This is the fiftieth of 87 letters exchanged during World War II between Nicholas Salvatore and Elizabeth Galloway. For more see Nicholas and Elizabeth.
October 24, 1944
ARIZONA, don’t you know?
It’s not fair we should be separated like this I’ve had enough of it isn’t it hard enough they were able to meet isn’t that more difficult than anything else in the world? Finally two people two people like us can come together and meet and find one another and then we’re immediately separated how is that fair how is that possibly fair? And for what – no, I know it’s important I know this is all very important but right now right now all I can see and all I care about is how unfair this is of how far you are away from me of how lonely I am and how scared I imagine you are. People come and go come and go from this isolated service station fueling up and eating dinner and fueling up and eating dinner and they come and they go they sit at the bar they sit at the tables the sound of the breeze moves over the sand as the clouds move down from the mountains of dead trees the dead trees turned to stone and they sit and I sit here mending clothes because we can’t afford new ones because there are no new ones. What are we doing what are any of us doing are we doing? Back and forth back and forth that’s all this is that solid effort is in this knife is soft and the day is red and I can hear my heartbeat thundering in my chest and I can wake up in a panic and I can go to sleep in a panic and I could just as easily walk out into That desert and disappear like my father did. Why not? Just disappear. No more questions. No more unfulfilling answers. And yet something is gentle something is soft and warm and caressing you lay next to me as I sleep, touching my face. I can feel your touch straight down through the ends of my toes and I panic, but it’s a different panic a good panic. I didn’t ask any questions but the response was more unfulfilling. Hold tight Nicholas, hold tight.
Next letter – November 5, 1944