When I discovered my Grandpa’s writings this year, I realized that his writings were very much like my own. He had different “stories” — mainly like mine, only except, his were more in depth and more “mature”- but I think that his mind and my mind were almost the same. We saw things that were similar, and he had different experiences with different “dead” people, like I do, but with his stories, they were all from his own life. With me, I was told some of these “stories” and just thought they were stories, but they weren’t. The people he mentioned in these said “stories” were real- all of them. When I had done certian research on these such “stories,” he had mentioned people who had been in those situations.
It’s really odd to pinpoint every person, but some days, my grandpa would tell me that there were people who were “not among the living”. It’s odd to say that my grandpa “saw dead people,” but that’s exactly what he saw. No, he didn’t have Schizophrenia, because I saw these said people too.
When I began reading his writing earlier this year, I realized that not only was his writing style was very similiar to my own, but his handwriting almost looked like mine too. It was very odd, but I read what he had to say.
Each piece of writing had a title.
One was entitled “The Juden Room”, which translates to “The Jewish Room”. I don’t know why he called it that for a long time, until I read the story.
“The young man walked towards me. He was not much different looking than I was. I was not told his name first, but I knew this much to be true, this boy was dead. He wore a grey suit and a white button down shirt. His hair was parted to the side and his hair was jet black. His wore glasses and was very serious looking. He walked near me. He said, “You must realize, you are not the only one who will be able to see me or call out to me. The girl that will be in your life, not your loved one, but another, will have something similar to you,” The boy said. I didn’t know whether to be upset or be intrigued. What was this girl’s name? I asked him his name. “Moshe,” That’s all he said. He said no last name. I was then met by another person, this time, a young girl. This girl was not Anne. I could tell, because she was different looking than Anne, but the same time, she was dead as well. Hello Ellio? I was asked by this girl what was the time? 3:40 P.M. The girl took my hand and said, “Ellio, it’ll be alright, she will be great. She will suffer like you, but not as much as you,” The girl said. Who is this girl that they are talking about? I am not sure? The room is never closed. It isn’t really a room, but they are all standing around me. I don’t know, I am their only mercy”.
This was written in 1989, a little bit before I came into the picture.
My grandpa’s name was not Ellio, but that’s the name that is written, that he is referrred to in almost all of the writings. His name was not Ellio, not by a long shot- that’s not even close to his name….
But it made sense, as when I did my own writing, a lot of the people that I saw, referred to me as a different name, but very similiar to my name. But with Ellio- that’s not even close to his name? Was that his Hebrew name? I will never know?
In his other writings, my grandpa’s name was referred to as eiher Ellia( Ilya), Ellio, or “Elliach” —all which have no bearing to my grandpa’s actual name. His name was so southern, you’d probably wonder, why was he writing those names instead of his own? The only three writings that I ever saw with his name actaully referred to- The Man Who Knew Too Much, The Cross and the Bow and Alisha .
The notebooks that he wrote these in, were not constistant, like my diaries are. Some of them he wrote“chunks”- meaning they’re not exactly full stories, but I can piece them together and figure out what he was trying to say, others are actual full stories.
For an example, with this titled, “ Hold Fast My Dear!” — he wrote:
“Blood to Blood, skin to skin. You have no idea how much I have tried to shelter you from it. You may not understand it now, but not all spirits are good. Some, though you cannot see, will try to do more harm than good. Your blood is not of mine and I cannot give you mine, but I know you are just in the same frame of mind as I . They are all around you. They are above you and below you. Right beside you. Not wrong, but not right either. The world is not torn, you can place it back together. The blood I have, is not the same blood you have, yet we are just almost alike. They can see you and you can see them, but do not let anyone else know that.”
You’re probably reading that, going “What the hell is he talking about?” I knew right away who he was referring to: Me.
This was written in 2001, I was 9 years old and was given Anne Frank for the first time then. He took a great interest in me, in every single way: My education, my aspirations and of course, what I saw in daylight or at nighttime. He told me to write down everything, even if it doesn’t make sense- which I did. Sadly, my mom threw out so much of my early writing, due to it sounding odd, and she didn’t want people thinking I was “too mentally off”. My grandpa’s writing, seems like he was “all over the place”- but he was one of the most brillant men I ever met. He did not have a college education, but he did know more than I did about every aspect of the world. He read, studied and he read some more. He encouraged me to read books and he wanted me to question everything. As odd as his writing comes out to be, his writing style and my writing style are almost identical, and that was not on purpose, we just thought a like and we experinced the same things. Was he himself Autistic? Probably not? But I know that he was a brillant man, who knew things before they happened.
For an example, way before Trump became president, my grandpa looked at me one day, and said, “That man will Fuck everything up for everyone. He will hurt innocent people and it’ll just go down hill from there.” He died before Trump got into office, and I’m so glad he did, because he was right. I didn’t know how he knew. But he had told me that Trump spewed hatred like the Nazis did, and that would be accepted among society and yet, Anne Frank would be angry. He said I’d be able to feel her anger. I once asked him if he felt her anger? He didn’t give me a direct answer, but this was his response:
“She’s much more inclined to you, than to me.”
He also knew when 9/11 was going to happen as well as Covid. It was very odd, because he had written down in a notebook, on Sept. 11. 2000, that he had a bad feeling about that day the following year and soon enough, 9/11 happened. He also wrote down in 2003, that a virus or an illness would plague the world, but he thankfully would not be there to see it. He wasn’t. He died in 2009, Covid happened in 2020. He was gone, and I’m glad he didn’t see it. I think to me, he was a brillant person, who understood the world more deeply and more humbly.
With his works, and with my works, entitled “The Room”- it is a fitting title and I hope to see what I can do with it.