They met in August 1938 at the Mullaly playground in the Bronx. He was sixteen. She was fourteen. His name was Sidney Diamond, hers was Estelle Spero. Pals at first, they played Ping-Pong, handball, and badminton together, and went on long, meandering walks through the neighborhoods of New York. The following summer they went to Coney Island, where Sid kissed Estelle for the first time after a ride on the Caterpillar. After only the second time he walked her home, Sid recalled many years later, he said to himself, “I want to marry that girl.” A precocious fifteen-year-old, Estelle was accepted at Hunter College, where she majored in speech and English literature. Sid enrolled at New York’s City College and studied to be a chemical engineer. By 1940 the relationship was serious and the two began to discuss marriage. And then came Pearl Harbor. Over the vociferous protests of family and friends, Sid dropped out of school in April 1942 and volunteered for the U.S. Army. They had never argued until that time, but Estelle was upset with Sid for succumbing to what she believed were romantic notions of warfare. After graduating from Officer Candidate School, Sid was sent to Fort Bliss, Texas, as a second lieutenant in the Eighty-second Chemical Battalion, 4.2 mortar outfit. Attached to the infantry, it all but guaranteed Sid would end up in combat. “I know you’ll be in the middle of it,” she chided him in a letter, “you have that luck. Trouble seeker that you are. You do ask for it.” Corresponding regularly, Estelle occasionally reminded Sid of her displeasure at his decision but affirmed she still loved him. Sid felt they had been “engaged to be engaged” long enough and wanted to make their commitment official. In a playful tone characteristic of so many of his letters, Sid feigned bewilderment—not to mention a bad Brooklyn accent—concerning what they should do next. (Ronald Colman and Charles Boyer, mentioned by Sid, were famous movie actors.)
May ’43
Darling—
Me? I’m tough, see!—I sleeps on de ground. I eats rough “vittles.”—nobody gets de better ’a me—no siree—Dere’s only one ting whats got me perplex - er - perp - er a—screwy—and dat’s a dame—see? Whatta babe—cute?—nothin’ better! a looker?—tops!—Yeah—and even talks intell—intel—er—a—smart-like! ya get me? Yeah!!—Once she tells me I’m nuts—dat don’t botter me none!—She tells me I’m an imbe - imibec - er - a dope!—
Foist she’s sugar, honey and schmaltz—Den she gets to naggin and raisin de roof wid me!—she treats me rough and tough—whadda I do?—whadda I do???—I takes it!—takes it wid all de screwy looks ’n ways of Charles Boyer—I suffers like who’s dat guy—a—Ronal Coleman!—’o course I ain’t as pretty as dat guy—no, I aint got a line, but cripes I’m in love!
I tries to tell her of de sky, de trees, de boids, de scenery.—She tells me I’m childish?—Smart like a whip, my babe! Uses big woids—ain’t “childish” a big woid??—
Sweetheart—joking aside I love you, love you to the utmost. My darling, listen—if this war takes ten years, yes even twenty years I’ll finish college! For more reasons than one!—Did you know I was born under the sign of Aries, the goat—or something—according to my horoscope, they tell me, I have all the persistency, revolting stupid stubborness of the goat. A goat would bat his head against a wall until dead—maybe there’s something in this horoscope deal huh??
Marry you??—get us all the things we need??————I will!!—
Darling, let’s both thank heavens we both have a healthy sense of humor. My little silk-stocking-selling-saleswoman.—
No, I haven’t grown up—not at all—I still blush when people tease me about the “notorious Stelle!”—Get flustered like an adolescent school boy—
So I suffer from softening of the brain—that’s really getting down to fundamentals!—basic!!
You “want to know where we stand in my estimation”—
I can only speak for myself. I know I love you. I know things have not changed as far as I’m concerned.—A little dubious, perhaps, about fitting in to the scheme of civilian living when this is over—but I imagine I’ll get into the swing of things after a few weeks—a trifle worried about being teased about this deal for the rest of our blissful (and it will be happy) lives—Regardless of how you think—please respect my right to believe in certain stupidities—
Sure, I’m a dumb idealist. I’m a shameful cad for running out on you—okay—you’re in a position of some buying and selling. Weigh the good qualities against the bad. Buy that which will give you the most of what you desire. Again getting down to the brutal facts which are, to say the least, disgusting—
I offer nothing but a pig-headed dreamer—when the conflict is ended there will be even less because I’ll no longer be a dreamer!—
Here’s the story and let’s settle it once and for all time—and by heaven’s let’s not continue discussing this matter—I want to marry you—to spend the rest of my life with your telling me to stop biting my fingernails—when?—tomorrow, if it were possible—the day after the “duration plus six months” definitely!—Now we place the dilemma in your lap—you choose the most suitable time!—
The more I write the more confusing I get—even to myself!—
Today we went through a very dull R. S. O. P.—we’ve done this so often it isn’t funny—R. S. O. P.—always called “arsop”—Reconnaissance, Selection, Occupation of Position—Dull to say the least—
I phoned mom tonight—I’ll try to get you later this week—say, when is Mother’s Day—
Next time I mention what we did during the day tell me to keep my mouth shut—that’s restricted information—“for those people concerned only.”
Darling, the radio blares forth that “Romanian Rhapsody” Enesco—recall the Russian Kretchma, the violinist, the soul stirring crying, spirit rising, swift music.—Memories hide thyself!!! How unfair to come after me thus!!! I love you.
Your—and I do mean your
Almost immediately after writing the letter, Sid received word he had been granted a temporary pass to go home. He promptly dashed off a quick note to Estelle: “Hyah—Ought to be home for extremely short leave beginning the 8th—I’ll try to fly home—leave so very short it’s cruel—10 days—disgusting—about five days home. I repeat—Will you marry me???—Yes??—no??—Your, Sid.” On May 14, 1943, Sid Diamond dropped to his knee in the middle of Central Park and placed the ring on her finger. Two days later Estelle and Sid’s parents accompanied him to Penn Station, where Sid, decked out in his full uniform, boarded a train bound for Texas. Estelle graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Hunter College that June and started a job at Bell Laboratories as a technical assistant focusing on warrelated projects. Some time after Sid had left, his parents, who sold dresses from an apartment on Nelson Avenue, told Estelle about a chance encounter with a girl from Sid’s past. (In fact, Sid barely knew the young woman; they had met only briefly when he was working as a waiter at a children’s summer camp.) Estelle couldn’t resist teasing him about it, and Sid replied with mock horror.
Darling,
Dilemma! confusion! distraction!!—My past returns to haunt me—skeletons rattle their bones in my closet. Once more the Nelson Dress Shoppe is my undoing—
So a girl from Coney Island walks in to buy a dress. She spots my sorry puss hanging from the wall—She swoons and shrieks in terror—“Is that—is that-that Monster Sidney Diamond”—(It must have happened this way)—So my picture leers back at her and says, “What’s it to ya bub?”—
“Sure,” she says, “I knew him in Parksville—He used to call me fat & when I was sick with appendicitis he sent me a lollypop—”—“Evelyn something or other’s” my name she states—
Nights of tossing and turning. Who the hell is Evelyn—I’ve called a lot’ve ’em fat—(Candid Sid)—The lollypops—oh—oh—oh—It hit me like a flash—
It was one of those Irv (Charlie) Jacobson, Phil, Diamond screwy escapades—
Some guy writes a book “Out of the Night”—Mine’s—“Out of the Nelson”—Some say that if you stand on Brodway & 42nd St. you’ll meet someone you know—the Nelson apparently has taken over some of the work—all of my“lurid” past parades before that photo on the wall—Ah yes—I shall drink me a bottle of the “Green Death” and retire to the ignominious hovel—
She says she took pictures of us—Yoiks, they hitched the five miles from town and grabbed us for the pictures before we knew what was going on—Women—are crazy—insane—and should be watched carefully—
A guy can’t get engaged in peace—
I fully expect a bare breasted native girl in a sarong to walk into the Nelson—glance at the photo—and shout—“Uggle bub—sut phlub—Heel—me him see ’em—no good Joe—Double bubble—rubble!”
What a life!!—What a world!!—damn I could make a good strategist for this war—I read all the funnies—to quote a rotten gag in a rotten paper—
For you—alone—a very fond caress—a kiss—because—just because—
Your
Sid
Not all of their letters focused on their relationship. By July Sid was stationed in the South Pacific, and news from the homefront prompted reams of commentary from Sid. He and his comrades were especially steamed by reports that folks in the United States were complaining in late 1943 of “war fatigue”—the shortages, the blood donation drives, the endless pitches to buy war bonds, the rationing, the workers’ strikes, and so on. Was the war no longer considered an honorable one, Sid and his men wondered? How would they be received when they eventually returned home? In a letter updating Estelle on an otherwise uneventful day, Sid articulated the group’s thoughts and fears concerning their postwar lives.
South Pacific
Jan 2, 1944
Darling—
This morning I went into the jungle to inspect the impact area of yesterdays firing. My guns were on line but over by 50 yards.—I think its good. Particularly since it was impossible to see more than ten feet ahead and I ranged in by ear.—Me—the guy that couldn’t tell a C from a C sharp trying to determine how far away a shell burst.—A new tune!!!
This afternoon Cotton, Hindman, and myself took two cases of empty beer bottles—our carbines and played coney island. We put the beer bottles up in trees, on the ground, on bushes. Then we just potshotted at the beer bottles.—It’s like I said—this war business is an overgrown carnival—shooting gallery and all—Sunday was topped off by a “social” gathering of the remaining battalion officers. Everything from whores of Juarez to post war activities was discussed. Lt. Gutman raised this question—“What will the people back home say to us when we return? Will they call us suckers? They did those who fought in 1918!”—A strange hush fell over the officers, as if that was the question that all had thought about—all had worried about—We all realized how little people at home can conceive of the suffering, hardships, loneliness, violence of war.—
We talked of the new generation—the teen agers that would look at their war tired brothers and fathers and speak of us as we once spoke of the men of the last war.—It wasn’t pleasant—We knew then why so few veterans speak of their experiences.—no, not because they weren’t exciting, new, dangerous—but because the squirts, the snot-noses, the know-it-alls had driven their souls to the background.
“What will we do if they call us suckers?”—
What will I do??—I often wonder—my equilibrium is a bit changed—Well—we’ll see.
The young fathers wondered whether their kids would slam the door and run to mother shouting “There’s a strange man outside!”—Captain Smith remarked “You single men will have the biggest worry—how’ll you get wives?—All your gals will be taken and the new ones won’t go for your old fashioned stuff” I said,
“It may be old fashioned but that stuff will go any time, any place,—There’s nothing new in that field.”
We had egg-noggs—peanuts, cake, toast, cheese—Somebody’s Christmas packages just opened—I like these gatherings, particularly because they don’t play charades!!—Ugh!!—
Of course you and the Copacabaña came up—damn ’em!—
Enough said—I love you—endlessly
Your Sid
Sid’s mood turned somber again as he and his fellow troops thought of their comrades half a world away landing on the beaches of Normandy. “The news of the continental invasion is the primary source of conversation,” Sid, recuperating from noncombat-related back surgery, wrote to Estelle on June 7, 1944. “I heard the report during a movie in the hospital—Picture was stopped—news announced—’Stelle—there were no cheers—no shouts—we all sat still—we’d fought—we’d made beach heads—ours was a deep sympathy—a silent prayer—‘Good Luck brothers—good luck….” Sid’s loneliness and yearning for Estelle grew more pronounced as the humid summer months in the South Pacific plodded sluggishly along. Facetiously addressing his letter to Estelle’s mailman, Sid pined for some goodies from his sweetheart which he had long been expecting:
Dear Postman,
You look like a very happy man. You probably come from a happy home. Yes, your wife probably loves you—I love you—this girl admires you—We all have an affection for you—so please allow this lady—no you dope, not the one on the left—the good looker in front of you—allow her to send me a pen & cigarette lighter—and a kiss—Hey!!—in the letter!—in the letter!—Tend to your own business and sell stamps!! …
A month later Sid, once again in a lively mood, dispatched an “official” memo to Estelle enumerating the tactical qualifications and classifications of their two-person squad.
17 August 1944
Subject: Miss Estelle Spero
To: The World
1. On several occasions there has been questions posed as to rank and authority in the Diamond combat team. Also some people have asked about who is most beautiful.—The following paragraphs supercede any previous bulletins on these matters.
2. Commander of the organization will be Miss Estelle, who upon assuming command will be responsible for the maintenance of discipline amongst her subordinates in particular Lt. Diamond. Miss Estelle will be charged with the morale and well being of this officer. Lt. Diamond will assist in all possible ways and continue to show the same respect and affection to his superiors.
3. Careful studies of photograph II MIAI—GARFIELD indicate that the C.O. is by far the best proportioned, most attractive of all models heretofore presented—The mark IAI reveals the following assets.
a. irresistable lips
b. Clear vision—
c. black, long eyelashes
d. Long flowing hair, slightly kinky
e. Eyebrows (note: one must be careful of these, when they are raised duck for cover, when normal proceed as usual, when lowered and wrinkles form at brow kiss lips immediately—or else hear the burst of a severe tongue lashing)
f. Nose—very adaptable for biting—also very pretty.
g. Ears—Be careful of these. They are usually hidden and well camouflaged—If you get too close you will be caught by booby trap M2 EARRING—they are excellent receptacles for hot air but receive best when the truth is told—
h. The neck is streamlined and especially designed to overcome wind resistance
i. The overall picture indicates an extremely efficient fighting machine combined with an obvious beauty which is dangerous for the unschooled—Although rugged in appearance it has a few delicate mechanisms which must not be fooled with by the novice—
j. The instrument on the whole has no liabilities that we can see
4. We recommend that this equipment be requisitioned for Lt. Diamond’s organization and that they get married at the earliest possible moment—Despite Lt. Diamond’s demonstrated lack of skill in handling this equipment we feel he is sufficiently interested to study and learn this instrument—its nomenclature, its functions, its use, its quirks and needs. He will be responsible for the care of this instrument.
5. This item is a critical one and numerous requisitions have been made for it. Lt. Diamond, however, has A-1 priority as soon as it becomes available.
General E. Motors
In October 1944 Gen. Douglas MacArthur was leading the climactic U.S. invasion of the Philippines, and Sid and his men were heading toward the main island of Luzon. Sid had already endured combat as a forward observer on Bougainville in the Solomon Islands from late January through April of 1944. (During this time, he was promoted to first lieutenant and received two commendations for bravery.) Sid could not give Estelle the particulars of his whereabouts or what he had experienced, but it involved (he would later tell her) seeing the aftermath of Japanese brutality against innocent civilians. And, for the first time, Sid was losing friends in battle. Sid tried to maintain his sense of humor, but the grim business of war was dampening his spirits. He sent the following to Estelle on November 1, 1944:
Darling,
Almost seventeen months overseas. It seems like such an endless interlude. Yet, somehow, the day of departure is so clear.—The way we walked from camp through sidestreets to the pier. There were no bands, no flourishes, few people. A few lonely citizens watched us go by with a dull expression of having seen the show before. Many other troops, on many other days had preceeded us—and there were many more days and troops to come. A woman cried. A young girl waved. The men were too hot and impressed by the occasion to whistle at her. Then the morning when the ship went around the harbor checking the instruments. We did a lot of thinking that morning.
There was a peculiar sensation that all this wasn’t new—that our ancestors somewhere had experienced the same tightening around the stomach. Perhaps the feeling was inherited from our animal forebears. Were we not about to engage in the birthright of beasts?—Soon we were to live, eat, hate, fight like the beasts of yesteryear. Man hadn’t changed much. Sure, we had tanks, carbines, mortars, planes—They were only aids to man’s ativism.
Some of us felt cheated—We had gambled but believed our losses to be excessive. The man with the new born baby, the man who just got married, the younger boys who wanted only to live in dreams of youth—no, ’Stelle—There were no bands!
Then in retrospect came the second departure—A soldier always “departs” He never “arrives”—When we left New Caledonia—We’d gone speeding through the streets of the capital city—
More departures, more thoughts, more wondering about the “arrival”—Each island is only a place to depart from to go to another island—You never get where you’re going. The morale services and motion picture heroes say we won’t stop until we reach Tokyo—We know our departures, leave takings, will never end—Sometimes one wonders as he sees the white crosses neatly lined up in well formed ranks—Sometimes the cemetery brings the question to one’s mind———Are these the men who have finally “arrived”? The chaplain calls them the “departed” ones—but their journey is over—“Last Stop—All Out!”
This letter may well be titled “Random melancholias” and politely dumped into a trash basket.
The ghost of Johnny Martin parades before us now—a nice kid—about twenty—The army hadn’t aged him much—He laughed a lot. Johnny never complained. I can remember, so vividly, so cruelly clear—our last few days before we left the States. We had a beer party. Johnny played the guitar and sang western and hill billy music—Sometimes, when I’m not watching myself I catch myself humming the “Truck Drivers Blues” his favorite—They didn’t allow men to carry excess baggage so I carried his guitar with my equipment when we left.—Martin wasn’t brilliant. What he lacked in education he made up for by his cheerfulness and eternal smile—He was just another guy—who got off at the “end of the line.”
Don’t mind this morbid nonsense. Sometimes the loneliness overwhelms me—the noises of the insects, birds, small creatures seem to crowd into my tent crushing against me. It is terrible to live with memories only.—The soldier doesn’t think of the future, His “present” just exists and the Past is all he can think about
’Stelle I wouldn’t write or speak this load to anyone but you because it sounds so childish and you’re the only one to whom I can moan. Reminds me of a ditty make up fad we have here. Once I complained about some nonsense so now, every time I open my mouth I’m greeted with a
“Moan and groan With Sidney Diamōn’”
Ted Bochstahler gets
“Yell and holler With Ted Bochstahler”
and so on—
Anyway I’m moaning and groaning on your very nice, soft shoulders—I want to be with you—I love you
Your,
Sid
The weight of the war—the physical and emotional exhaustion, the isolation, the fear, the sheer enormity of death and destruction around him—was grinding Sid down. On what should have been a day of joy and celebration, Sid and his comrades found themselves at one of their lowest points. His love for Estelle was all that made it tolerable.
December 25, ’44
Darling,
Christmas occasions thoughts of warmth, of friendship of giving—It says in all the papers!!—The spirit of the holiday, whether it be Chanukah, Christmas, or what have you is a noble and satisfying one. You and I agree that to give and love but once a year is close to the ridiculous—We, at least know the happiness of Christmas all year ’round. The pleasure of giving is ever present with us. It is not so much with the material creations that we reward each other but each day we give a little of ourselves to each other.—
It would sound inane for me to speak of how “different” our love is—Somehow ours fills all the requirements. Poems, songs, stories of love and eternal devotion were written about everlasting, enduring, powerful affections such as the one which holds us together—
Don’t mind the overdose of sentimentalism—Maybe it’s the night—the radio which moans “Little Town of Bethlehem”—Perhaps the carols the men sing—or the quiet tropical night with the cool breeze and twinkling stars—or the remoteness of home—the loneliness of the moment—Yes today we had a community of thought. All the men—together—in a community of homesickness—Do not think harshly—or scoff at our childishness—We have so little—so little else but dreams—
It is difficult at present to be the cold, the practical.—Even more is it hard to be humorous or laugh—to joke—I cannot say where we are, what we are doing, what we will do—There’s been so much between us unsaid and undone—So much of our lives missed—
’Stelle, for my part in this denial—I beg forgiveness—For my part in being such a fool, such a child—will you understand? Sweetheart—Would I were with you so that I could tell you of these things. That I have contributed to your unhappiness—again—I humbly request you try and be patient with me—I would like to fill the air with plans, dreams, hopes—But—’Stelle——all there is, is a choking in the chest—Every once in awhile a guy gets himself overcome by despair; despondency overwhelms him.—It is so-oo long—so very very long—
I love you darling.—whatever happens—be happy—that’s my only request—get everything we would have liked—fill your life—(er—only keep my little niche open—so if I ever get home—I’ll know there’s one place waiting for me—my corner of the world—Let it be a small alcove in your heart—put a comfortable chair there and always keep a warm fire glowing—Because if I come home in any recognizable form I’ll head directly for that chair—That’s where I belong—that’s my home—with you—)
Stelle, it’s not weakness, it’s not softness—it’s a fact—I need you!!—I need you!!—I need you!!—
Enough of this—I love you—“extensively”
Your,
Sid
The next letter Estelle received from Sid was written over a period of days while he was aboard a ship heading for the Philippines, and he forewarned Estelle that it would be difficult for him to send mail for some time. Indeed, almost a month passed before his next letter, which was hastily written in the midst of battle.
January 19–1945
Darling,
Somewhere in the Philippines—In combat again—a lot to say but—A. very tired—B. very very dirty.—C. Busy, Busy, as all hell—Been moving constantly—Excuse brevity—I love you—you make my foxhole warm and soft—sweetheart—your
Sid
At nearly the same time Sid had sent off his message, Estelle, now a graduate student at Northwestern University, was lamenting in a letter to him: “Dearest, the emptiness of everything without you is appalling. The simplest things depend on you … a walk, a conversation, a whim … everything needs you for completion and enjoyment.” Weeks passed and still no word. Concerned, but not panicking, she wrote to Sid while listening to President Roosevelt discuss his meetings in Yalta with Soviet leader Joseph Stalin and Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Estelle concluded her letter with two poems by Emily Dickinson. (“SAD,” mentioned at the end of the letter, was Estelle’s sobriquet for Sid: “Such A Darling.”)
March 1, 1945
Darling—
I’m listening to President Roosevelt as I write. I have been concentrating on him, but it wasn’t worth it. He has said, fifty different ways, that Joe, Winnie, and he get along just fine. I don’t know what else he can say, but I was hopin.’
I’m going mad over that platform test. I don’t like the way I’ve written it, I haven’t learned it yet, and I’m sure I’ll make a darn fool of myself Saturday Probably make a fool of Emily Dickinson, too.
I was in most of the day, had scenery class at 2:30, sat through it in the usual foggy state, and went over to Scott Hall with Jan, who’s in my scenery class. Jan Hall, this is, not Frankel. We chatted away over Hostess cup cakes and coffee, then went on our separate ways, I, to the library, to look up editorial opinion on the way the Yalta conference settled Poland. By now I’m hopelessly confused on what happened in the Atlantic, Terehan, Bretton Oaks, Dumbarton Oaks, Crimea, here, there and everywhere. If anything did happen, which I doubt. I want to write a prospectus for a program which would read editorial opinion on a matter like Poland. I think it would be interesting, although very difficult to handle. I probably wouldn’t listen to it, of course.
I wonder whether you get my mail. I wonder whether you will get this V-mail letter any faster than a regular one. I wonder where you are, what you’re doing, how life is treating you.
—Emily Dickinson
Suspense is hostiler than Death,
Death, tho’ soever broad,
Is just Death, and cannot increase - -
Suspense does not conclude,
But perishes to live anew,
But just anew to die,
Annihilation plated fresh
With Immortality.
You see, I cannot see your lifetime,
I must guess,
How many times it ache
For me to-day - - Confess
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film.
But I guess guessing hurts,
Mine get so dim!
Too vague the face
My own so patient covets,
Too far the strength
My timidness enfolds;
Haunting the heart
Like her transplanted faces,
Teasing the want
It only can suffice.
I love you, dearest SAD, sweetest—
E
It had been almost a month since Sid’s last letter, and Estelle was now genuinely worried. Just after 11:00 P.M. on March 5, Estelle returned to the boarding house where she was living while at Northwestern and found an envelope addressed to her in unfamiliar handwriting. There was nothing to indicate where it came from, and there was no letter inside—only a small newspaper clipping. “First Lieut. Sidney Diamond, who was with the Eighty-second Chemical Battalion,” the March 2 article reported, “was killed on Luzon.” On January 29, 1945, Sid was shot through the stomach during an assault on Fort Stotsenburg, north of Manila. He was twenty-two years old when he died. The last time Estelle had seen him was May 16, 1943, two days after their engagement in Central Park.
