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Tel Aviv, Thursday, October 1, 1942
My Dearest Samuel,
Where are you, my love? I’m desperately worried. I’ve had no letter from you for weeks. I’m not even sure where to send this, so I’m again copying it to both Bandar Shahpur and Aqaba, in the hope that one copy will reach you.
It’s your brother. He’s gone again. He left behind only this rather alarming note. I’m copying it out for you:
“Danuta, I’ve visited my demons, and I know them well. I used to descend nightly to their cages. I used to nurture them through their bars in the vain illusion that—when they inevitably escaped—I could still control them. Now I realize I cannot, for I am my demons, and they are me.”
Surely you can understand my concern, darling. The note continues in this vein, and in the end, he offers me the use of his flat in his indefinite absence. I’m here now, in fact—and was secretly pleased to have had a reason to leave my small, dreary rental flat. Yet here I now sit, watching the door and knowing that none but Aron, one of his demons, or you will next enter. I pray it will be you.
I haven’t seen much of Aron these past weeks. I believe I can say with some finality that I’ve begun a life here, you see—one that I hope we’ll soon share. I have my job at Kofer HaYishuv, which is tedious but pays the bills, and is—I truly believe—making a difference to our collective hope of a future in this place. I also have some new friends that still laugh at my Hebrew, and will forever mock my accent, yet accept me. Or rather, they accept my Jewish alter ego, and I’m not sure there’s a difference anymore. They love me, and I am beginning to feel the same. Of course, having you next to me is the only thing that will ever complete this life.
So, I watch the door handle, looking for the beginnings of movement that might suggest your arrival. I imagine you—gaunt and dusty, perhaps injured or sick—taking me into your arms. I imagine your lips, the taste of which is just a memory, again on mine, and two hands, rough from the road, on my waist.
Unlike your brother, I choose to ignore my own demons. These demons whisper nightly that you’re never coming, that you’re dead, or that you’ve forgotten our love and found another. I do not nurture them, unlike Aron, nor do I go anywhere near them. My demons remain where your brother’s should have, tightly stowed and locked away. I don’t need to release them, my darling, because you will soon be here. I need you, and I fear your brother—wherever he is—needs you nearly as direly.
I love you with all my heart,
Danuta
