The story he told me replays in my mind. Months had passed since Grandpa witnessed the Nazis’ liquidation of the town’s Jews, and every day he worried about what became of them—most of all, his friend Yankel. One morning when Grandpa went to feed the animals in the barn, there was Yankel, filthy and not much more than skin and bone. He told Grandpa about what it had been like living in the ghetto—in a space fit for two people, there were fifteen, crumbs of bread or no food at all. Typhus swept through, killing his mother, his father, his neighbors. Piles of corpses filled the cemetery, which was too small to provide a proper burial for many of the dead. In the graveyard, Yankel, along with two other boys, used the mound of corpses as a shield to dig a hole under the fence. They escaped under the cover of darkness.

For several days, Grandpa hid Yankel in the barn, sneaking him morsels of food. On the fourth night, his mother discovered them. Grandpa begged her to help Yankel, and finally they came up with a plan. They bleached Yankel’s brown hair so it looked blond, gave him a family Bible and a cross to wear around his neck. They told him what Catholic prayers and passages to memorize. They gave him bread, an apple, and a coat my grandpa had outgrown.

That night, as Yankel said his goodbye, Grandpa gave Yankel one more gift: his identification paper. Your name is Waclaw now.

At first, Yankel refused to take Grandpa’s identity. But my grandpa insisted, pushing him to leave. There can’t be two of us here. You have to go far away and never come back. Yankel promised that if he got caught, he would say he stole the paper. He promised never to betray my grandpa or his family. He kept that promise. My grandpa never saw Yankel again.

Chapter 26: Logan

Cade parks my car in the Riviere Public Library lot. Twenty minutes to spare. I unbuckle my seat belt and shift to talk with him. “You weren’t listening, were you?” It’s not an accusation, but a statement of fact.

“I was half listening. Sorry. Want to share the highlights?”

I unlock my phone and bring up Bethany Beshett’s Facebook profile, which is mostly private except for a few photos and articles she’s had published. “She has a degree in journalism. Last May she started interning at the Lake Towns Journal. All her articles focus on education. She’s a good writer,” I say. “And it seems like she sticks to the facts.”

“Okay,” he says.

I scrutinize his face. “You’re nervous?”

“A little. I’ve been thinking about my grandparents. I wish I knew what happened to their families in Poland during World War Two.”

“Did you ask your mom?”