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Sinking down onto the edge of her bed, she worried her lip with her teeth. What was she supposed to do?
From where she sat, she had two choices. She could say nothing and go to the grave with this secret, much like GG, or she could turn him in, her own flesh and blood.
The first option meant living with the burden of the truth. She would always know she did nothing. Was keeping his secret taking the easy way out? Or was it harder?
She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. Keeping his secret could very well eat her alive. The knowing would kill her. And what about the countless victims?
Tears stung the back of Abby’s eyes. She thought of the journal, the real Yoel Gutman’s account of the camps, and The Butcher of Auschwitz. How could she not seek justice for them? They were innocent, not much older than her when they were forced into the camps. They deserved the truth; they deserved justice for the ones responsible to finally pay for their crimes—family or not.
But to turn him in...
Abby couldn’t imagine it. While she didn’t think she could ever look him in the eye again without picturing the boy he shot in the head or the monster Irma Mentz, she wasn’t sure she could watch the flash of betrayal at knowing his own granddaughter had turned against him. She didn’t know if she could watch them haul him away in cuffs, to be put in jail until he died. Or worse, until they executed him.
And what about her mother? She had barely scraped the surface of her grief over losing GG; how could she handle losing him, too? Not to mention, the media storm her grandfather’s arrest would cause. Her parents’ jobs would likely be in jeopardy; their reputations in the community ruined. And Abby would be responsible because by remaining silent, she could prevent all of it—the heartache, the pain, the betrayal.
Abby fisted her hands in the comforter, wishing she had someone to guide her but knowing she only had herself.
Did her grandfather regret it? Did he rue the time in his life he was dubbed The Butcher of Auschwitz? Did he get down on his knees every night and pray for absolution?
Her grandfather—her whole family for that matter—had never been spiritual or faith-filled people. Her mother blamed it on the war, on his having trouble keeping faith in a God that would allow such atrocities. He couldn’t find it in himself to cling to a faith, a heritage, that put him in those camps in the first place. But as Abby sat in the darkness of her room, staring at the flecks of cream in the carpet by her bed, the truth told another story. She couldn’t help but wonder if he feared the wrath of a God who knew exactly what he did and who he was. Maybe this whole time, he had been running. Even from God.
What she needed now was the truth—straight from him. She needed to hear he hated himself for who he was and what he did. And maybe only then could she find a way to keep this to herself and find a way to live with it.
Abby got up, the springs in her bed creaking with the dissipating weight, and made her way out of her bedroom. She tip-toed down the staircase toward the guest room off the back hall of the first floor —the one her grandfather had occupied since GG’s death. Her bare feet pattered over the cool hardwood, and when she stopped in front of his closed door, she paused, steeling herself to lay eyes on him for the first time since her discovery.
Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and took in a cleansing breath in mental preparation, then pushed the door open before she could change her mind.
A trickle of light from the hall spilled into the cavernous room. As her vision adjusted to the darkness and cleared, she stepped inside, her gaze homing in on the giant bed centered on the back wall directly across from her. A large lump, she knew to be her grandfather’s body, protruded from the blankets.
Her pulse hammered in her ears as she stepped toward the bed. One. Two. Three.
She took her time closing the gap, for fear of startling him awake. When she reached his bedside, she glanced down at his face, confirming he was asleep. In the soft light of the moon, he looked younger than his eighty-seven years. Soft puffs of air escaped his parted lips in a rhythmic pattern.
In sleep, his peaceful expression rendered a look of innocence and vulnerability Abby had trouble reconciling herself with. How could he be Irma Mentz? How could everything she had ever known about him—their family—be a lie? And not for the first time, she found herself wanting to deny the truth.
Maybe this had all been a nightmare.
A misunderstanding.
One big joke.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
Leaning forward, Abby moved until the side of the bed pressed against her thighs and slowly reached out her hand. She pulled the blanket down and grasped the neckline of his t-shirt and slowly pulled on the soft cotton until his scar became visible. Her eyes followed the angry pinkish-purple flesh, the line of the jagged hook, which stretched from his clavicle up to his neck, just below his Adam’s apple. Exactly how it had been written in the journal. The same scar The Butcher of Auschwitz was given by Kuni.
Her last-ditch attempt to disprove everything she knew had failed. She was foolish to hope when all the evidence had mounted against him.
An overwhelming need for an explanation, for something to explain away the truth ballooned in her chest, while a wave of nausea hit her at once. Taking a step back, she pressed her palm over her mouth to keep from making a sound.
Her throat constricted, making it hard to breathe as her lungs burned. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes and a sob escaped her throat, despite her best efforts to restrain her emotions.
She bolted toward the door.
She couldn’t do this. She was a coward, not nearly strong enough.
No tears, no tears, no tears, she repeated to herself on a loop.
Her hand touched the doorknob as his soft rasp broke the silence. “Abigail?”
