The Truth About Us

She closed the door to the lady’s room and leaned back against it, squeezing her eyes shut and willing the churning in her gut to cease. Inhaling through her nose, she held the air in her lungs. After a moment, she released it, repeating until she could move without fear of losing it on the bathroom floor.

“What am I doing?” she asked herself. With shaking hands, she pressed her fingers against her temples, easing the pressure in her head.

“Oh my gosh. Grandpa.” Abby gasped, then reached in her pocket with shaking hands. He was supposed to meet her there, a surprise for Ms. Gutman. Abby thought if maybe she could convince her there was even a chance Yoel was alive, then they could meet and reconnect.

She had to stop him from coming. There was no way Anna Gutman would be open to a meeting with him.

Opening her phone, she tried calling him but got no answer. She sent her grandfather a text, praying he’d check the old phone mom insisted on buying him two Christmases ago, but Abby knew it was probably no use. He always left it at home.

Ms. Gutman was right. Abby should’ve gone to him in the first place, confronted him directly about the journal. This secret-keeping was stupid. Instead of risking a dead woman’s wishes, Abby brought Ms. Gutman, a virtual stranger, all the way there, despite her insistence Yoel was dead. She used the journal like a bribe. And for what?

Hurrying to the sink, she turned the faucet on, cupping water with her hands and splashing it over her face until her hands stopped shaking. Suddenly, all the reasons she brought Ms. Gutman here seemed unclear. Futile, at best. Regardless, she had to lead with her gut. After all, she had nothing else to go off, no roadmap to guide her, and her instincts had told her to keep GG’s letters a secret. Her instincts told her to tell no one about her quest for clues until she had everything figured out. Her instincts told her Anna was wrong her grandfather was Yoel. For some reason, Ms. Gutman just didn’t want to accept the truth.

Straightening, Abby squared her shoulders. Like it or not, she had to go back out there and face her again, even if she looked like a complete idiot. She knew what she needed to do.

The fact it scared her so much made her wonder. Maybe Ms. Gutman was right. Maybe Abby wasn’t so sure of herself after all? Maybe she wasn’t sure of anything.

She squared her shoulders and left the bathroom with renewed purpose. When she returned to their table and met Ms. Gutman’s eye, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and retrieved an old photo of her grandfather and placed it in front of her. She may not be up for meeting him, but Abby could show her. Make her see.

“I believe this is him,” she said, her gaze steady on Anna’s face.

Ms. Gutman hesitated like she was afraid to deny or confirm her cousin’s existence. When she finally settled her gaze on the picture, the breath caught in her throat. Her body stiffened, her gnarly grip curling around the edge of the table for support.

“This is my grandfather,” Abby said, allowing her words to sink in as Ms. Gutman fell silent. “I believe this is your cousin.”

Abby waited for her response, her stomach coiling in anticipation. When Ms. Gutman finally managed to tear her gaze away, she stood. Her knees wobbled as she stumbled around the table, pushing away from her chair and away from Abby, the journal forgotten. “Stay away.”

Abby frowned. “What?”

She placed a hand over her chest, her fingers curling into the bony spot over her heart, below a pendant she wore—the Star of David—as her eyes darted wildly in front of her.

Leaping forward, Abby’s hands fluttered in the air around her, helpless to stop her departure but needing her to stay. “Are you okay?”

Ms. Gutman pointed a finger at the photo. Her voice shook like an engine roaring to life. “When you spend so much time inside of a place like Auschwitz, worse than any hell you could imagine, there are things you don’t forget. Things you wish you could.”

“Okay,” Abby said, awash with disappointment. A heaviness descended in her chest, but Ms. Gutman’s reaction prevented her from giving in to the weight of it. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

Anna took another step toward the exit, with hurried movements. “You’re asking all the wrong questions,” Ms. Gutman murmured, and with those parting words, she turned and left.

ABBY CLUTCHED THE MESSENGER bag over her body—the journal tucked away safely inside. If it was true she had been asking all the wrong questions, she wouldn’t sleep until she found the right ones. She’d miss school. She’d force Mr. Klein to tell her what he knew. She’d do anything to find the truth. Not just for her or GG but for her grandfather. For seventeen-year-old Yoel, the boy in the book—whether it was her grandfather or not. For all the victims at Auschwitz. For the Sonderkommando who tried their best to fight back but were killed and for her family. She would uncover this skeleton and wouldn’t rest until every bone was left unturned—exposed—and she could sleep again.

After her meeting with Ms. Gutman, she was struggling. She tried not to let the botched meeting get her down. Now more than ever, she was convinced the journal was everything. There had to be something she missed.

When she got home, she closed the front door behind her and headed toward the stairs, as her mother exited the sunroom and stepped in front of her, arms crossed over her chest.

Uh-oh.

“Abby, where were you?”

Abby shrugged, trying to keep her expression neutral. After all, it was only twelve in the afternoon. It’s not like she was out late or her mother caught her sneaking in. No need to arouse suspicion.

“I told you. I was at Cammie’s this morning. We had a school project to work on.”

“Yeah, I got your note when I woke up, but I called Cammie’s and she said you weren’t there. She sounded confused.”

Abby fisted her hands, unjustly irritated. “Why were you checking up on me?”

“Shouldn’t you be explaining where you were instead of asking why I was confirming my daughter’s whereabouts? Especially since you were gone before I woke?” The heat of anger flickered in her mother’s eyes, warning her to tread lightly.