He hadn't been back to the family home in at least twenty years, maybe more. He had the impression of going back in time. The notary had given him an envelope with keys. The one to the front door was heavy and cold.
He stood for a moment on the porch, both eager and anxious about what he was about to discover, a bit like an archaeologist at the entrance to a temple, or a Mausoleum. It was early and already images were assailing him. He turned the key in the lock. The door was double locked and two sharp knocks tore the silence. A bird flew into the nearby tree. Wings beating, then silence again.
He lit a flashlight because the moon was too dim, and pushed open the door. A breath of air escaped from the house and made him shiver. That draft seemed alive, like a beast that had been lurking back there all this time, patiently waiting for someone to open the door and finally jump out.
As he suspected, the house was full of objects. He knew at that moment that it would be difficult. Even the smell was familiar. A song echoed in his head, a rhyme his grandmother used to hum to him when day gave way to night. It was an enigmatic song, in an unknown language. Each object was in its place and they would lose their soul if they were moved. They had a piece of history in common but their existence would continue after his. "Perhaps the objects keep a trace of those they have crossed" he said to himself. All these objects had an existence, a trajectory of their own. Would he be able to get rid of all these links?
On a piece of furniture, right at the entrance, was a world map. "It too is still there". He put his hand on it and gently turned the globe. A map holder stood next to it, open-mouthed, filled with letters from all over the world. He pulled out the drawer underneath. "And is she still there too?" The African dagger that served as a paper cutter, admittedly a bit heavy, was shining despite the dim light of the lamp. Its presence made him like an interior burn, a pinch in the heart. "I used to open grandpa's letters with it." He took it in his hand. He then thought of the "Manual of Epictetus", a small book compiled by Arrien which contained all the Stoic doctrine. This book was called the enkheiridion, literally what one keeps in one's hand, like a dagger.
Words and things can be linked by the same destiny. He slipped the dagger into his belt. Where he was going now, he wouldn't need it. But its presence gave him courage. He knew he had to face his fate now. He turned slowly and swallowed. Right there, behind him, was the chamber of secrets. He had given it that name when he was very small, because it was the only door in the whole house that always remained closed. It was the only place that no one talked about, the only place that made his grandmother's head spin and his grandfather's eyes fill with sadness.
When he was home, they were rarely away and never for very long. It only happened once or twice a year. By dint of searching every nook and cranny, he finally found the key and gained access to the room. Inside this small room was a multitude of objects piled up, old trunks and a large wardrobe. He knew instinctively that what he was looking for was there, in that cupboard. Inside there were more things, toys this time. He found a Meccano box that must have belonged to his father. And then his eyes fell on some drawers. One of them was closed. He knew immediately that everything was there and that his grandmother must have kept this key on her at all times.
Twenty minutes later he turned the envelope over and a small, shiny key fell into his trembling hand. He was sweating and his heart was beating so hard he could almost hear it. His hand was shaking so badly that he had to take several tries to place it in the lock.
He turned the key. The drawer was locked, too, with a double turn. He was the first to open it since his grandmother's death. It was daylight now, and the light, curious, was seeping through the smallest of gaps. He was afraid. He would have liked to gain time but he could not turn back.
It contained papers and photos. There were also birth certificates written in Russian, documents in German, "Ausweis", some documents in Polish this time. And at the bottom a list. A list of crossed-out names. At the end of each line, he recognized the sadly famous words: Auschwitz, Treblinka, Sobibor...
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. He shouldn't have cracked, not now. How could they tell him? He understood now why they had visited Oradour sur Glane together, why they sometimes talked about the war, the occupation and the Kommandantur that used to be in the castle next door, now in ruins.
"Socrates was right when he said: Know thyself, and nothing too much". He carefully put the documents away in an inside pocket. He locked the chamber of secrets, then the house. He left without looking back, leaving no trace but his footsteps in the snow.
