Laura Guzman

I had just finished clearing out my father’s apartment when I found the box. It was tucked away on a high shelf, hidden behind old books and yellowed magazines. Dust covered it, like it had been forgotten for years. I hesitated before opening it, but curiosity got the better of me.

Inside, I found objects that instantly chilled me: pins with swastikas, Nazi flags, medals, military badges. My heart sank. I knew exactly whose they were.

My grandfather.

He was a German Nazi who fled to Argentina after the war, hiding his identity and his crimes. I’d always known this in a vague, uncomfortable way. He was someone I never got close to, and he never spoke about his past. But finding this box made the reality of it hit me like never before. My father had kept this, for some reason, and now I had to deal with it.

I’m 41, and I’ve lived my entire life here in Buenos Aires, far removed from that distant war in Europe. My grandfather was a shadowy figure, someone who built a new life here, someone who thought he could leave his past behind. But I couldn't shake the weight of what I was holding in my hands. Why did my father keep it? Did he not know what to do with it, or was there something more?

I burned everything in the box, thinking that would end it. But even after the flames had died down, the questions still lingered. How had my grandfather managed to escape? What exactly had he done in Germany? I realized that I couldn’t just let it go. I needed to understand the past that shaped my family, even if it was terrible.

It’s strange, being the granddaughter of a man responsible for such horror. It feels like a scar I never knew I had until now. But I can’t turn away from it. I want to learn more, not just about him, but about the many others like him who fled to Argentina, who brought their dark histories with them. Maybe in understanding them, I can finally put this part of my family’s past to rest.