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Nr 77 My dear children! Vienna, 28 February 1941
I had already pulled out my machine to write to you when your letter #4 of the 29th of January arrived. Apparently at this time a Clipper Letter takes exactly one month to get to you and as long to get to us. I could only wish that the regularity of this would not be interrupted. Even when the news is a little old or even already outdated, at least getting letters on a weekly basis gives a person some peace of mind - the joy of getting several letters all at once does not really make up for it. When the regularity of contact has been disturbed, then a rain shower of letters is always the end of a long period without news.
Apparently, it is not any better with telegrams. We telegrammed you on the 18th of this month: “we request most urgently the affidavit and ship tickets so that we will arrive on time.” Despite this telegram which we sent with a return receipt, we did not receive an answer. I mentioned at the outset that I did not expect to get an immediate answer by cable. If you have never experienced the onslaught or stampede when you are standing in line to send telegrams, you can’t really imagine it. In any case, Rudolf Beck who telegraphed about getting his affidavit which has run out extended, he did receive an answer very quickly. (I think it was the next day after he sent it).
Everl told me that she got my letter of December 27. In this one I cited a refrain from a couplet. The last line is at the moment quite current in Europe in both the literal and the figurative sense. For us, thanks to our fatalistic attitude, the only thing that counts is the Homeric-humorous mood at every opportunity. The only way not to be nuts. Papa asks if you still know your numbers. Think of them when you are taking care of our affidavit matter. Your feather [pen] appears to be doubled over with a back ache.
Papa wants to give you advice which he has after considerable consideration and just like the old pious Mr. Schlumberger who told his sons the greatest secret of his life while he was on his deathbed. Actually, it was the secret of his company. He did not reveal that until as I said he was on his deathbed and made them promise to keep the secret just as he had and not to tell the grandchildren until they were in the same situation, feeling themselves to be at the end of their days. The so carefully and fearfully kept family firm’s secret was: “Sometimes my dear sons, in particularly unfavorable years, you also can make wine from grapes.” Your father is not old Schlumberger but he is still a young healthy man. But you are far away and who’s he saving the secrets of his firm for? So Everl, take your feather, cut the nib with manicure scissors so that the broken point will still work and sharpen it with your nail file, very gently and carefully. The iridium tip of the pen is gone, but the feather will still work. It is best that you do this operation right after one of your anatomy lessons, maybe Papa’s secret will help you be first in your class if you use this method when you are taking out an appendix or perhaps removing a carcinoma.
I would not like to see Harry’s chicken eyes treated in this manner however. According to his verses, the young man must have suffered quite a bit. However, his music critic treatise about a composition of a certain Roy Harris is of an exemplary vividness. It is nice that in the actual sense I cannot really imagine the symphony when there are factory sirens, auto horns, and war reminiscences as his inspiration. However, maybe a resourceful or clever manager will announce when the concert will be repeated. It is particularly to be recommended for those hard of hearing. I determined rather sadly in this matter that the mentioned letter about the music critic which was sent from Istanbul did not reach us.
I have kept all the letters and I will use the day after tomorrow, Sunday, to read through those letters, because we have reached the topic of reading. Quite awhile ago I read a novella, or more correctly a modern fairy tale, a utopia. Once upon a time there was a city, and in that city lived only happy, satisfied, good people. They could be that way because in this city they knew no need and no sorrow. They all had a job which they enjoyed and the only care that they experienced was that they wanted to make sure they could cause pleasure for their fellow citizens until one day the residents of this happy city were overtaken by a terrible end. A terrible illness broke out among them. First it was sporadic but then it became an epidemic. The otherwise so kind and loving population changed in its nature. At first, they had been particularly interested in doing right by everyone else. Now they seemed to want to make things more difficult for others after this happened. The doctors didn’t know what to do about this illness and it was immediately obvious to them that there was indeed an illness. They had no advice and they gave this illness the academic name mania contradicens. They observed the patients who seemed to be suffering from contradiction, and the only thing that they found out was that they realized that the person who was ill wanted exactly the opposite of what he intended to do and could not, no matter how hard they tried and wanted to, figure out which bacteria was involved. They couldn’t even think of a therapy.
I read this instructive story and came 20 years later to the idea that Papa has caught such a disease. These bacilla have infected him and he always says “no” when he means “yes”. You did live in the east for a while. Did you not notice that the Turks shake their head when they mean yes and the same movement means yes when we do it? “No” is expressed by a slow movement of the hand and a movement made with the head which we would translate as “yes”. Since I have become more enlightened by this reading, I take Papa’s “yes” to mean “no” and vice versa. Especially consequent I am about this when he starts his now very common lecture with “You know, we really eat much too much.” Then I nod approvingly, well, you already know that.
That (have you ever seen such a cramp of a machine?) That you have heard news of Robert I am very happy to hear. Please give him my warmest greetings. He will be in Frisco soon and the 3-leaf clover will become I hope a 4-leaf one. Hilda will soon be able to open a curio collection. So many things to see in one city - there must be a very high entrance price. When Vitali and Helen come rushing in, of course the price will double and will help some relief organization. Oh listen, Papa’s singing! I doubt if his singing is because of your letter of tomorrow morning; I’m not sure if it's that or if it has to do with the oatmeal cakes that he ate a considerable number of this morning while he was giving me that lecture which I mentioned. Is that perhaps the cause of his guffawing? My question about this was answered rather dismissively with “Oh you just don’t understand art!” I think of the malicious mania-contradicens-bacillus and say well, he wants to sing but I have to finish up with this because Papa is hurrying off. I kiss you and I expect an answer soon. I kiss you, all of our dear ones, and any old person who might send me an affidavit in recompense for the kiss. Is America the land of unlimited possibilities, or not?
10000000000 kisses and, all with honor and even more I’ll give you
if you send me an affidavit from somewhere. [a rhyme]Helen
I was astounded by the richness of today’s letter. Every sentence is a gem and seemingly unrelated ideas come elegantly together. Packed into two dense pages we have: observations on the unreliability of the postal service; repeated and even humorous pleas for the necessary affidavit from the U.S.; comments on letters received from Eva and Harry; two different stories that shine a light onto Vitali’s personality and his relationship with Helene; musing on when they will all be together in San Francisco; and through all of this, she gives us a sense of the world they inhabit, where life is difficult, nothing makes sense, and all they can do is try to maintain their sense of humor while jumping through never-ending bureaucratic hoops. She even takes a moment to complain about the quirks of her typewriter when it forces her to remove the sheet of paper and put it back in because the carriage didn’t return properly.
Roy Harris’s Symphony #3 was written in 1939, so I assume that is the concert Harry described in less-than-glowing terms to his mother. You can listen and decide for yourself.
In the middle of the letter, Helene shares Vitali’s wisdom with his daughter Eva on how to repair a fountain pen, implying that this skill will be transferable to the skills she is learning in nursing school. Repairing pens is in fact something that Vitali and Helene knew how to do. The stationery shop they ran (at the back of which Vitali engaged in his metaphysical pursuits) offered pen repair. You can see in the photo below that on the awning of the shop in Vienna is a picture of a fountain pen with the words “repairs immediately”. The shop window is filled with evidence of Vitali’s work: a Turkish flag, mandrake root, newspaper articles, a set of hand prints. Other than the awning, the stationery aspect of the store seems to have become an afterthought. My grandmother is smiling in the doorway. My guess is that the boy with his back to the camera is Harry. The photo would have been taken sometime in the early 1930s.
