Today we have a letter from 20-year-old Harry Lowell, an American GI serving in New Guinea, to his 23-year-old sister Eva, working as a nurse in San Francisco. They have been in the U.S. for 5 years and only heard rarely from their parents who at this point were both in concentration camps. They stayed active and positive, making the best of where life took them, at this point unable to do anything to help their parents. All they know about the situation in Europe is what they hear on the radio and read in the newspaper.
New Guinea
September 10, 1944Dear Eva,
‘Tis a very repentant brother of yours, indeed, who is writing you a letter today. There is no excuse at all for my not writing you for over a month, I know; therefore I appeal to your good heart and sisterly love to forgive me (again) for this breach of correspondence ethics and my lack of fraternal attention (due any sister of mine). How about it, Sis? Thank you. I knew your good nature would get the best of your grudge against your lazy brother. I promise not to let my correspondence lag behind again, parole d’honneur! I am glad you haven’t been following my example; your little V letters have been coming in quite regularly. It is needless to tell you that I have enjoyed every letter I received of you, so keep them coming!
Now that I have dedicated half a page to apologizing etc., I can begin my letter with renewed zest and a cleansed conscience (I hope). Nothing has happened since I last wrote you (at which time there wasn’t anything to write about, either: I am still doing the same job at the same place, see the same people every day, talk about the same things daily, and so on --- all is quiet on the southwestern front. Were it not for the good news we hear over the radio – news upon which we build our hopes of getting home soon – we would have a tough time keeping up our morale. I bet the men who are in actual combat complain less then we service troops do, although they have a reason to do so.
Incidentally, the army’s word for complaining is “bitching”; here is a little poem by one of our boys on “Bitching”:
Bitches are witches
Bring trouble in snitches
Warrant no outward praise.If riches were bitches
‘Twould keep us in stiches
Mean millions for our old age.Which is right and which
Is wrong, we know not which
So go ahead, you dogface, --- bitch!Some General is said to have remarked that, were it not for the bitching, this army wouldn’t be what it is today – the best army in the world.
Well, enough for “bitching.”
Sister, when I get back you’ll hardly recognize me anymore. Not only do I shave more than once a week, have a dozen hairs on my chest, and in other ways feel old age creeping up on me, but I also have cultivated a gusto for beer which, as you know, is obtainable here (it has been since August). I used to abhor the stuff as you can remember. There seems to be a deficiency in our diet which can only be corrected by beer. (Anyway, that’s what I keep telling myself.) My order for a gallon of fresh milk on my return still stands, so don’t think for a moment that I will prefer beer to milk, ever. I bet I won’t even touch beer when I get back home (according to my diet deficiency theory, ha). The other day I got my first taste of Australian beer, which is much stronger than the American beer we are getting: I drank it on an empty stomach and I felt the way I do when I try to play beg shot and attempt to puff on a cigar. I’ll never do that again!
A couple of fellows of this detachment are on a furlough in Australia; if I am lucky. I will be able to go there, as long as I am so close to the mainland. I would like to see Australia; all of the men have been there before and told me a lot of stories, unfavorable ones, which I don’t quite believe. Maybe I’ll have a chance to find out for myself.
So you want to know what I would like for Christmas, eh? Well, let’s see – something to read? No, I got plenty – something to eat, yes? No, I got plenty of that ---maybe some toilet articles? Hell, no, I get that at the PX-----perhaps a sweater for cool nights? No! -----how about some pictures or at least one colored portrait, 5x7, of my sister? That’s what I want; it’s the only thing I can use and I would appreciate one very much. Before you mail the package put a lot of branches off a Christmas tree in it, and that will be the nicest present from you. I’ll look at your picture and smell that forest fragrance of those branches and I will have a nice Christmas, indeed. Well, that’s settled.
How is Paul getting along? Write me about him in your next letter, will you? Be sure to give him my regards. Tell him he can contribute to the Christmas fund by taking a few snaps.
Have you seen Hilda lately? How is she? Keep me posted, old girl.
By the way, how did you come out with those two tennis champions? Who won and why didn’t you? After all, you used my racket which should have helped you achieve victory. Well, keep practicing; you’ll get there on top yet.
In case you want to know how I am, I am very fine, thank you; I am in the best of health, spirit, and what have you. I hope all is well with you also; I suppose you are still working at the doctor’s office and enjoy your work. I am glad you did not join the Nurse’s Corps; a lot of vicious tongues are spreading a lot of stories about the army nurses here. There is probably. Some truth in the stories, pertaining, however, to a small minority of the nurses only. But to the average GI all nurses are the same and he has his own nickname for them. Old Horace must have felt the same way I do sometimes; my maxim: “Odi profanum vulgus et arceo” Ain’t it the truth!
Well, Eva, it’s getting late and I have come to the point where I can’t find anything to write about anymore, therefore I will bid you goodnight. Don’t forget about that picture, please; it has to be tinted, by all means!
With love,
Your favorite brother,
HarryP.S. Say hello to everybody.
There are so many echoes of their mother’s letters – Harry is as always a poor and guilt-ridden correspondent (as is his cousin Paul Zerzawy from whom he apparently hasn’t heard), using humor and cleverness even when discussing serious matters, carrying on a “conversation” with the recipient, and throwing in foreign words and phrases. Eva continues to be the reliable and diligent one, regularly sending her brother letters, despite the lack of response. Eva carried that sense of responsibility to everything she did throughout her life – she was completely honest, arrived everywhere on time, and kept every promise, explicit or implicit.
One example of her keeping implicit promises is the photo below – I assume Eva went to the Emporium Photo Studio to get this tinted portrait to fulfill Harry’s request.
In a quick search, I couldn’t find a source for the poem Harry quotes (presumably from an anonymous GI) – I did find a similar phrase at urbandictionary.com and a hip hop song with the title “Bitches Snitches Witches and Riches.”
Their love of tennis is repeated often – see June 14 post.
Harry is happy that his sister did not after all join the Nurse’s Corps. He sees how little respect the nurses get and he is glad she won’t be subject to the sexism and harassment she would have experienced. Harry mentions the rumors that are spread about nurses – is he quoting Horace in relation to the nurses or to the GIs who say such awful things? I imagine the latter. The phrase is from Horace’s Odes 3.1.1 « Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. » I hate the common masses and avoid them.
One final echo in Harry’s sign-off — he calls himself her “favorite brother” — since he was her only brother. At my wedding, when it came time to say who was giving me away, Eva said of her only child: “I do, my favorite daughter.”