Peter and His Father’s Diary.

1942, 19th of March, Hungary,

When the enemy bombed the library, everything burnt. Our homes were burnt. Our family was taken away. Most of our friends were killed. Worst of all, the library was obliterated. Destroyed by fire and bombs, wisps of smoke emerge from the library. We desperately caught the scorched words in our hands. We tried to save our past. We tried to save a lingering connection between us and our families of the past generation. All of these things, they can be destroyed by anger, by ignorant humans - but only one thing can survive such devastation. Only one thing that we saved that survived bombs and fire. The only book that kept us connected to our past.

I never wanted to leave the comforts of our home - but we had an important task in front of us. Protect the treasure.

The book I studied - it was about our people, about our past, about us. Rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver, greater than gold. It was a treasure worth protecting.

I find an ornate iron box to store the book in, and I wrap the book in a cloth. I tell Peter, my son, to protect it. Then I saw an enemy plane. Surprisingly, it didn’t bomb us. It turned back. But there could be more. I ushered the other people to start going to a neighbouring town.

A few hours later, the other refugees told my son that the journey would be long and tiring. They told him to leave the box behind. Peter left his suitcase instead. I am so proud of him, showing resilience and his determination like that!

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1947, 6th of April, Yugoslavia

I don’t feel so well - I don’t think I can make it to the village. But the legacy of humankind, the connection to our past, the book about our people, the treasure rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver, and greater than gold, it must survive the devastation. It must be preserved so that the generations of the future can read it, have knowledge; and love it. And if I don’t make it, my son Peter will deliver it to a place where it can be shared and read by others.

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1947, 9th of June, Yugoslavia

He once helped me when it got tough,

He once gave me a shoulder to cry on.

He once gave me the love I needed to grow.

He taught me what truly matters.

He was my father.

Now he is dead.

He was, and will always be at my side.

To bury my father with dirt, sticks and stones will never be enough to honour him. The refugees helped me say goodbye, yet I will keep him with me in my heart, forever. But there is no time to properly bid farewell - I must keep my promise to protect the treasure before the enemy finds out that I am protecting a book. But my father told me that I was protecting future generations of humanity. That I was protecting what would be the past for those that would come to live later in time. I was protecting the only thing that could tell us about our people, about us. My father… he was willing to make sacrifices for the greater good… I want to be like him.

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1949, 12th of August, Italy

It’s so lonely here, even with the refugees… My arms hurt so badly… I know I promised to protect it, but I am too tired to keep going up the mountains carrying it. What would happen if enemy planes found out I was protecting a book? It would be hard and painful to act fast wit aching legs, arms threatening to fall off and a tired, weary mind, wouldn’t it? So I find a distinctive linden tree planted beside a cottage near the mountains - and I chipped the frozen earth to bury the iron box near the tree’s roots. There the book would be safe from bombs and fire. I wonder if I have made the right decision. What would my father think if he was with me?

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1972, 10th of January, Spain

It’s a new day, in a new atmosphere. No longer is there an air of grief and destruction, no longer is there an ambience of sadness, loss and the repression of human emotion and knowledge dispersing among the cities. Now there is a sliver of hope instilled in our hearts. Time has healed some of the emotional wounds I beared. Now there is a tone of optimism in the voices around me. I feel happier here, in this time. But I still long for Jack. I still desperately yearn for the only thing that I felt connected me to my father.

The treasure, rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver, greater than gold.

But first I decided to visit my dad’s grave and to pay a tribute, laying one of my favourite books on his grave, symbolising his teachings to me of what a treasure truly is.

You gave me something to live for, you have taught me what matters. You were ready to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. You were, and always will be with me, in my heart. Thank you for all you have done for me. But what would you have done 20 years ago if you were in my shoes? I hope that was the right thing to do, leaving the book under the linden tree. Give me guidance to do the right thing. Thank you, Jack. I paid my gratitude silently, reflecting on what I had done on the journey about 2 decades ago.

Now, with an air of confidence, I strolled towards the linden tree knowing that I wasn’t alone with my father and his encouraging, loving caress, his reassuring thoughts that told me I was doing the right thing.

As I walked towards the linden tree, the hazy silhouette I saw told me that it had also grown , adorned with lime green leaves in a season of growth, bare and cold no more. Walking closer, I saw a girl playing nearby. I told her about the treasure.

With the girl helping me, I dug into the lush tufts of grass to find the old iron box buried in the soil.

“Will I see rubies and silver and gold?” the girl said.

We opened the box to see the book my father gave to me.

“Oh, it’s just a book,” she said, clearly disappointed.

“This book is about our people, about us. It’s rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver, greater than gold.

1972, 20th of April, Hungary

I took the iron box with the treasure back here in the place I once lived with my father. In the house that we once lived (left in ruins) was a pile of rubble and debris. Among them were tainted keepsakes and shattered, burnt fragments of our family photographs. I reminisced sadly about the perfect moment in time where we were a complete, happy family. There was a new library with new books. People were quietly browsing books, contently reclaiming their knowledge, and yet they had not realised that one book would have an answer to all their questions.

I opened the creaking box, carefully retrieved the book whose dilapidated blue cover was gathering dust and aged, yellowed pages full of answers. The book about our people, more splendid than silver, rarer than rubies and greater than gold, was back on the shelf where, once again, it could be found, and read, and loved.