October 24, 1944: Lost Letters

Letter from Opa to Grandmother: October 24, 1944

October 24, 1944

My Darling,

         

Your nice, sweet letter came today, and it made me feel good and blue at the same time. It’s a kind of blue that I like, though, for there is much uplifting and even comfort in a longing of which we know that it will sometime be fulfilled. Every task seems so much simpler when I know that you love me, and that we will be reunited sometime. 

         

Tonight in the mail, I got the enclosed letter from the Shelleys. It’s a nice one, isn’t it? As you see… you made the grade with them. (Of which I never had any doubt.)

         

Philip is back, and we had a good visit tonight. He came back by the way of Wichita, which is one of the reasons he didn’t stop to see you. Another probably was that he will get that pleasure (?) pretty soon here at Camp Crowder. He is a swell guy. 

         

You were certainly right about Johnny. He has lost most of his self-consciousness and has become much smoother all the way around.

         

Today, I was on range detail. We fixed targets, hauled timber, did some carpentry work and similar odd jobs all day; it was fairly simple. Tomorrow night, I’ll be on guard duty: two hours on, four off, two on again, etc. So, I’ll try to get some good sleep tonight. 

         

I wrote another letter to St. John today concerning radio, etc. I think the stuff has just not been sent off yet but will be soon, for my letter was pretty sharp. 

       

Another thing I did tonight was to write a long letter to Eileen. I should have written to her much sooner but it is really difficult to find enough time to write all these letters and, naturally you have priority on letters.

Here is the bugle: got to go back to the barracks. Good night, honey. I hope that, instead of writing good-night, I can kiss you good-night soon.

Lovingly,

Tom.

Return Shelley's letter, will you please?

“Every task seems so much simpler when I know that you love me.”

I almost missed this phrase the first reading. Just skipped by his greetings and went to the meat of the letter. This phrase is the perfect example of what it feels like to be in love. Everything is simplified- whittled down to the foundational truth: someone loves me. And that is enough.

The way Opa starts this letter, I can’t deny he is in love. And not just a romance - the kind of love that grounds you and makes you feel like everything is going to be OK- because you have your person. I’m not sure how rare this love is, I think it actually isn’t all that rare. I see it everywhere. I have it. It may not be rare, but it is precious. Grandmother and Opa had their ups and downs, but they had love. They were married 57 years before Opa died. 

Unless Grandmother ignored all of Opa’s requests (I doubt it, she was responsible/thorough), Opa kept all these letters from friends and family- but I never saw them. So at some point he made the choice to pare down the letters- and the only ones that made it were his immediate family’s (and Grandmother kept his letters we're reading now). Did he throw any of his family's letters away? Maybe Emma wrote him by herself and he tossed it, lol. (Emma is his "stepmom" that everyone in the family merely tolerated.) Now each of these letters feel so precious to me- and I mourn the information and context that each additional letter would have given. I have no claim to any of these, yet every missing letter, every story of letters being tossed by the new wife of the widowed spouse. Opa's sister, Patti, after she died, her husband remarried, and that woman threw away all of her collected letters, part of my cultural inheritance… it makes my heart sink. These people are my family, my history, my perspective. I crave every word and nuance like an archaeologist craves shards of pottery.

Every time Opa mentions St. John’s I’m reminded that these letters are almost daily- it seems like he’s been away from there for years but it hasn’t been that long. He’s still trying to get his stuff sent to him- including his radio (which he always loved his radio). I wonder if the landlord is being intentionally late or just apathetic. 

I still think it’s crazy that Opa’s brother in law, Phillip, happened to be at the same base.

October 23, 1944: Sugar Pies and Bad Teeth

Letter from Opa to Grandmother: October 23, 1944

October 23, 1944

 

Margie darling,

          

Your package got here today, and it was so much fun to open it. The slide rule is just right; exactly what I had in mind, and, of course, cookies and candy were exactly right, too. Fortunately, some more boys had packages today, so not the entire barracks “assisted” me in doing away with them. The cake was awfully good too, and was less broken up than I had expected. I saved some of the cookies to give them to Phil and Johnny tonight, but neither one of them came down to the Service Club tonight, so I guess I’ll eat them by myself. It’s too big a temptation. Thanks a lot, honey; such a package just means an awful lot. 

         

Tonight after supper I had to go to the dentist’s again. He filled two more cavities, gave me an X-ray, and told me to come back Friday. My teeth must be in pretty poor condition.

         

We had rifle training today, and a big talk about our past in combat. Also, deconstructions of what they call “field sanitation”, i.e. how to take care of water in the field, how to build latrines and urinals, how to improvise showers and de-lousing plants, and similar stuff. It was dull, but simple stuff.

         

It’s getting late now, honey, and I wrote about all important things yesterday. It won’t be long now till I can see you!

 

With all my love,

Tom

Opa’s teeth man. He didn’t grow up poor but I think the conditions in his teenage years may have prevented him from getting regular dental care. I know after his parents’ divorce and the Nazi takeover, he and his sister moved with his mom into smaller and smaller homes. Rumor from some of my interviews of Opa’s cousin was that August (his Dad) didn’t keep up with alimony/child support. I am not sure how true that is, or at least if it was true, whether or not it was intentional negligence. Times were hard. Period. At the very least, Opa likely didn’t get dental care from the time he left home (1938) til now- which is six years. So even healthy teeth struggle after that long. 

Luckily my sisters and I had the benefit of good dental care (military health insurance for us too), access to good dental supplies, and I have to believe good genes that did not come from Opa. My older sister had a similar time when she didn't go to the dentist for about five years (not due to war, no, just pure negligence) and there was absolutely nothing wrong with her teeth - no cavities, nothing. That's the quality level of our teeth genes. We probably get it from my mom's side.

Grandmother sent Opa a care package with treats… she was a great baker. My sisters and I grew up eating her apple and cherry pies, fighting over the “sugar pies” she made us with leftover dough, butter, and cinnamon. I don’t remember her making cookies, but our mom makes amazing cookies so maybe Grandmother did not want to compete! 

I want some sugar pie now… 

October 22, 1944: Worst Kept Secret

 

Letter from Opa to Grandmother October 22, 1944

October 22, 1944

My Darling,

Last night I tried to call you, but you weren't home; I really didn't think you would be home on Saturday night, but I tried it anyhow. I'll try again today. I am going to use the five bucks you sent me for long-distance calls, unless you suggest better means of disposal. 

I am glad you got through the doctor's office without much embarrassment, and that you have the diaphragm all fixed. Does that finish up your trips to the doctor for the time being. I bet the bill is nothing to sniff at. By the way, if you have something real the matter with you, remember that we can get cheaper rates, or aid in paying the doctor bill, through the Red Cross. If you insist on having those twins, better get them now and have Uncle Sam pay for them.

No passes will be given till next week, and no weekend passes till the week after that, so the first one I can possibly get will be the weekend of November 5/6 unless they change things back again.

Today, I have been in the Army exactly one month, and my only wish is that there won't be many returns. It isn't that I don't like the Army but I would prefer to have only one roommate, and that one should be of different type and have my last name.

I don't know what to do about my stuff in St. John. I shall wait just a little longer, and then send a registered letter, and, if that won't do any good, take some action. 

Yesterday has been a very easy day. In the morning, I went to the dentist's who gave me two more fillings and asked me to come back for more yet on Monday. I am certainly glad I didn't go to the dentist earlier; think of all the money I am saving. In the afternoon, we did absolutely nothing except seeing movies. Most of them rather dull. The much advertised Parade did not go off, just as I expected. We did have personal inspection, though, of our uniforms, bunks, etc. Except for a belt which is three inches too long, the officers found nothing wrong with me. He didn't look very hard.

We were issued some more clothing, and this time I wasn't as lucky as last time. My fatigues have trousers which are four inches too short and two inches too wide around the waist, while the blouse goes into severe strains and threatens to burst every time I breathe in. Its sleeves are only two inches too short. Both blouse and trousers are covered with a great multitude of patches. The mackinall has an air corps insignia on it, which makes my uniform all-inclusive: infantry cap braid, General-Staff shoulder buttons, cavalry leggings, and a Signal Corps training. We also were issued gas masks and shall soon start gas training.

Well, I’ll quit for awhile and continue writing after mail call. Maybe your package gets here today; I know your letter will!

It’s afternoon now. I just put in a phone call for you, but don’t expect to get you till later in the evening. I am waiting for Johnny to get here; we are going to play some chess; I’ll probably get beaten again. It’s awfully nice outside; warm and sunny; I only hope that we are going to have a day like this two weeks from now. Lots of boys have their wives here at the Service Club today; I wished I did too. I’ll ask Uncle Sam to give me a raise; then, I’ll have you come down here every Sunday.

         

Did you get to listen to Roosevelt’s speech last night? I didn’t, but I read the text of it in this morning’s paper. After his last two mediocre outlets, I think he was up to par again; this one was well organized, not too much campaigning, but yet attacking each one of Dewey’s points. It was clever of him to talk before the Foreign Policy Association, for this way no one expected him to cover any domestic issues. 

         

It’s getting toward eight now, and I am finishing this letter while Johnnie is on the main floor, dancing. I guess he thinks I am silly for not dancing, but I wouldn’t want you to go to a U.S.O. dance, and also I would get no enjoyment out of dancing when you aren’t here. 

         

Your voice still clings in my ear from the phone call, darling. I guess it doesn’t matter what we talk about as long as we can hear each other. Einstein’s theory of relativity is true: three minutes of calesthenics are longer then three minutes of talking to you! Maybe I shouldn’t call you so often, for it makes me so much more lonesome for you.

         

As usually, I was right: Johnnie did beat me in the chess games. After I finally got your call through, we ate dinner in the Cafeteria, a pretty good dinner at that. The meal was spoiled a little when one of the fellows came up to sit by us and entertained (?) us by a detailed account of how the G.I. saltpeter affected him and how he found out about it last night. We finally got rid of him, though, and continued our subject of conversation second in frequency: Mathematics. (The one first in frequency starts with the same two letters.) 

         

I am having a little problem at hand: one of the boys in our company, a kid of maybe nineteen years of age, found out where I was born and has developed a clear interest in that place and conditions there. His interest is sincere and probably very laudable, but the guy turns into being a darn nuisance. He sticks around me at every possible and impossible opportunity and assaults me with a miraculous barrage of more or less silly questions. I have used all ways I could think of to show him his undesiredness in a subtle way but no, he won’t catch. After ignoring him, giving him silly answers, and answering in a way which his 60-IQ mind won’t grasp didn’t work, I am afraid I shall have to come out and tell him that he is a (-../.-/--/-.) nuisance. (Note – the morse code in the parenthesis says DAMN)

           

As often before, Johnny and I have indulged in postwar projects. If we stay here, we get a 200-dollar discharge pay; after having been overseas, it will be $300. (I hope I get 200.) It might be a good idea to get wounded in heroic action, which would give us the Purple Heart plus $75 as a monthly pension. With that as a start, we decided to go to South America, buy, borrow, or steal a mansion and live there as princes for two years. After getting tired of being Royal Highnesses, we return to the States, use the money we have saved (don’t ask: saved from what?) to buy a place in California. Johnny will enter photography while I shall be teaching in college. After our first millions have been made by intelligent land and oil speculations, we shall engage in world-wide pleasure travelling. Returning from this, we will write a book each per country visited, (as you know, residence of one week entitles us to and gives us sufficient background for being completely qualified and informed about social, linguistic, commercial, educational, religious, political, geological, and culinary problem) and then retire for the rest of our lives. Agreed? 

         

Johnny urges me to quit so we can go to the show. 

         

This is Monday morning. The show lasted till eleven o’clock and, in order to make bed check, I had to hurry home and couldn’t finish this.  

         

Honey, we can stay together at the Guest House here as long as I have a pass. Only one thing wrong with that place: they have army beds. We’ll manage, though. 

         

Today, I’m going to get your package, I hope. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t send my underwear yet. On the contrary, for that I’m going to get another package!

         

This morning, some of us start going to specialist schools. Since neither radio repair nor radar has been called yet, I do not fall under that category. Three of us who don’t go will probably have drill instead. There is some talk that they are going to cut our basic to five weeks. That won’t be bad: one week earlier through basic means a week earlier overseas, which means that the war will end a week earlier, for, naturally, they can’t win the war without me. 

         

How is Skunkie? Has he ever inquired about me? I agree that I owe him a letter, but he hasn’t thanked us yet for sleeping (?) with him in my last night as bachelor, so I am insulted.

         

Bibi, darling, and write me a long letter. 

 

Love, 

Tom

 

One month in the army. I know I just said it- but it feels a lot longer. Opa’s thoughts are on post-military adventures, and to be honest, part of me is wishing he had achieved the realistic part of the scenario. Teaching at a college and traveling. He and grandmother traveled quite a bit during their marriage, so that part they did. Instead of Professor Doeppner, Opa became Colonel Doeppner. What would my life be like if it were the former? Would I exist? Maybe not. Probably not. 

There was something really odd about this letter- Opa didn’t name that “place” he was born (Berlin). I’m not sure what benefit it would be for him to censor his letters. It certainly couldn’t have been a secret to anyone, his German accent was distinct his entire life. Who is reading his mail? The Army already knows everything about him. Unless he lied? I doubt it. 

My best guess is he was so tired of answering questions about it that he didn’t even want to mention it in the letter. I feel bad for the annoying guy- I’m sure he meant well- but he sounds like he did not understand social cues. It’s good to remember that we’re not entitled to everyone’s story, no matter how fascinating we find it. This is harder to accept than it sounds. I wonder what “silly” questions the kid had.

I can’t remember who Johnny is, a good friend of Opa’s who likes math? I’m glad they had each other. I went to a work outing yesterday at my new job (started Jan 2026) and it was awkward at first because I don’t know people very well. One woman took me under her wing and asked me questions (not silly ones) and introduced me around. I’ve been telling my sisters that I’m still looking for that really witty work-friend. The kind you can text snarky things to. I’ve got a couple contenders, time will tell! 

Last thought: does Opa have any teeth without cavities?!

October 21, 1944: Long-Distance Call

Postcard from Opa to Grandmother October 21, 1944

10/21/44

Dearest,

Too occupied in indulging in non-activity tonight. I shall let this card be a substitute for the letter I should write, and a preview for the one I'll write tomorrow. It has been an easy day, crowned by celebrating with Johnny. Long distance call didn't work, since you were "out." Shall try again tomorrow. Wished they had television (or do I?).

Love, 

Tom.

Not exactly sure why the random racist postcard - but here we are.

My favorite line of this card is ... since you were "out"... Opa calling out Grandmother for having a life. She wasn't sitting around at home waiting for him to call. He teases her about it here, but I think the tone is friendly. They spent a lot of their early marriage apart, and while they missed each other, neither was waiting around for the other either. Grandmother was in graduate school while Opa completed his basic training and began his military career.

The other day I was talking to my Dad about the first cell phone plans with their time limits (only so many minutes, and extra charges for long distance). I remember when calling after 9pm was a good deal so you’d plan all catch up calls for that discounted time. Now- I’m writing this blog post on a bus home from my job in DC. On the internet, with a portable charger for my phone. What a time to be alive! And yet- the bus is silent. No one interacts except to maybe say excuse me or smile at a frequent co-passenger.

Opa wonders if he wished he had TV- I’m not sure what he meant by that but I just looked it up and TVs were relatively new at the time of his writing- not yet ubiquitous in every home. Technology would soon hit a rocket’s pace in development in nearly every industry (I don’t have the stats to back this up but I think it’s at least somewhat accurate). 

Here I am talking “back in my day” about limited minutes on a cell phone. 

October 20, 1944: War is Hell, But I'm Fine

Letter from Opa to Grandmother October 20, 1944

October 20, 1944

My little Darling,

Today, I received two letters from you; one of them was written Wednesday and the other one on October 4; it had only now been forwarded from Leavenworth. In that letter, you wrote about the hard time you had getting back to Lawrence from Leavenworth. That was certainly too bad; you were lucky to get a hotel room at all in Leavenworth. I bet you didn't sleep much that night.

What is the "Milk of Magnesia?" Something you can't write about? By the way, remind me that I tell you two good stories next time I see you.

This has been another pretty hard day. According to some so-called authority, we are going to have our first parade tomorrow, so they really had us drilling. Personally, I don't believe in that parade yet, it may just have been a trick to get us to work a little harder. Nevertheless, we drilled for three hours in close formation with rides In my estimation, we look just like what we are: a pitiful bunch of ignorant rookies. (I hope we are so bad the decide to fire us.)

Also today, we saw two series of films, one was on sex hygiene. It was fair, not as good as some we have seen. The main purpose was to show us the proper use of various prophylactic kits; they illustrated how the rubber should be put on to prevent infection and similar stuff in which I would probably have been interested two or three years ago.

The other show was extremely gory and left absolutely nothing to the imagination: a show on First Aid. We saw jaws that had just been broken or shot off, with blood running out of the opening where formerly a mouth had been; chest holes, where the air went through at every breathing; belly holes, with guts sticking out four or five inches; legs lying one place, a stump of man several feet away, blood squirting out of the wound. There were two guys who passed out, just seeing the picture; several got sick. It didn't affect me in the least. I feel very sorry for these kids, for they are going to have a tough time when they will see these things first-handed on the battlefield. I only keep asking myself: why would they show us Signal Corps guys this kind of pictures, and give us this type of training, unless they planned to send us into combat zones?

Well, after these shows, we needed some relaxation; so, they first took us on a three-mile hike, part in double time, and then topped of the afternoon by an hour of extensive "physical conditioning." We dragged our bones home after having loaded our muscles on a truck, ate supper and, since this is Friday, scrubbed the barracks, polished the brass, cleaned the windows, cleaned the rifles, oiled them,...... till at nine o'clock we were "free for the evening." Yup, our uncle sure keeps our lives from being dull.

Honestly, though, it isn't bad, especially not for me. I have the great advantage over most of the other guys that the majority of those jobs are not new to me. Many of the boys are now passing through a stage of homesickness, and the rest of us are kept busy giving some maternal (or at least paternal) consolation.

One boy (not in our regiment, but also a basic) went AWOL for two days, but decided to come back. The poor kid was put before a court-martial and confined to six months of hard labor and forfeiture of his pay. I think that was a terrible punishment for the kid. The Army needs some social reform. (Or maybe the world needs social reform so that it will no longer need armies.) 

Well I have griped enough. Why don't you come down, sneak into the barracks, and stay in my bunk with me?

Auf Wiedersehen,

Tom.

Oof. Opa puts on a good face- and I don’t doubt he’s better off than many of these young army boys, but I thought it was interesting that he signed the letter Auf wiedersehen. I may be reading too much into it but, he may have been a little homesick.

There’s so much in this letter. I think I’ll work backward. Opa’s line about the world needing social reform so that it will no longer need armies. I hear echoes of his pacifist Quaker past in that line. It’s long in his past, but the longing for that world likely never left Opa. I long for it too, but the older I get the more impossible it feels. Even if we somehow gain world peace- it feels inevitable that humanity will repeat history. 

Opa’s reflection that many of the boys are homesick made me think about how he has been away from home since 1938 - six years have gone by since he saw his mother, more since he saw his sister. He hasn't seen his father in five years. He may not feel the fresh twinge of homesickness, but by now I think he must hold a reservoir of grief deep inside. To access that grief would be too much. So he separates himself from the homesick boys, even offering consolation. Did he ever get to grieve?

The story about the gory movies and intense physical activity afterwards made me think of something my sister, Jessa, says. We sort of tease her about it even though we shouldn’t- she’s a nervous system expert and somatic experiencing therapist. She’ll often quip “from a nervous system perspective…” and say how something makes sense or was helpful, or unhelpful "from a nervous system perspective." Opa's group transition from gory videos to physical activity was indeed helpful from a nervous system perspective. The phrase “walk it off” isn’t completely wrong (brief caveat to say that not acknowledging the hurt and minimizing the impact is not the part that’s right- it’s the instinct to physically move through/with emotional pain in order to process it). Running and jumping may have helped those soldiers process the gory scenes. I doubt that's what the instructors had in mind, but maybe there was some wisdom in the order of events. 

Milk of magnesia helps alleviate constipation. I think Grandmother always had some tendency towards that. TMI but when you take care of your Grandmother for a couple years, you learn a lot! She had a sensitivity to some foods, especially chocolate- that particular thing made her say "I don't know what sin I committed in a previous life to deserve that." Grandmother really liked her sweets. All 5 feet tall, 90 pounds of her. I wonder if she hadn't figured out her chocolate allergy yet. 

October 19, 1944: St. John’s Gossip

Letter from Opa to Grandmother, October 19, 1944

October 19, 1944

My dearest little Honeybunch,

I ought to, and do, feel quite a bit better today, and am suffering of no other illness but my persistent, chronical ailment: laziness. There are times when I think there really are some advantages in our being separated; one of these times is when I imagine your body in my sweater. The trouble with baggy sweaters is that they bring out the dullest parts of a girl’s figure while hiding the most interesting ones. No wonder, thus, those old maids in your faculty club think it’s cute. (While I am in the griping mood, please remind me to give you some spelling lessons after I get out of dis hear ahmie.)

Talking about griping, something most interesting happened today during drill. While we were in company formation, one of our moron lieutenants kept calling us “platoon.” I took it for a while, but when he said it again, I spoke up and said “company, Sir.” His face changed from white to red and back again, then he called me out and gave me a nice little lecture on the respect a private owes to a superior officer as well as the insinuation that there is such a thing as permanent K.P. in the army. All this was done in the pleasant tone of voice which reminded me very favorably of Mr. Zimmerman’s (I am certainly glad that in saluting, we are saluting the uniform, not the guy in it.)

            

Some bad news: In an orientation lecture, we were informed about our chances after basic and other training: practically 100% of us will go overseas and about 95% of those into combat zones around Japan. Radio men especially are needed in the Pacific, while in Europe there is an excess of them. Also, none of us will be likely to be discharged until one year after the end of the Japanese war, at least. They may have just been scaring us, but I am afraid they were correct. Nice prospects, huh?

            

Johnny and I had a good time tonight, playing pingpong and shooting the bull. I am afraid the poor guy is mighty tired hearing about you all the time, for you are still my most persistent topic of conversation. It is really bad; when I am without you, I talk about you all the time; when I am with you, you talk all the time.

            

Philip went home last night to the Great Bend. That’s only about 15 miles from St. John; I hope he hears no gossip…

            

My mind is wandering today, it just won’t stay put. The idea of going overseas before long makes me so much more lonesome for you. In spite of everything, though: the greatest part of our lives we will spend together. 

 

Forever yours, 

Tom

Ohhh yeah! St. John’s! That’s where Opa was arrested for allegedly being a “peeping Tom.” I wonder if Grandmother and Opa told anyone. I would bet they did not. Maybe a close friend? Did Grandmother’s parents know? Is that why they didn’t go to the wedding? 

Remember Phillip is Grandmother’s brother. So if he didn’t know… my guess is it was their little secret (that I unveiled 70 years later). Luckily Opa had about 50 years to establish his character before I found out - and I assumed the accusation was unfounded and potentially ill-motivated.

Another thing Opa established (and passed down) was a stubborn penchant for fact-checking (and spell-checking), regardless of the authority or position of the person being checked. I’ve learned better - I think he learned better. Not sure my Dad ever learned. I do still spell check but never a relative if they don’t ask! Poor Grandmother. And yet, Opa pulls out this sweet quote in the end: “In spite of everything, though: the greatest part of our lives we will spend together.”

A sweet sentiment in the face of a long separation. And you know what? He was right. 

October 18, 1944: Full Assimilation

Letter from Opa to Grandmother, October 18, 1944

October 18, 1944

Darling,

I am waiting at the doctor’s to get my g.i. glasses; it is 9 a.m., and I have a hard time staying awake. The nice thing about this going to the doctor is that it gets you out of classes. 

Last night, I was a good boy for a change, right after finishing my letter to you, I went to bed, i.e. at nine o’clock. That gave me almost eight hours of sleep, which I haven’t had since I joined the army.

            

It’s seven p.m. now, and this letter is apt to rather short since I am terribly tired and want to go to bed really early.

            

Your nice long letter came today, and I was so pleased to get it. Don’t bother yet about sending me money; I still have some dollars left. The charges for my field jacket will be taken out of my next pay. Out of my laundry, please send me all shorts and undershirts, unless they are too badly torn. 

Eilleen’s card to us certainly was swell. She is the most thoughtful person I know. I’ll try to send her a long letter as soon as I find some time. 

Your mother told me that you had to stand up in the bus all the way from Topeka to Lawrence, and she was very concerned about. Don’t worry: I wasn’t. So you made a game out of trying to find who or what those soldiers were? Above all, you must be really bad off for men if you resort to negroes. 

Your Jayhawk looks okay to me, now, where I run away from the Wildcats. If you are hunting a fourth school to send letters from, how about a cook school?

I don’t know what happened, but I am tired today and my muscles sore. The one hour of “Physical conditioning” today didn’t exactly help, so I’ll hit the bed as soon as this letter gets written. 

Went to my company commander today and showed him the letter of the Immigration Service. He has never had a case like me, so he has to look up some regulations before taking any action, but I believe I can depend on his assistance.

Good night, my little Margie; I probably won’t dream tonight, but if I do, it will be about our weekend together. 

 

Love,

Tom

One of the many wonderful results of embarking on this project (that I admit has been a journey of fits and starts, sprints and marathons) is connecting with long-lost relatives. There are many consequences of war that people don't think much about. One of them is the diaspora of people affected. Yes, we talk about refugees and immigrants, but we don't often think about the fragmentation of large (or even small) families that result in decades (or an eternity) of non-communication. It's the same for so many families of this time, fragmented by geography and death, trauma and survival. Even when and if they reunite, they have been gone from each other for so long they are strangers. 

Opa and one of his cousins rarely interacted after their emigration to the US around the same time. They were overwhelmed with their own paths of survival, their own smaller families to track and support if they could. That cousin's daughter and I are now close friends. Our connection was happenstance - my husband made a cold call based on a rabbit-hole online search - and she answered. And now we go bra-shopping together and she was at our last family Thanksgiving celebration. My long-lost cousin has her own treasure trove of letters from her mother and grandparents, her own journey through them, and a completely different hand of cards that the trauma of war dealt her. Her mother and my grandfather's paths start from the same larger family and neighborhood in Berlin, and go distinctly different ways from there.

This cousin and I were talking about assimilation, the survival instinct imbedded in it, and the tension that it created between family members. Opa was a "lucky one," getting out of Germany in 1938, before things got really bad. When he arrived in the US in 1939, His survival tactic as a German half-Jew was to assimilate into the American culture as quickly as possible. Those left behind had different survival needs and tactics. I noted that Opa seemed to be quite good at assimilation, and hungry to be accepted (and safe, with a future). It later caused tension between himself and those who remained in Europe, and even with some who had emigrated but held more tightly to their history.

As I'm reading these letters, I notice the longer Opa is in the United States, the Army (only briefly now), the more I see American culture in his letters. For Opa to go from discussing the injustice of apartheid with his Quaker youth group, to making a racist joke about my Grandmother's interest in black men, shows me how quickly he assimilated. I'm sure that he carried some of the inherent racism of the German culture with him to the US, but that joke felt very American to me.

It makes me wonder about the lines between culture, conscience, religion, and all other influences that get blurred when someone moves to a new country. That must be so confusing and difficult. How do you know what to keep safe and sacred, and what is good to have stretched? When you throw in the pressure to fit in, especially if it determines your level of safety, how far do you go to protect yourself? The United States, while being a melting pot, has always required varying levels of assimilation for acceptance and safety, but the price of not assimilating feels especially high right now. What is funny to me is, I don't know that we can clearly define American culture. It shifts with time and depends on where you are in the country. 

I know my thoughts today aren't really connected to much of this letter, but seeing these "Americanisms" creeping in is giving me pause, reminding me of the complexity of what happens when people of different cultures combine, clash, and connect. This is giving me a new glimpse into the immigrant experience.

Then there is the individual underneath it all: I think they often go into hiding. That makes me sad. I wonder what Opa hid.