Chapter 7

Nick drove to his grandmother’s apartment, found the key on his key chain, and let himself in. He switched on some lights and looked around the plant-filled living room with the multicolored quilt neatly folded on the back of the couch. He breathed in the familiar smell of Grandma’s surroundings: potpourri, talcum powder, greenery, and coffee.

Nick knew there was a storage closet on the balcony. He turned on the outside lights and opened the sliding door. The closet was crammed with stuff: Christmas decorations, folding chairs, various pots, some tools, and boxes stacked on the back of shelves. Which one held the journal? Nick began taking each one out and opening it, squinting at the contents under the weak overhead light. He used the flashlight on his phone to get a better look. Box number one held family photos, mostly black and white. He groped around for something that resembled a journal—but found only pictures. He opened box number two which held greeting cards. Nick recognized a birthday card he had made for her in grade school, but no journal. In box number three, he found the battered journal along with his grandfather’s medals and newspaper clippings about D-Day. Grandma had said it was his. He put away the photos and cards, turned off the lights, and cradled the box under his arm as he locked the door and got into his car. He couldn’t wait to study what was in the box when he got home.

Once there, after greeting his parents, he shook the box at them. “Grandma said I could have it.”

His mother raised her brows. “You’re the only one who likes history.”

Nick’s father cleared his throat. “I like history too.”

“True,” his mother said before returning her attention to scrolling through messages on her phone.

“I’m starving,” Nick said, but “starving” had a new meaning after meeting Cat.

Nick reheated his dinner and began laying out everything from the box that was held together with tape that was curling and peeling around the edges. The journal was first, then the medals, some letters, and yellowed newspapers announcing the D-Day invasion.

He began by opening the journal. The cover was torn and stained in several places. Nick wondered if Grandpa had carried it into battle. Earl William Chesterfield, June 1944.

The ink had smeared on the pages, making it difficult to read. But he was able to make out: We’re not to keep journals, but I want to remember everything. We’re preparing for a top secret invasion. We can only guess at what it will be. There are rumors, but we haven’t been briefed on what exactly we’ll be doing. Nick yawned and rubbed his eyes. He guessed his grandfather was referring to D-Day—a top secret invasion they had learned about in class. As much as he wanted to read the rest of the journal, his eyes began to close. He crawled into bed, vowing to get up early to read more. His dreams were filled with war too. Jean Claude Rousseau visited him again. This time he was running toward a large gate guarded by men with guns.

Then the shooting started, and he was jarred awake. It took a moment for him to realize he wasn’t in the dream anymore, but in bed and he had slept through the alarm. He was late to school.

“Nick?” his mother called. “You’re going to be late. Are you up?”

“Coming.”

He’d take the journal to school to show Coach Sullivan. It would be far better to write about D-Day and share some of his grandfather’s writings than the Gypsies—Romas. Who even cared about them?

When Nick arrived at World History, he carefully eased the journal out of his pack to show Coach.

“What do you have there, Nick?” Coach said, frowning at the worn and partially tattered journal.

“This was my grandfather’s journal when he was part of D-Day.”

Coach gingerly opened the cover to study the handwritten pages. “Have you read it?”

“No, I just got it last night. I thought I might look at it during lunch or something.”

“I’d like to look at it again.” He clasped Nick on the shoulder. “We’re getting ready to cover D-Day, so maybe you can read some of it in class.”

“Sure! That would be great!” He envisioned extra-credit points coming his way.

Nick scooped up the journal and took his seat near Cat. “Can I show you something?”

“Sure,” she said.

He slid the journal across the desk for her to see. “This is my grandpa’s journal he kept during WWII.”

She raised her brows and flipped open the book. She grimaced. “This is from 1944. Saumur happened in 1940.”

“Maybe we want to switch to this instead?” he asked.

“No, I want to know what happened to us.”

“Cat…” He was silenced when Coach began to take roll. He didn’t believe in that reincarnation stuff. But just when he thought that, disjointed images flooded Nick’s mind. A castle. The boy in a uniform watching a bonfire through the shelter of trees. Nick couldn’t make out what he was looking at; the images flashed and were gone. Who was that boy he kept seeing?

“Does anyone have any questions?” Coach asked.

Nick jerked his head up, so engrossed in the images, familiar yet not. The lecture was over. The time had slipped away. What had he missed? Apparently everything.

“What did I miss?” he asked Cat.

She shrugged. “It’ll cost you.”

His shoulders shook as he suppressed a laugh. “I’ve got five bucks in my wallet.”

She kept her lips together, chuckling silently.

“Okay,” Coach said, waiting, eyes scanning. “If no one has any questions, I’ll give you the rest of the class period to work on your project. Who is still having problems narrowing their topic?”

Several hands raised and Coach went to them. Nick turned to Cat. She watched him with laughing eyes rimmed in shimmering black.

“So you don’t want to switch to D-Day?” He tried again.

“No.” She folded her arms across her chest.

He let out a long sigh and closed the journal cover. “How do you know about the camp and Gypsies? I mean Romas.” Suddenly remembering the face of the prisoner and the barbed wire. “Are you related to someone in the camp?” Nick asked after a considerable silence. There had to be a logical answer.

“I was in the camp,” she said.

“Did…did it have barbed wire?” Nick asked.

Cat’s eyes narrowed.

Of course it did. Most prisons had that deterrent.

“And deep holes?” he whispered.

To this, her eyes widened in surprise, and tears welled up.

Her reaction troubled him and made his chest hurt.

“I died in one such hole.”

“Oh.” Yes, she had mentioned that.

She lowered her head and looked away.

The images kept coming. A vision of buildings, converted barracks constructed for one reason but used for another stuck in his head. The internment camp, holding hundreds of Romas, smelling of excrement, perspiration-soaked clothing, and unwashed bodies with crippled and ill prisoners sitting or lying in the corners.

He needed to get those thoughts from his head. He stood, swaying slightly on his feet.

“Nick?” Coach Sullivan asked.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” He rushed into the hallway and vomited into the nearest trash can.