Ana opened the old notebook she found among her husband’s things. It was the older one of the eighteen notebooks handwritten he had kept carefully during all those years. Tight lines of his neat handwriting in faded blue ink were waiting for the rightful reader. He made it very clear that no one should read them before his death. Now was the time. After 56 years of marriage, she was mourning. He had left us quietly and peacefully. Like he had lived.
It was a diary, Ana knew it. It was about the hard years when he had to live an adventurous life as a prisoner, refugee and exiled, wandering across several countries, separated from his family. Everybody thought that in those diaries he, who was a good writer, had told the story of his adventures during the WWII and what happened after. We knew he had been sentenced to death, and a fellow journalist who was also a guerrilla member saved his life at the last second. We knew that he had escaped from the Italian fascists, who took him prisoner when he was very young, jumping from a ship to the sea, and swimming back to the nearest shore. We thought we would have lots of details of all those adventures in his writings.
But when Ana began to read, she realised that the adventures were all there but in a second plane.
The main topic of the diaries were tell to Ana how much he loved her every day they had had to live separated. Day by day during twelve years. He never failed to his daily date. Each day wrote about the love of his life. His only one.
No more tears.
“Thanks, Luka, You’re gone, but you’re keeping me company with your beautiful love words.”

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