This is the forty-third of 87 letters exchanged during World War II between Nicholas Salvatore and Elizabeth Galloway. For more see Nicholas and Elizabeth.
August 22, 1944
April in Paris? Maybe
I can’t see you anymore and I’m very worried. I have your pictures and your letters but at times like this, with only the moon to see by, write by, when sounds disappear and the world sets in, I am no longer sure you are real. I convince myself we never met – maybe some psychiatrist is sending me these letters from you to try to comfort me, or my grandmother is, I don’t know. Is it really possible that we met and have become so close through only these letters? It seems so unlikely and no one here understands, but what do any of us understand anymore? I understand that if you are real we’re going to dance and there will be nothing but your warm hands on my neck, your body pressed against mine. That makes sense. This, this place, these people, this land, this bloodshed, this makes no sense. How can we dance so that everyone feels peace? Take my hand.
They are transferring me to a field hospital far from the front lines. I know it is to observe me. What do they expect to happen out here? That somehow our bodies can be put through grueling days/weeks/months without adversely affecting our minds? It is all right. They’re not sending me to a nut house or anything like that so they must not be too worried (or they’re desperate). I like to think the first. I’ll be fine. Just don’t give up on me, will you?
PS – Do you think postmen think about how many relationships hang in the balance due to their influence? If they lose one letter it could end or begin a relationship. It could end our relationship and we’d never know.
Next letter – September 1, 1944