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the book indeed. That the book was in there was no surprise, of course. The package had been x-rayed and scanned in Germany long before things had come to this. The scans were so sensitive that they even detected fragments of Becker’s writing, but nothing comprehensible.
    Ever so carefully, the preservationist pulled back the cover and the linguists stepped forward as the faded writing on the first page was exposed. The writing was projected onto a large screen behind the rostrum and on TV monitors for the audience.
    â€œHungarian, definitely Hungarian,” Jacob Weisen heard someone say as he began slipping away. His eyes fluttered as the vial of pills he’d swallowed in the men’s room was now taking full hold of him. Death was no more than a few heartbeats away.
    â€œWhat does it say?” a media type cried out.
    â€œThe Ghost Book, ” said the linguist.
    Jacob Weisen shook his head at the irony of it all. So, it wasn’t a book of poetry or of recipes or colorful Hungarian curse words. He was not sure how to feel about the truth buried in his sixty plus years of lies. He wouldn’t have time to figure it out. Jacob Weisen pitched forward, already dead. Some there claimed he was smiling.
    The End

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