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The Informer
Cross-legged on the attic floor, contents of her grandmother’s chest spread around her, dust motes dappling the air, she gently opened a yellowed letter which had been roughly torn in half, then taped back together, folded around some pretty, but inexpensive jewelry.
The language was old-style German, the letters beautifully formed. She scanned it curiously, lessons from half-forgotten language classes returning, her brain registering just fragments.
“Ich habe Sie seit jahren gesucht,”*
“Ich war es, die Sie gespitzelt habe.”*
“Ich bete fuer ihren vergebung.”*
Her glance dropped to the signature.
The letter shook.
The ornately written name was her grandfather’s.
*I have searched for you for years.
I was the informer.
I pray you can forgive me.
This, that and the other thing 