All the Broken Places

by John Boyne

For the first time, I fully understood that I would have to lie about everything, every day, for the rest of my life, if I was to survive.

“It’s no longer a fiction, Gretel. Tell a story often enough and it becomes the truth.”

Guilt was what kept you awake in the middle of the night or, if you managed to sleep, poisoned your dreams. Guilt intruded upon any happy moment, whispering in your ear that you had no right to pleasure. Guilt followed you down streets, interrupting the most mundane moments with remembrances of days and hours when you could have done something to prevent tragedy but chose to do nothing. When you chose to play with your dolls instead. Or stick pins in maps of Europe, following the armies’ progression. Or flirt with a handsome young lieutenant.