Full Disclosure: I do redact some of Dad's letters where he is less than favorable toward members of the family. I understand many of his observations, and there are times I agree with them from my own memories of other events. But one thing my father and I did fight about was his tendency to be cutting. He was a good, wonderful, kind man. He did a lot for many, but this was a trait, which was his way of channeling a life long repressed anger. I was an object as well of remarks I could never put out of my mind. I could not get him to see it. I used to say, "Dad, once you say something, even if you don't mean it, it's out there and cannot be taken back." I understand the anger. It comes unbidden. I have had it more often than I can say. But I have tried always, perhaps remembering how hurt encrusts the heart, to avoid saying what I thought at those moments. Only others can say whether I succeeded.
Another thing that somewhat saddens me when I have read these letters, which I have done since I found them as a child behind books in the single bedroom of our apartment near the Grand Concourse, is that the love my father expresses in poetic terms, for my mother never seemed to characterize the relationship I observed between them. I don't mean the romantic part, which of course a child will not likely see, but any sense of affection. The secrets which engendered this clear change in attitude will never be known to me. In that sense, the regret they likely felt, is also my regret, because it seems to have impacted, like my anger, unbidden, my own response to relationship.
And yet, when I think of the two of them, I feel fortunate to have been their only daughter and grateful for the exotic upbringing in ordinary surroundings. They were extraordinary people who I wish more than anything had had more happiness than they did. At this stage of my life, I have come to see what they gave to me, and how they made my current comfortable existence possible. They are responsible for my religious faith (though they weren't practicing it at the time they gave it to me), for my intellectual pursuits, for my drive, and though I have never succeeded at romance, for my general passion and curiosity about the world around me.
Dear Rosetta:
Little by little, almost imperceptibly, the days are slipping by. Already it is the middle of a new week and this leaves only three full weeks to go. I shall look back on this separation as the means by which I was taught loneliness for you. In that respect it will always have a fond place in my memories.
. . .
The book you sent arrived and was appreciated. Capt. Lee of the Democratic Republican Forces of Korea, sends his thanks.
I am delighted to hear about the recalcitrant new Super. I shall join the list of complainants on my return.
My clothing is adequate. The laundry does all my cleaning and washing. Picked up a few things to tide me over. Now have enough of everything.
Tonight I shall go to the Post movie. They are showing a picture called, "The Man Who Never Was." For a camp movie, this is not bad. This post has had the worst type of D pictures I have ever seen. Of course, I understand the director's choice of movie fare since I was present when the "Rose Tattoo" was shown. The GI does not care for this type of drama. He is more likely to go for "The Creature Returns."
Two Iranians and two Koreans just passed my room. They are going to the Officers' Club to play Bingo. There is a large prize at stake.
I shall have to close now, since one of them is visiting.
Love,
Buddy
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Dear Rosetta:
To complete yesterday's letter. Lt. Shirazi--his real name is Fakour, just like in the "Arabian Nights"--left after reading some poetry from Persia, in Persian, by the way, which I did not understand. He claims that the poet Hafiz, whose verse he reads and rereads though he has already memorized most of it, can foretell the future. He claims also to be able to read your mind with the aid of this poet. For example, he asked me to think of something, keeping it to myself, and he would read an applicable stanza. The verse he read depicted a woman 'burning' with desire for her love far, far away. Of course, I know I have a love burning for me far away, but at this particular time I was thinking of an 80 Kilo-ton atomic bomb. Possibly some analogy, n'est-ce-pas ?
After this visit, I betook myself to the Post movie where I saw "The Man Who Never Was," a rather interesting spy story with some claims to actual fact. Lt. Rosen states that Rommel mentions the basic incident in his memoirs. Gloria Grahme was the only low spot in the the presentation. Her speech was wooden and her action hammy and out of place in an otherwise well-acted melodrama.
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End of Yesterday's Letter
Dearest Love,
Today I "have much lahve for heem which is far avay," as Lt. Shirazi would phrase it. "Heem" is feminine in this case, though he uses it indiscriminately for masculine and feminine gender.
But to continue; I have much burning in 'house' which is my heart. And it is fortunate that the burning is so thusly localized.
I can sit here, now, and conjure your image with all its symmetry, all ifs subtlety of line and curve, all those natural splendors of nature in which it abounds. Away! though temptress, lest thou benumb my brain. If thou must come, come while yet I sleep; Some dark, just before dawn, while Morpheus sits heavily on my brow. Thus, in a dream, we can wander hand in hand beside a waterfall. Listen! canst thou hear the rush of wind in the treetop? Hurry! Morning hastens with unfriendly light. Tarry here a while---close--here in my arms-cling, sweet lips, beat wildly dear heart, closer, closer--closer. . .
Will you come some night, and wind your fingers gently through my hair and softly breathe my name, and take my hand, and lead me to some grassy spot where we can lie and love. Will you come, tonight, and every night until I die?
Buddy
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