Post from Stalingrad

she gave me the letter to read…

thin blue envelope

grey paper

and

blue ink writing…

generous writing as I remember quite large like mine but slanting more to the right with ascenders and descenders pronounced whereas mine looks like knitting.

Die letzte Kerze brennt, you wrote,

und

ich habe Hunger.

The last candle is burning, you wrote,

and

I am hungry.

It was the last time we heard...

the last sign that you were..

the last letter.

Mama had sent rolled oats, all we could spare and we starved so you might have…that must keep you alive, insurance, we thought…all came back, one packet stacked above the other on the stairs … mouldy boxes, Mama’s writing …I saw… not a good sign, a bad omen I knew… where were you Papa?  When will you come home? 

I read your letter Papa,

and

today I write one to you…

and

it’s taken over 60years to write…

I’ll not need a stamp…

Lieber Papa,

You did not come home.

Who saw you last?

Did someone hold you?

Did someone close your eyes when you went?

Stroke you cheek?

Cover your body?

Take your boots?

Take your photos?

Wedding ring?

Address?

Did you see  the stars in the sky?

What did you hear?

Did you hold someone?

Did you close someone’s eyes?

Cover his body?

Stroke his cheek?

Did you run? Did you hide? Did you scream? Not make a sound? Did your tears freeze your eyes and make you blind? Did you think of Mama? And did you think of me?

Dear Papa,

I knew just for moments…

…you were…

that you were

and

who

and

then I gave the letter back...

it was hers she said

and

threw it out one day…

grey paper

I remember

and

blue ink writing..

blue envelope…

I feel the feather weight of it and hear the sound still of the paper’s rustle

as

she gave me the letter to read…