It’s amazing how many things the human mind forgets. Decades and decades of life, and in the end only a few memories remain. Mere glimpses of what once was, flashes that barely account for anything at all. We seem to remember only the best and the worst parts, the ones that stay with us forever, the rest turning into dust. They are swallowed up by forgetfulness, caught in a limbo between what didn’t happen and what we remember.

 

          It is quite understandable, then, that attics end up filled of useless, forgotten objects. No one really knows what to do with them, but some sort of silly sentimentalism prevents people from throwing them away. And so they are placed in an attic, never thought of again, gathering dust as the years go by.

 

          In the end, someone always finds the pile of objects and gets rid of them. It might be years, decades, even centuries later, but eventually someone will enter the old attic and come face to face with the ancient objects that once upon a time held some meaning. It was this way that I found the letters: inside a box, piled as if in a hurry, untouched for almost 25 years. They smelt of decomposing paper, of filth, of time. What I didn’t know when I opened the box, what I couldn’t possibly have known, was how those letters would change my life forever.

 

 

✥

 

 

          The rain was pouring down hard on that freezing afternoon of June that was to be the coldest in years. The wind and the cold leaked inside through every crack and fissure in the house, making the fireplace useless in heating the place. The only room that was tolerable to stay in for more than five minutes was the living room, right next to the fire. The kitchen was bearable enough, since there was the second, smaller fireplace, but nevertheless the marble floor prevented the room from really warming up.

 

          The cold wasn’t the worst thing, though. It was the emptiness. All the life and hope had gone out of the house, leaving it desolate and grey. I hadn’t realised it would be this painful, going into our old house and through mom’s things; at the time it had seemed fitting that I did it, and I had refused any help from my aunt or my husband.

 

          I decided to start with the attic, where the objects wouldn’t be as painful to face. They weren’t mom’s clothes, or her brush, or her agenda with her curved handwriting on it. I expected that the attic would be full of stuff older than any of us, probably from the time of my grandparents, or even further back.

 

          Shivering, wrapped in a blanket, I walked up the stairs, through the long corridor, until I reached a tiny trapdoor in the ceiling. When I opened it a fragile-looking set of stairs came down, and I climbed up into the attic. What first struck me was the smell of enclosure, the smell of a room which hadn’t had daylight or air in years. Then I noticed the dust, the dirt, the feeling of things long forgotten.

 

          I found many things that day, most of which I can no longer remember. There was, however, a special box whose memory stays with me even today. There were probably many things of more value in that attic, and yet the sole memory I keep is of that box and its contents. The box itself was nothing special: dusty cardboard, hidden from view in a corner of the room. When I opened it, I found a pile of papers. I made myself comfortable and started to read.

 

 

May 4th, 1977

          My Dearest

 

          I am sorry I took this long to write. I know it must have been hard for you, not knowing what had become of me, whether I was alive or not. I know it has been almost a year, and I’m sorry. But I’m safe now, and you could be safe with me. I got here a week ago and it has all been crazy. People asking me questions in a language I barely understand, going from one place to another with the rest of the refugees. I am to stay here until they have asked us all their questions and have a place to relocate me, and when they do, you could come here. I miss you and Anna more than you can imagine. It has been so long since I’ve seen you, that damned day when they came for me in the dead of the night. But it’s over now, at least here. Please, consider what I’m telling you. You would be safe here; we would be a happy family once again.

 

          Always loving you,

 

          Your husband

 

 

          When I finished the letter, I was frozen in my place. This couldn’t be possible. My mother had told me, had always told me, that she had never known anything else about Dad. They had taken him on that awful night I still clearly remember, taken him forever, like they took anyone who dared speak up against them. It was over, it had been over for years now, but no one knew what had become of the people who had disappeared. They were presumably dead, but there had been no bodies to bury, no funeral to attend to, no feeling of closure.

 

 

June 3rd, 1977

          My Dearest

 

          It is possible that my last letter went astray, but I’m more inclined to think that you simply didn’t answer. I’m sorry, I really am. Please believe me, it’s me. I’m here—for security reasons, I can’t tell you where here is, not until you decide to join me—I’m safe. Please, please, come with me. I miss you and Anna. I love you both. I need you here with me, where you can be safe. I understand if you love me no longer, but even so accept my favor. My connections here have offered me two boat tickets for you, parting December 30th. Please, I’m begging you, let me see you once more. And Anna- oh God, Anna. How is she? Please tell her about it. Don’t take away her opportunities of being happy again. Please, I need you both.

 

          Loving you and missing you,

 

          Your husband

 

P.S: again for safety reasons, I can’t mention my name or yours.

 

 

          I put a hand to my cheek and was surprised to feel it wet; I hadn’t realised I’d been crying. I pushed the tears back, for there was nothing to do now but keep reading. December 30th, 1977 had come and gone a long time ago.

 

 

June 4th, 1977

          My Dearest Anna

 

          It’s me, Dad. I’m so sorry you heard nothing about me for a year. But I’m safe now, and I want you and Mom to come with me. I love you and I miss you so much. I’m sorry this letter is so short, but you’ll hear about me soon.

 

Love,

 

Dad

 

 

          I had never seen that letter in my life, despite it being addressed to me. How many secrets had my mom kept from me and taken to the grave?

 

 

June 13th, 1977

          Dearest John

 

          I’m so sorry it has to be this way. I’m sorry this all happened. But we can’t change the past, and you’ve been gone for a year. Everything has changed so much without you. I love you, and my heart aches when I think that you’re somewhere, alive and safe. But I can’t go there. I belong here, in my country—in our country. I understand you can’t come back; it’s not safe, and I would never want your life to be at risk. But there’s no way I can leave, either. I just can’t. Call me a coward, but I can’t leave all my life behind. And my family! What will I tell my parents? My sister? And what about Anna? How could she start her life in a new place? How could she leave everything she’s ever known? I never had your courage, Johnathan. I can’t leave everything behind and move on. I’m sorry. Please know that I love you, and that Anna loves you.

 

          Alicia Your wife

 

 

          I had never been so angry at my mother as I was then. Can you be mad at someone who’s dead? Is it even right? But I didn’t care whether it was right or wrong. I was simply furious, and to know that there was no possible way I could scream at my mother made me even madder. I forced myself to keep on reading, to find out the whole truth, however painful.

 

 

June 30th, 1977

          My Dearest

 

          Please reconsider. I know it is hard, but we love each other. We can be a family again. It is not safe where you are. Would you really stay in a place where there’s no freedom, where people are killed, tortured? Where people disappear from one day to another, leaving no trace? Is that really the place you want Anna to grow up in? Please, come here. We can be happy again. At least let Anna know about me. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to. I understand you are mad at me- I’m mad at me! But please reconsider what you told me. Do I not have the same right to see Anna as you have? She is my daughter as well as yours, after all. I love you both. You will find the tickets of the boat parting this December 30th inside this envelope.

 

          Hoping you change your mind, and always missing you,

 

          Your Husband

 

 

July 1st, 1977

          My Dearest Daughter

 

          I love you. I will always love you, no matter where you are. Please remember that, and if you ever need someplace to go, you can come with me. I’m not asking you to choose between you mother and me. I would never do that. But I believe you might convince your mother. I love you

 

          Dad

 

 

          Yet another letter addressed to me that I had never seen. To avoid thinking, to avoid feeling, I carried on reading.

 

 

July 16th, 1977

          Dearest Husband

 

          My decision is final. Neither Anna nor I will leave. There is too much we have to leave behind. I’m sorry. I really am. This should never have happened to us, but it did, and we have to move on and let things change. That’s the way of life. I love you, as does Anna. Who knows, if life allows it, we might meet again. Until then, it’s goodbye.

 

          Loving you

 

          Your Wife

 

 

July 27th, 1977

          My Dearest Wife and Daughter

 

          I understand that your decision is final. I don’t understand your decision, but I won’t pressure you further. Know that my doors will always be welcome to you. But don’t think that Life—or Chance, or Destiny, however you want to call it—will make us meet again. Life gave us the opportunity to meet once more, through those tickets you won’t use. That was your opportunity, and I don’t believe Life gives second ones to the people who wasted their first. If we never meet again, know that the opportunity was given to you and you didn’t take it. Also know that I love you both, and your decision pains me more than anything I’ve gone through in my entire life. You’ve left me, and I understand that, but it still pains me. Please know that I love you with all my heart.

 

          Your Husband and Dad

 

 

          I tried to make the tears stop but they just kept falling. Who was I mad with? Myself? My mother? My dad? Maybe with everyone. If only I had found those letters before… But I hadn’t, and that was the way things were. There was one last piece of paper in the box, and I took it out slowly, as if it were some precious treasure that could disappear in the blink of an eye.

 

March 23rd, 1996

          Dear Alicia and Anna Miller

 

          We have never met, but I’ve heard about you from Johnathan. He is my father- was my father, I should say. I’m sorry to inform you that he died last month. Some weeks before he died he gave me this address (which is most likely outdated) and told me to send a letter when he died. He had told me about you before, and I don’t believe that what you did is right, but nevertheless if you want to talk to me, my address is attached in the next piece of paper. Just so you know, he loved you until the very end. It took him almost five years to marry again, despite knowing my mother for two. I was born here in London, 1981. If this letter ever reaches you, I would appreciate you letting me know, so at least I can sleep in peace knowing my father got one of his last wishes granted.

 

          Best Regards

 

          Christopher Miller

 

 

          He had a son. And my mother knew, and didn’t even have the decency to send a letter to the poor boy. It was no wonder she had been so bitter towards the end. I was really angry, but I had started to realise that I’d have to let the anger go. There was no point. My mother had died, and she had chosen not to tell me, whatever her reasons. I dried my face with my sleeve, put the letters back in the box, and stood up. I left the attic (I would clean up and look through the rest of the things later, maybe with some help) and I went back to the living room. I found a piece of paper and started to write.

 

 

June 22nd, 1998

          Dear Christopher Miller

 

          My name is Anna Miller, and I believe you are my half-brother. My mother recently died, and looking through her things I found a box of letters. Letters between her and the father she had told me was dead. I wish I would have found them earlier, but my mother kept them from me. I never knew my father was alive, waiting for me. I know it is probably too late, but I was wondering if there was any way I could travel to London this month…