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Today’s letter is from Helene’s nephew Robert Zerzawy in England to his cousin Eva in San Francisco.

November 15, 1966 

Dear Eva,

How can I stand before you and justify how remiss I have been? Not only did you write to me on March 28 right after your daughter’s birthday, and even in a hurry before breakfast, stressed out and on an empty stomach; you also sent me a telegram for my birthday, which I haven’t thanked you for yet. It notified me of a letter which hasn’t arrived yet, but that doesn’t let me off the hook. Your kindness of thinking of me and the birthday greetings were already reason enough for me to thank you. And what must little Helen think of an uncle who doesn’t even seem to appreciate her artistic expression? I can only assure you that I think of you often, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

At the time of the letter mentioned, you weren’t very well and had gone through operations and treatment in the hospital, and were expecting “more surgery in the future.” I’m very sorry you had to go through so much and that, because of all that, you could not devote yourself to Helen Rose as you would like to do. - The only good thing about such a long time between letters is that maybe things have improved. I hope so, with all my heart. You brought me great joy with the picture of Helen Rose with the seven candles on the big birthday cake - please tell Paul thanks and express my respect for his talent as a photographer. I hope you will do the same for your mother’s 80th birthday, and maybe I’ll have the pleasure of seeing all of you together in a photo - the last picture of Helen which I got from you is in the newspaper article when she won the Social Security game. How sweet she looks! What I would give to be able to attend that notable birthday party, but unfortunately, that isn’t possible for geographic and financial reasons, and other reasons too. - If I can’t spend time with you in person, I do want to participate somehow, and thus I have a huge favor to ask, which I hope is not too presumptuous: could you be so kind as to buy a bouquet or another appropriate present, and put it on the table with the other birthday presents - from me? Unfortunately, I didn’t think of this in time to send it via the Interflora Service; now (today) it is too late to arrange for that in time without it costing an excessive amount. I was thinking of [spending] about ten dollars. I think you could get something suitable for that amount, and I will send you the money separately by bank transfer. Now, along with all of your own troubles, you have my request to worry about; I hope it isn’t too much trouble, and I’ll definitely send a little greeting card. I’ll do that as soon as possible, and I’ll end this letter by saying thanks in advance for your friendly help in getting the present. Warm greetings to all of you, and I wish you a happy birthday celebration in honor of our dear beloved Helen, with no hint of trouble or worry.

With all my heart,        
Your Robert

I hope you are well and that Helen is, too, and all the others as well. I hope nothing gets in the way of having a happy family party.

Robert includes almost an entire year of guilt and love in this one letter. He feels bad for never sending anything for my March birthday and never acknowledging Eva’s birthday greetings for his own 67th birthday in July. He mentions Helene’s photo in the Social security game, which we saw in the April 9th post. Helene’s 80th birthday is less then 2 weeks away and he realizes he doesn’t have time to send anything in time.

Below are photos of me taken by my father at my 7th birthday party in March 1966. My father went by his middle name “Paul” which can be confusing, since we’ve spent so time with Robert’s (by then deceased) brother Paul, who played such an important role in their lives. Not half as confusing as a letter filled with mentions of two different Helens! Reading Robert’s letters makes me wish I had understood the family relationship better and that I had indeed felt that he was a kind of uncle to me. I am sorry I never met him.