“The woman returned, reminded Waclaw that he couldn’t tell anyone that he was Jewish. She brought him to her house, fed him, gave him a bed, bartered home-churned butter for salve, and nursed Waclaw and his hands back to health. During those weeks, she shared a few things about herself. She was a widow and her sons had been taken from her, forced upon pain of death to fight for the Nazis. For six weeks he stayed with her. Her hospitality was second to none. She was kind and generous and nurturing. A guardian angel. Just like the boy who had given Yankel his name. For six weeks, Waclaw had a safe home….”

Nana holds out her hands, stares, and flexes her fingers like Grandpa used to do. She takes my hand, turns it palm up, then folds her fingers over mine. She then scoots back, asks Mom to sit on her other side, and folds her other hand into Mom’s. Desperation fills Nana’s eyes, like she’s pleading for us to understand.

Nana sniffles. Her accent is thick and heavy with emotion. “Grandpa was the Jewish boy. He was Yankel. He’s the one who took Waclaw’s name, survived in the wilderness, was helped by the widow, and was eventually found by Jewish partisans who took him in. They fought against the Nazis. Sometime after that, Grandpa lost the Bible.”

Mom and Dad are speechless. My mouth drops open.

Nana continues. “I, too, am Jewish like Yankel. I, too, lived in that town. I survived Gross-Rosen concentration camp, and that twelve-year-old boy, the last to die on the gallows? That was my youngest brother, Michoel. Michoel is Hebrew for Michael.” It sounds like she’s clearing her throat when she pronounces the middle part of her brother’s name.

Nana take a deep breath, looks at Dad. “Adam, would you please go into my top dresser drawer? You’ll find the cross that Grandpa received from his kind friend.”

Dad shifts and opens the drawer. When he turns around, he holds up a cross dangling from a silver chain.

Nana looks from me to Dad to Mom. “Mikayla, I was afraid. I didn’t want anyone to know we were Jewish. Your pa would have chosen differently. He stayed true to himself, silently. He was proud we had survived and grateful Hitler had lost the war. He lived every day seeing the bright side of life. I appreciated that. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what I would have done. He loved me so much he agreed to keep our secret. You have to understand. We lost everyone—our parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, and aunts, uncles, and cousins. We lost our friends and neighbors. Everyone. It was too much for me.”

Nana’s sobbing.

Mom’s sobbing.

I’m sobbing.

Tears stream down Dad’s cheeks.