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Vilnius, Lithuania, December 2, 1940
My Dearest Samuel,
Our spot seems so empty, and so cold, without you. Of course, it is now December, whereas we last sat here in August. While this difference may play a role in the cold that threatens to turn my fingers to icicles, I prefer to think that you took the warmth with you when you left.
Despite my shivering, I left Adrianna’s flat determined to write you with my news, and to do so with symbolic importance right from our own spot. I intend to fulfill this sacred vow even if it costs me a pinky or two.
I’m sitting on our bench, the one into which you carved our entwined initials. I’m smiling, with chattering teeth, at the sudden thought that this act actually precipitated your arrest. Yes, now that I consider it, I’m convinced: the subversive articles you penned be damned—it was your desecration of public property that tipped the scales of Soviet justice against you.
In any case, here I sit, where after the thaw the Vilnia River will again gently join the Neris. It will un-become the Vilnia. This is not a suicide, however. It is a coalescence. In joining the Neris, the Vilnia creates an entity more powerful than the sum of its parts, yet does not lose itself. Somewhere in the Neris, the Vilnia still flows. I think of our marriage thus, and my stomach again knots up, missing you. At least once a day, the longing consumes me—momentarily, yet completely, like a passing spasm born of bone-deep cancer. I have come to embrace this pain. It is, after all, what I have of you—for now.
But not for long, my darling.
I hope to God that the censors let this letter slide by, for I am bursting to tell you all. The rumors say that for several litas, the postal clerk will add a letter to the “special bag”—the one that bypasses the censors. Let us hope this is true.
So here it is: I’m leaving Vilnius for Palestine, just as we planned!
Moreover, I regret to inform you that I’m no longer your Danuta. No, I’m not divorcing you—certainly not after all the trouble we went to in order to wed—but your loving wife is now, and for the foreseeable future, known as Lea Rachel Cohen, daughter of Reuven Cohen, the carpet merchant from Okrzeja Street in Warsaw. Yes, I am a Jewess, although my conversion was less conventional than most. Either way, shalom, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Baruch Hashem. That’s all the Hebrew I’ve managed to learn so far, but fear not! Your wife Lea will be a star Hebrew pupil, for not only has she changed her name and identity, she is leaving this frozen wasteland for the warmth of Palestine next week! She—that is, I—has received a magical Certificate of Immigration from the British!
Now, please hold this letter up to your face while you read, so I can more clearly observe your utter disbelief. Because I’m sure you’ll be even more incredulous to know that this is all thanks to your brother. Yes, the very brother you haven’t stopped disparaging for a moment since the day of our first hot chocolate in Warsaw University. The one who’s “desertion” to Palestine caused you such distress. Well, after I notified Aron of your incarceration—I do hope this was acceptable, as he is your only living family—we began a short correspondence. I wrote him of my fears about returning to Warsaw, and also of remaining here. Being the known consort of the notorious park bench desecrater, Samuel Katz, is potentially dangerous, after all. It took a number of months, but Aron used his new contacts in the Hagana—that’s the Jewish underground in Palestine, as you certainly know—to arrange and pay for new papers for me, and passage to Haifa.
Yes, while the Jews of Europe scramble to hide or convert, your wife is swimming against the current. Who would guess that anyone would want to become a Jew these days?
And here’s more to fuel your incredulity: your brother, the self-interested capitalist who excelled for years at preserving his own interests over all others, has left his job at the bank, and now devotes his time and considerable financial resources to the greater good of the Jewish community in Palestine, the Yishuv. (Oh, here’s another Hebrew word I know! I’d forgotten. That’s four now!) It seems his financial skills, not to mention his generous donations, were welcomed at the highest levels of the Hagana organization. He’s now rubbing shoulders with some of the most influential men in Palestine.
So there you have it. I’ll be meeting you in Tel Aviv when you’re released. I’ll be waiting for you, my darling, and as you know, I despise being kept waiting. It was quite rude of you, leaving me alone in this awful city, so let’s put things to right, shall we?
In other news, Adrianna has given up cigarettes, and the Soviets have declared all land in Lithuania to be publicly owned. It’s still not clear which of these decisions will ultimately have greater impact on the fabric of Lithuanian life. You know how attached A is to her fags.
All jesting aside, I long to be free of this god-awful city, and I will be, first thing next week. I have a travel visa to Turkey, and will be catching the morning train to Sventoji next Monday. From there, it’s just a hop, skip and jump to Istanbul, where I’ll meet the Jewish Agency representative whose address your brother provided. Then, a small jaunt to Haifa, and I will be installed in Aron’s flat in Tel Aviv by February, making myself pretty for your arrival.
I believe you will arrive, Samuel Katz, just as I believe that this letter will reach you. For it must, you see. I’ve heard how terribly they limit correspondence to the prison camps, and I’ve heard rumors of the terrible conditions you must be facing. Please do not take the flippant or joking tone of this letter, which I now continue from the warmth of Adrianna’s flat, as anything but what it is: utter concern for your wellbeing, and a sincere effort to lighten what I can only imagine must be a dire mood.
Now, hold this letter up one last time, so that I may see whether the reality of your surroundings matches my imagination. I know that I will see suffering, and I know that I will see loss. I also expect to see no small amount of desperation on the faces of your fellow prisoners, but look around at them, my darling, and remember one thing: you are not them; you have me. I do not give my heart without great expectations. I have no doubt that we’ll be together again soon in Palestine, and you should share this certainty. Share it, and act on it.
I’m kissing this sheet of paper so ardently that I fear it will dissolve. Please keep yourself safe. Keep yourself warm. Keep yourself alive and intact. And come back to me. I’ll be waiting.
All my love,
Your Lea (formerly Danuta)
