“What have we here?” Mary murmured, leaning forward, easing a small package from the shelf. As she carefully removed the paper wrapper, a small black leather bound book appeared that resembled a diary. Realizing it belonged to her father and the contents were of a personal nature – thoughts about the war and perhaps her mother – she hesitated to open it. She held it there, feeling its weight, the luxury of the leather cover, wondering what secrets lay within, secrets of a life together only mentioned in bits and pieces, small family reunions, parties with old wartime friends, and conversations when her mother would recall events from World War Two. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the empty room, she took a deep breath and opened the small book. Instantly, she recognized her father’s backhanded handwriting. She began to read:

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