore the pressure in her chest. A purpose gave her a distraction, and anything was better than recognizing how much she missed GG already, how she’d never get a chance to talk with her again, or play another game of cards. Anything was better than feeling.

THE UPBEAT TUNE OF her ringtone trilled, waking her. Rolling over, Abby snatched it off her nightstand and checked the screen.

Cammie.