The Truth About Us

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.