Sunday is Grandpa Day. Ever since I turned twelve, I've spent Sunday mornings in the retirement home with Grandpa Mallow.

Although he's gotten progressively weaker physically, and has only recently become confined to a wheelchair, Grandpa is still sharp and astute. He never fails to cheer me up when things aren't going well, and teaches me to see the best in every situation.

Grandpa gets along with everyone. He always says the right thing, even though he rambles. I’ve watched him make friends with nurses, patients and visitors, always in just a few minutes. The smile never leaves his face, and his eyes shine so brightly you hardly notice his frayed cap.

And that's why I'm currently so baffled.

For the first time in years, a nurse interrupts our Sunday morning visit. They never disturb us while we're in Grandpa’s room. But things only get stranger from there. 

“Donny,” she says, “the young man who was here last week is back. Would you like me to show him in or tell him to come back later?”

And this is the weirdest part. I've never seen Grandpa worked up about anything. Ever. And now he's clutching the arms of his wheelchair so hard that his knuckles are white. He seems distant, completely lost in thought.

The nurse is waiting at the door. I finally realize she's trying to make eye contact with me, silently asking me to intervene. I raise an eyebrow, wondering who this young man could be. Whoever he is, something about him has clearly rattled my usually unfazed Grandpa. 

I inch toward the door, and Grandpa pays me no heed. I step into the hall, and the nurse starts explaining. “He came last week and spent quite some time with your grandfather. They seemed to hit it off; my impression was that your grandfather greatly enjoyed his visit. I have no idea why he seems so upset now.”

I consider going to scout out this mysterious visitor myself, but I decide to wait for Grandpa's decision.

I return to the room and clear my throat. Grandpa looks up, his eyes glazed. He's clearly in a daze. “I can't see him. I can't speak to him.”

“Who is this man? What did he do to you?” I burst out.

Grandpa sighs. He turns to the nurse. “Please tell Shmule to wait for now.” He turns to me. “David, I'm going to need you to do this for me.” He reaches toward his nightstand and hands me one of his ancient diaries. “Shmule must see the contents of this diary, but I can't be the one to show it to him. Please, do me a solid and help him out.”

I'm about to ask him to elaborate, but his expression tells me the conversation is over. As I open the door, Grandpa adds firmly, “Make sure I get the diary back. Don't let him take it with him.”

As far as I know, nobody has received a diary from Grandpa, not even my mother or her siblings. Sometimes he'll allow us to read certain entries or passages, but to hand over a complete notebook? Unsupervised? Unheard of!

In the lobby, I see a young man sitting at the edge of the stiff couch. We look each other up and down simultaneously. 

I stretch out my hand first. “David,” I say.

“Shmule,” comes his reply.

I don't hesitate. “Grandpa Mallow has given me one of his diaries. He said you need to see something in it. He's never allowed anyone to read his diary unsupervised before, so this comes as a surprise, but it's obviously extremely important.”

I pause. Shmule waits silently.

“Grandpa refused to see you. I don't know what you need from him. He seems interested in the cause but not so much in you. I won't force you, but I'm extremely curious to know what this is all about.”

I see uncertainty flit across his eyes, but it vanishes as he says, “Let's go outside to the fountain.”

We sit down, and Shmule tells me a most fascinating story. I don't interrupt him as he tells me about Berle and Shiml, about Tod and Daucel. He tells me about the bridge and about the midnight encounter. He finishes with the account in Grandpa's diary and tells me that he had to catch a train, but he wanted to continue to, in his words, “pick Donny's brain. Maybe he'll be able to identify Tod in a picture, or maybe he wrote more in his diary.”

When he finishes, I sit quietly, slowly processing the story.  I imagine someone hurting Grandpa Mallow. It's a horrible thought.

“It seems clear to me that Grandpa wrote more about this man and read it after you left. That's why he gave me the diary. He also doesn't want to see you. That could be for two reasons: trauma, or—”

“Fear,” Shmule cuts me off.

I nod.

“Let's see what he wrote.”

For the next half hour, we pore over the diary. It gives me a fascinating glimpse into Grandpa’s early years. It’s a shame Shmule can’t appreciate most of it. There are no more complete entries dedicated to Tod, but there are three short mentions scattered across several days.

“Diary dearest, I have a confession to make. I stumbled across a newspaper today, and my heart froze. The clear eyes I recall so vividly were peering up at me. ‘Chester.’ Except now I'm made aware of his real name. Tod. I taste the name. It's bitter on my lips. I helped this terrible man make his getaway. I must correct this awful mistake.”

“Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe everyone is wrong. Maybe Tod made a mistake and it was just a freak accident. Maybe he deserved to escape. I'm so unsure of myself, I can't sleep, even during the day.”

“I took the plunge. I went to the police station to report my river encounter and the midnight intruder on my boat. To my misfortune, when the officer saw me, he laughed. ‘Crazy Donny, we don't need hallucinations, we need facts.’ I pleaded with him, insisting that I wasn't imagining things. Diary, he threatened to throw me bodily out of the station. What more could I do? I wrote a letter to Scotland Yard, but I doubt anyone will ever follow up. May G-d forgive me.”

We keep looking, but there is no further mention of Scotland Yard or any response to Donny's letter.

“What now?” I ask.

“Are you willing to help me?” Shmule answers my question with a question of his own.

“For Grandpa's sake.”

“The next lead is obviously the monastery, but my religion prohibits me from entering such a place. Will you go there and see what you can find?”

“Let me return the diary, and then let's go.”

Shmule smiles, and we shake hands, a silent pact.

I return to Grandpa's room. He reaches out for the diary and asks, “What did he tell you?”

“He told me everything,” I respond.

“Did anyone overhear your conversation?” he asks fearfully.

“We sat by the fountain. The water must have drowned out our voices.”

Grandpa smiles at that. “What's next?” he asks.

“A visit to the monastery.”

“Be vigilant, and remember to use your eyes and ears at all times,” Grandpa says.

I say goodbye, but just before leaving, I add, “I'll keep you posted. We won't let you down.”