#20

Vienna 12, March 1940

Harry, my sweet boy,

We just got your Christmas greetings and they took 100 days to get here, but were still so happy to get them. We’re fine and if we weren’t separated by the big pond, we would be very happy. Papa promised me a honeymoon trip to Istanbul 20 years ago and he wants to make up for it this year, but I must keep his promise because people usually consider what he promises and expect me to do the same. This childhood dream of the 1001 nights should not fail on my account. I want to see it come to fruition. I will harass Papa until he finally gives in and I will say that I cannot otherwise keep his promise.

I can imagine what you are doing and sometimes I don’t actually know if you’ve really written this or if I just imagined something. Then I take the folder with your letters into my hand and read your letters over and over again. Sometimes by taking a letter for example from January 18th and then the next week I get one from October 21, I entertain myself and it’s like playing with a mosaic or puzzle. Every card is a new piece and the picture becomes ever more complete. I wish I had more pieces, and maybe the mail will bring me greetings from more recent times in the next few days.

There’s not much to say on our account. We are living like Jo’s uncle Milde whose landlady characterizes this so perfectly in just three words: “just eating, gobbling up, …ing.” The middle one is less common for us and we don’t want to talk about the latter. [potty humor?]

When the days get longer, I want to study languages again, but I haven’t decided which one. My German is fair and my English is incomprehensible to most people. In Istanbul, I will learn the language from a Lustraci and a Muezin will teach me singing. But nothing will go into my head. Little Hans is our kitchen master [miserly and avaricious person in folklore - meaning there’s not much to eat?] - Papa looked at his soup bowl and with big eyes, calls of protest from the Danube to Istanbul.

I hear the elevator. Papa must be coming home with a big appetite so I’ll continue later.

It really was Papa. He came with such an expression of a poor sinner that I had to laugh. I’d already forgotten about the soup but Papa thought he should make it up to me and brought a splendid Baltic Sea herring with him. We felt like we had a meal of the gods. Papa was curious about what I was writing and to whom, looked over my shoulder and said I shouldn’t put the cart before the horse. Istanbul will be on the Bosphorous forever. Even though the passports are not here yet, maybe we don’t need to hurry so much to learn Turkish.

Salem Alekum,
Helene

P.S. Harry, did you hear from Yomtov yet? 

In Handwriting on front: Good luck & kisses from Jo

 It struck me as I read today’s letter that I am doing exactly what Helene described in the second paragraph – every day brings a new letter or document, sometimes written years apart. Trying to understand Helene’s life based on these seemingly random pages sometimes feels just like putting together a jigsaw puzzle!