Nussbach, Austria
November 1947
Dearest Hedy,
Father passed away at the end of November. He was sixty-one. Another shock to the family, especially my younger brother, Bela. I have to tell you honestly, the combined forty-two years of military service broke our father. He was a ghost of his former self here in Austria.
The day he passed away, he went to see his doctor, a military surgeon, a Dr. Szollosi. They say he requested a shot of some kind — his heart had been ailing. By the time he returned home, he collapsed on the cot, said goodbye, closed his eyes, and died.
My mother and my sister prepared him for the burial, and washed and dressed him in his finest dress uniform. All his medals were gleaming on his chest for the few local farmers who came to see him and pay their respects. I hammered together a simple wooden coffin, and a nearby family donated a single plot in the local cemetery. We had no money to pay the priest who said the burial mass, but we promised we would pay him as soon as we could. From the surrounding farms, people came to the house, graciously offering milk, sugar, and flour so that Picke and my mother could make a few pastries. After the funeral, we were able to invite some of these kind people over for tea.
I will stay and help my mother for a few more months, but in February I am determined to leave for Paris, where friends of ours have already secured a visa and passage to Argentina. I am told they are looking for qualified, European-trained engineers in Argentina. I am willing to go anywhere where hard work is rewarded and a man is able to make something of himself.
I am still desperately awaiting news from you. I need you more than ever.
Your loving fiancé,
Tibor
Paris, 1948
Spring
Dearest Hedy,
One of the most difficult things about living in Paris is that I am reminded each minute, hour, and day that I am alone here. It is a city full of lovers and it is difficult to be reminded of the state of my sorrowful heart each time I take a walk or look out the window.
I have applied for a visa to go to Argentina, and while I am waiting for the bureaucrats to do their job, I wander the streets by day and night. I have been told that I am scheduled to leave aboard the ship Partizanka in two weeks, on May 9. While I wait, unfortunately, I am unable to get any kind of work visa. There are literally hundreds of thousands of refugees seeking jobs while their cases are being heard and processed by third countries. It’s very hard to be poor in Paris, especially when one is alone.
My brother, Bela, is now working for the United States Army. He hopes to gain entry to either the United States or Canada through his connections. Think of it: the great northern country of Canada. I’ve always thought of it as the land of ice and snow, but I hear it is an enormous country with a small population. They are looking for farm labourers and domestics. I am neither. We’ve decided that when I land in Argentina, or Bela in Canada, whoever gets settled sooner will eventually sponsor the rest of the family.
I have received a letter from Bandi. He mentions you only in passing, that you are healthy and living in Czechoslovakia. That’s all. It seemed to me that there must have been further news that he simply doesn’t want to divulge. I don’t understand why I haven’t heard from you, but I don’t blame you for that. Possibly you have simply fallen out of love with me. Until I hear officially from you that it is over, I will continue to dream and hope.
With much love,
Tibor