This is the ninth of 87 letters exchanged during World War II between Nicholas Salvatore and Elizabeth Galloway.
For more see Nicholas and Elizabeth.
Sunday, October 17, 1943
Last night I had a dream about you. I was driving at night in a snowstorm somewhere near Willet Creek in Terry Canyon. I’d just been released from jail, which accounted for my new suit. I kept thinking, “They call this God’s country, the land of milk and honey, but it seems godforsaken to me.” The car broke down and I began to walk the highway for the nearest town or gas station. At a sign that just said “128” I came across you, walking toward the creek, where you had apparently grown up. When you turned to face me, your image froze. It was just like the first sight I had of you at Rose’s. Yet we kept walking on and when I reached the station, you disappeared.
I don’t know what it means but wanted to tell you before I forgot it.
I’m glad you have a brother that loves you. I always wanted a sibling – figured they would be like a guaranteed friend – but my mom died giving birth to me and my father never remarried. We’re a family of only children and strays – my father was supposed to have a little sister, but my grandmother miscarried on the ship coming over from Italy. No one knows my mom’s history. Dad met her in Chicago and they got together. She had no family there and that’s all my father will tell me.
What are you doing in nowhere, Texas? And how did you get there from Arizona? I mean, you clearly have this passion about you, but it seems to be in conflict with some great fear of something or other. I’ve spent so much of my life afraid. Afraid of everything. I never thought I would make it to 18 years of age, let alone overseas in a massive world war, in the country my family purposely left. Every day is a parade of odd and wonderful and disturbing and monotonous images. In it all, I love the idea of you.
Take care of yourself princess,
Next letter – October 30, 1943