Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(101)
Miles could tell her that Danny already seems to be changing in some ways. He stares at the spot on his ceiling where he once placed a Beast Boy sticker that has faded into a ghost of itself. He wonders if he will miss the old him over the years or if he’ll be glad to be whatever he becomes next.
“Hey, um. This is kinda awkward.”
“Is it about Zoom Prom?”
“No. It’s about Mormor.” The uncomfortable question he’s punted down the road has finally come to a stop. “Chloe, what if she wasn’t a spy for the Allies but a double agent for the Nazis? What if ‘The Tale of the Hare and the Deer’ is a confession?”
“Miles. My grandma is not a Nazi, okay? She literally married a Jewish man named Samuel Eisenberg and raised her daughter Jewish.”
“You said it yourself: People change.”
Chloe stares at him. “I can’t believe you are saying this.”
“We have to follow every lead. Explore all the options. I’m just saying—that is an option.”
“No. It’s not,” Chloe says hotly. “I’ve known her my whole life. She fought for civil rights and against apartheid and went to so many boycotts and marches and got arrested! She’s the best person I have ever personally known!”
“You’ve known a version of her. She had a life before you.”
Chloe goes quiet for an uncomfortably long time. The way she’s playing with her pen, turning it end over end, is a tell. She’s angry.
“Look, you think the Mystery Mavens ignore a truth just because it’s inconvenient or awkward? No. They follow through. No matter how uncomfortable.” He’s trying to sound sympathetic but he’s getting worked up.
“Oh, so now it’s not just a theory but fact that my grandma was a Nazi spy?”
“Remember, you asked me to help you.”
“Yeah, regretting that right now.”
It’s feeling like last November in the park. “At least I’m not in denial.”
Chloe snorts. “I’m in denial? Miles, you’re so afraid of your feelings you can’t have a serious conversation without reaching for the joke when things get too real. How do you like that inconvenient truth? Oh, and excuse me, but I literally attended my first march with Mormor while I was in diapers. Okay? What about you? When have you put some skin in the game?”
The comment lands like a blow of truth. Miles comes out swinging. “Sorry if my Insta isn’t full of me on righteous marches holding signs with my activist grandma so everybody knows how woke I am. I didn’t sign up for drama class.”
Chloe’s mouth opens in a little gasp and he knows instantly that he’s gone too far.
“No,” she says evenly. “It’s about doing the work. About taking the risk. Whether there’s anybody there to see it or not.”
“Yeah. Well—”
But she’s already disconnected their call.
* * *
Miles can’t sleep, the fight with Chloe fresh on his mind. One minute, he’s sure he’s right, and in the next, doubt barrels in. Chloe knows her grandmother much better than Miles could. But that very closeness might cloud her judgment. The two of them are writing a narrative of themselves and they each need the other to believe it to make it true.
Dawn gilds the window. Miles checks his phone. No message from Chloe. He opens up his email and stares at the blinking cursor.
Hi Ms. Diaz,
I hope I’m not bothering you. I’ve been looking into that possible war crime and it got me thinking about your uncle. I’m kinda struggling with the whole idea of forgiveness and justice. I hope this isn’t too personal but how could you forgive them for what they did to your family? For what they did to humanity? I hope you’re all doing okay. Mom Lisa says we don’t have to sanitize our groceries anymore. Just FYI.
Sincerely,
Miles
Hi Miles,
You are definitely not bothering me. That’s a big question and I’m not sure I have an answer. The mothers and grandmothers of the Desaparecidos never forgot. They would gather in the Plaza de Mayo every week, these silent, sad-faced women in headscarves carrying hand-painted signs, demanding justice for their lost children. Their very presence was a protest. They didn’t give up. That kind of tenacity is key. I asked one of the mothers once—she was a very religious lady—how she was able to forgive the murderers. She told me that forgiveness was her form of civil disobedience. It was a disruption of the cycle of action/reaction, of an eye for an eye. Her forgiveness allowed for something new to emerge; it made it possible.
Me? I’m not there yet. I can’t think about the murderers. I have to think about the future. That’s why I teach. If memory is a protest, then I try to keep knowledge alive by teaching history, which is the record of our collective memory. I fight to include the voices of those who have been left out to make that history more comfortable for certain people. As my friend Gayle always says, “The truth will set you free. But first it hurts.”
Wow. You really got me fired up today! Thank you!
Sincerely,
D. Diaz
* * *
Miles has dragged Mama D’s boxes up from the basement. He sits on the living room rug sorting through her past. The picture of her with Lena outside the Hansa studio. An old couple dancing amid rubble. A teeming scrum of punks caught mid-dance. A whole life contained in a mildewed corrugated box. It makes him wonder which things that seem important now, moments and friends and regrets that loom large, will be diminished or amplified by time. At the bottom of the box, Miles finds a yellowed envelope with Jenny written across the front in an elegant cursive. The left corner of the envelope bulges with something bulky. He empties it and out comes an acorn.