Post #273 - January 20, 1944 Can You Imagine? $16 for a Dress for Her and I Can Understand Why the English Import American Movies, Music, Jive, Etc.

 

January 20, 1944. 

Dearest Phil, 

Well, how do you like it? I'll be disappointed if you don't, as I've already ordered a double portion. It cost me $0.60 (wholesale) ($1 retail) for 100 of these single sheets and 50 envelopes. On the next batch, I'm having PA. spelled Penna. 

Yesterday I was the “deadest” Chippie you ever saw. I arrived home at six to find your V-mail of 10 Jan. 44. I'm glad you told me that there won't be any mail from the time you were on furlough. I'm sure the jackpot will be worth waiting a week. 

Adele was so happy to see me that she darn near jumped out of Ruth's arms to get into mine. She hugs me and kisses me and won't let me put her down. Yes sir, it is a grand feeling! 

Al had to report to his draft board on Tuesday for a hearing and got a six months furlough, as they now call it. I told him to stick to the board in New York as they are definitely more lenient. It's mostly due to Ethel's pregnancy. She expects the baby around my birthday. 

After eating and getting Adele to bed, Ruth and I went downtown. We didn't get into town until 8 and had only an hour to shop. Ruth is unusually hard to fit and we had a picnic. We finally got a lovely lovely dress—cost $15.95. Can you imagine? $16 for a dress for her! It is worth it, though. It's a pale purple with a dark purple suede belt. It's made beautifully and I won't attempt to describe the intricate details of the dress. It does have one trimming I'll mention—silver hob-nail buttons. It had a round neck with a bow-tie effect, well-padded shoulders, three quarter length sleeves and a full skirt. I almost bought myself a lovely grey sports dress, but I'm going to wait til I have more time to shop—and more money. 

Remember those coupons I had and I was supposed to get a sheet and pillowcases. They were unable to fill my order and I got two large Turkish towels and a thermos bottle. That is, I ordered them. I'm still waiting for them. 

Received a V-mail from brother Eddie saying he had arranged to meet you in London. I'm wondering if you saw him while on furlough. 

Adele set a record yesterday. She didn't wet a single diaper. Ruth caught her every time. And, Sweet, you ought to hear your daughter saying “momma” with her clear bell-like voice. I have a feeling she'll really begin to talk soon. Some babies do things gradually. Not Adele—she tries to startle everyone. She calls Mom “ba-ba.” Adele doesn't actually know enough to call me “momma,” and I doubt if she will for a little while yet. 

Goldie is starting to blossom forth. I think you ought to write to them. I think they're a bit disappointed that you do not mention your reaction. Write them a nice letter, baby, will you? 

It's time to say “I love you Phil” A kiss from your “chips.” 

Your Eve 

January 20, 1944 
(10:30 P.M.) 

My Own Evvie,

Here I am again a little late, but well—here I am! Glad to see me, Sweet? You're looking lovely—as usual. I'm still reading your last batch of letters and still finding items of interest that I had previously overlooked. Your letter of the 31st is so full of the charm of Adele that I shall never tire of reading it. You want to know what to do about my clothes? Just pack them away and forget about them. There's no sense in having them cleaned; if I keep losing weight, I won't be able to use any of my old clothes. Already. I am some eleven or twelve pounds thinner than when I left home. Sorry, Sweetheart, that you spent such a dull New Year's Eve. I can well appreciate the intensified feeling of loneliness you experience on the Holidays. It is then that I miss you most, my darling. I remember one particular New Year's Eve (I think the only one we spent together) when we were still living at 5447 Sansom. Remember? we had gone in town with Dot and Snuff and two other couples (I think—that part of it is hazy) and I recall that the Aldine and the Boyd were jammed to the doors, so we wound up by ourselves at the Nixon and saw Ann Sheradin in that picture about the ’90’s, which I didn't care too much for (the title escapes me). The picture of the whole evening is fairly fresh in my mind, even to stopping at a cigar store on 52nd Street for something or other, but the details have a way of getting mixed up with those of other evenings. At the time, I know it seemed a pretty dull way to see the New Years in—but what I wouldn't give to live that dull evening over again! You insist on being pessimistic, Honey, about the length of time that is to elapse before I come home to you. I have every confidence that we'll see the next New Year in together. But I'm rather thankful that you take the long-range view ’cause feeling the way you do, you are less apt to be impatient, and since impatience breeds discontent, and discontent isn't easy to live with, you are much much better off feeling as you do. 

If you refer back to my first or second “London” letter, you will find that I saw “Adventures of Tartu” quite a while back. Whatever, made me think you saw “Princess O Rourke?” Jack N. didn't say a thing about his love-life in his last—and nothing about any WAC either. Forgot to tell you—received Gloria”s New Year's greeting among the batch of other mail. Today, along with your V-mail of Jan. 5—a New Year's greeting from—you'd never guess! Ruth Crothers of the good ole Label Bureau. Was I surprised! Never mind the cigarette lighter, Sweet, I bought one in London for $1.30 and it's quite sufficient for my needs. You have my sympathy, Chippie, for the sketchy mail delivery—I am plagued the same way. About that 8 x 10 you asked for—I'll see what I can do on my next pass to London. If Ed and I can manage to be there together, I'll see to it that he takes some pictures, too. Glad you like them so much, Baby. The sideburns that caused all the comments were entirely “unintentional” (for lack of a better word). The truth is—I needed a haircut. I don't, as a rule, wear them that long. However, if you really like them that way (and I never could understand why), then that is the way I shall wear them when I get home. Even if everyone else can't bear the sight of it, (and I must confess, I'm one of those), your wish is my command. The “pin” you inquired about is the European Theater of Operations (ETO) Ribbon. In your letter of the 7th, you claim that you mailed off nine letters in one night. Marvelous! But how in hell do you manage it? It takes me all my spare time to write you a fairly long letter. I should say the average “Air-mail” letter, such as this one, takes all of two hours. I'm still curious to know your weight, Sweet, because I can get a pretty good idea from that alone how you look and feel at present. Seems to me you are over-working again—what with doing your own laundry, etc. This always worries me. Ev, and I wish you would find a way to ease up on yourself. Your paragraph about Adele's reaction to my picture was very gratifying reading and my heart swelled with the sweetness of the little scene, but, somehow, I find it rather too much to believe of the tyke. Is it possible she understands all that you imply? Was it really just that way—or are you just trying to make me feel good? If that was your intention, Sweet, you succeeded far better far better than you could have hoped for. Which just about answers all your letters. Now I can look forward with a clear conscience to the next batch. C’mon sumpin! 

I took it rather easy all day today. Lunch consisted of meat loaf (spiced and very delicious), mashed potatoes, warm coleslaw, bread n’ butter, coffee, and cherry Jello. So good did I find the meal that I broke a precedent, went back, and did it all over again! What's more—I finished the second edition right down to the last lick—and enjoyed it! I am still passing up breakfast and supper; breakfast because I hate to get out of bed just to walk down to the Mess Hall for dehydrated eggs (which I detest) and coffee; supper because I am never hungry at that time due to the invariably sumptuous lunch. You expressed concern a while back because of my practice of eating one meal, a day. What difference if I thrive on it—and I am thriving on it. 

This evening, a company of English entertainers came to the base to play for us. I can only say that now I can understand why the English import American movies, music, jive, etc. The English brand is corny to an extreme. However, it was good of them to take the trouble for us Yanks, and I will say, in all fairness to the Yanks, that they appreciated the good intentions of the entertainers. Under any other circumstances, they would have hooted them off the stage—instead, they applauded generously and even laughed at the very un-funny gags. Incidentally, darling, that is why I started this so late. It is now past midnight and time to hit the sack. Good-night my Evvie. I'm thinking how I used to say it in better days. The sweet feel of you is deeply ingrained in me—and I can recall that feeling it will. I'm doing so now, Baby; no—don't turn over—snuggle up to my back as you always did. Ah, Chippie, that's heaven! G’night, Baby, I love you—

Your Phil

P.S. Kiss Adele for me. Love to all. 

Post #272 - January 18, 19, 1944 If I Don’t Find Time to Write Tomorrow, I’ll Make Up For it With a Longer Letter and The Thought of Entering Adele in a “Beauty Contest” is Anathema to Me

 

January 18th, 1944 

Dearest darling. No mail today—for a change. There was, however, a letter from Gloria. She will visit us this weekend. She says that Jack N., Lee and Lenny are all in New York on furlough. Jack is seeing his old flame—Frances—no less. That guy will never learn. Gloria says that Jack will see us on the 24th. I'm kinda disappointed, for he has neither written nor called since he landed in New York. I guess he's too busy enjoying himself. It's swell that they may all furlough together. 

Mom, Harry and Goldie went to a movie this evening. Mom finished with the dentist today after many semi-weekly visits. Flora and Marvin are home again for ten days. I went in to see them and found only Flora home and we chewed the rag for awhile. She couldn't get over Adele. 

Ruth isn’t going to school tomorrow, so I'll be working all day. I promised to go downtown to help her with some shopping (tomorrow also) and may not find time to write my evening daily stint. I'll try, but if I don't find time to write, I'll make up for it with a longer letter. OK, honey. 

Anne and I went walking with the kids. Richard had tonsillitis recently. Never a dull moment with children. He also fell halfway down the cellar steps, and her father caught him. He opened the door himself. Room to say I love you so much!

Your Eve

January 18, 1944 

Darling Evvie, 

Arrived back in camp after very slow trip. The train stopped at practically every cow crossing, and it wasn't ’til 10:15 that I reached the good ole barracks. I didn't get bored, though, as I read my detective stories all the way through and completed all but one story. Directly I arrived, I made for the Orderly Room to see if there were any letters awaiting me. The Mail Orderly was already in bed, though, so I had to hold my impatience in leash ’til this morning. I hadn't eaten since 12 M. and I rolled between the covers feeling very very hungry. So famished was I that I was moved to ask Klein to wake me up for breakfast this morning. Klein laughed—and I couldn't very well blame him, as it takes nothing short of an earthquake (or fresh fried eggs) to get me out of the sack in time for breakfast. As a matter of fact, Chippie, on the one occasion when did have fresh eggs instead of the usual dehydrated product (and I mean, it was an occasion!)—I preferred to grab another hour’s sleep instead. So you can imagine what it entailed in the way of effort and how powerful was the inducement to inspire that effort. I mean, I actually got out of bed this morning! But then the inducement was two-fold: (1) I was hungry (2) I was fairly itching to get my hands on my mail. Well, Sweet, to make a long story short, there was a pile of mail awaiting me. Air Mail of the 1st and 3rd and V-mail of the 27 Dec. and 28 Dec. and 1 Jan. Correction: The first letter is dated 25 and 26 Dec. (That's the sky blue pink one.) Too, there were two letters from Eddie dated 2—7 Jan. I came back to find myself swamped with work. I'm still trying to find the time to get the files in order. Somehow there is always something more important to be done and the files are still a mess. Service Records need some going over too, and that's something else I never seem to find the time for. Today I was busy typing the Officers’ Pay Vouchers among the other things; tomorrow I have to prepare the forms for Soldiers’ Deposits, Reimbursements for men on Detached Service, etc., etc.,—and so it goes, one thing after another—and I never do get to the files and the S/Rs. Tonight I'm pretty weary and your letters, coming in bunches like this, will take a lot of answering, and I hardly know where to begin. As usual, I'll start at the beginning—but before I do—I want to tell you of the conflict that goes on within me after reading your letters. I'm thrilled to pieces while I'm reading your account of Adele's current activities, or your own expressions of love so tenderly expressed, and I literally glow with good feeling. A little after I’ve finished reading, though, the reaction sets in. I get to thinking of you, Sweet, and the good times we have known and how the lassie would feel in my arms, and the peace and love I experienced in “our” room, and the fun we used to have shopping for your clothes, furniture,—and oh so many, many things that flashed through my mind and heart. It is then that the wave of longing hits me, and the feeling of helplessness and frustration is almost more than I can bear. My antidote for this is a simple one. I look ahead and fancy the war over and myself walking down 8th Street, then opening the door to see you and Mom and the punkin—and taking you all in my arms and kissing you, and so on. Baby, in my mind's eye I have lived for this scene over a thousand times and savoring the sweetness of it somehow manage to allay the tearing futility of longing. 

Now, to answer your letters. No, Sweet, I am not at a Liberator Station, although I've seen hundreds of them overhead. Lt. Reuter, who is censoring the mail now, has told me that I might inform you that I am at a Fighter Base (P-47 Thunderbolts). So now you needn't wonder about that anymore. I was delighted that you saw your way clear to buying Xmas gifts for everyone, nor can I find any fault, whatever, with your selection. You may rest assured that I'll write to Mr. Silver first chance I get. Don't expect that chance to come soon though, Honey, ’cause I barely managed to find time enough to write to you. Ed has given me a pretty good idea as to his whereabouts, and though it is quite far from here, I'm confident I can arrange a meeting when I get my next pass. The probability is—we'll meet in London. Then I owe letters to both Jacks and Red, and I hate like hell to keep them waiting, but my days are full ones and sometimes I just don't find the time to answer all my mail. Especially when it “piles up” on me as it has of late. Seems to me no one has any cause for complaint to Santa Claus. But, I’ve read your letters over countless times, looking for some reference of the gifts you were to get for yourself and Adele from me. What about it, Sweet? Am I being dense? Was it an oversight on your part? Or—didn't you buy those all-important gifts? Harry’s “Bulova” sounds like a handsome watch from your description, and I can well believe he's like a kid with a new toy—I don't think he has ever owned a wrist-watch—or any watch for that matter. By the way, are the parents-to-be giving any thoughts to the matter of a name for the new boy. How do I know it'll be a boy? Well, I dunno—I guess I just feel it. Anyhow, how about submitting the possibilities—I sure would like to think about a name for my one and only nephew. I can well understand Harry and Goldie's desire to find a place for themselves before the baby comes; and their dilemma is real and disturbing, what with the uncertainty of Harry's status in the draft, but I don't see the necessity or the advantage of worrying about these things before-hand. For the time being.I'm being they are fairly comfortably situated, and I, for one, think it would be the sheerest folly to even contemplate making any sort of change when things are in such a state of flux. Plenty of time for change when conditions are more settled. In the meantime, the back room is plenty big enough to accommodate the three of them comfortably. Tell them (Harry and Goldie) for me, that they are fretting themselves prematurely and needlessly. Maybe something else is worrying them, of which I know nothing. If so, I'd like to help them in any way I can. You said, Chippie, that it is going to be extremely difficult for Goldie to manage as things are when the baby comes. I wish you would tell me why you think so, Chippie, ’cause after thinking it over, I don't see why it should be any more difficult for her at 4906 than it would be any other place. Or are you hinting that what is really bothering you is that it may entail more difficulty for you? Please elucidate on this subject, will you, Baby? 

You again make reference to “our next baby.” I think you were well aware of what those words mean to me, Darling, but I can't help but wonder if you would reiterate them so glibly if I were at “home” and in a position to do something about it. I wish I could believe that the prospect is is as exaltingly thrilling for you as it is for me. I’ll take a lot of convincing on that score, Baby mine. 

Your “blue” letter of 3 Jan. brought with it a lock of Adele's hair. Ah, Chippie, what a moment! What waves of tenderness swept over me as I contemplated the glossy red-chestnut curl! I touched it, smelled of it, kissed it, wrapped it carefully in the tissue, and tucked it carefully and tenderly in my wallet. Kiss the punkin for me to repay her for the loss of her curl. I don't wonder you didn't have the heart to cut it yourself. And what do you mean she’d be “your little girl now.” She always has been “my little girl,”hasn't she? I'm always glad to learn that you are knitting something or other, or planning to, so when I read that you were embarked on a veritable series of sweaters, I feel very good indeed. 

I can easily understand that Ben has plenty to complain about—not everyone is as fortunate as I in this respect. 

Good of you, Sweet, to remember Jack N.’s birthday. Frankly, I had forgotten, but he'll never know, 'cause I'll write to him and wish him Happy Birthday!—and he'll think I'm very wonderful, indeed, that I remembered his birthday. 

I was surprised and flattered no end to read about kid brother Jack’s request for my picture—I never knew he cared! I think I may have photographer make up another half dozen pictures. Then you could give one to anyone who would like to have one. It will be some time before I'll get the opportunity to reorder. 

Your P.S. (not me) is a toast to the German Navy—“Bottoms Up”—remember? German Navy? Never heard of it—is there any such? A goodnight kiss, Sweet;—time for lights out, I'll continue tomorrow. 

January 19 

Yippee-e-e!! Six (6) beautiful letters from my ever-lovin’ Chippie today—and what perfectly scrumptious news! I was kept very busy all day and when the mail came in I was still fussing around with the files; but when Hegen started handing me letters, I promptly dropped what I was doing, parked -er-er self on a chair, and preceded to race through all six letters. (I read them at my leisure after work.) They are as follows: Air Mail: 31 Dec., 5, 6, 7, Jan., and V-mail: 30 Dec.,  2 Jan. 

Let's see now—your letter of the 31st Dec. was almost entirely about Adele's new bag of tricks—and delightful reading they make too. I can just see her as you describe her, and can well appreciate the comedy in some of her antics. She must be very precious, and how I envy all who are lucky enough to be close enough to touch her and see her and dance with her. (Tell you a little secret if you promise not to laugh at me. I confess I felt a distinct pang of jealousy the first time I read of the way Adele “takes to” the boys—especially when I read of her “dancing” with them. I realize how perfectly ridiculous this reaction is, and I haven't conquered it yet, but there it is, just the same) (and I'm at a loss to understand it.) I might mention, too, though I guess I shouldn't, that the same unreasoning jealousy hit me when I read up your jitterbugging with Petey. Don't condemn me for this wholly unbecoming trait, Sweet; it is entirely beyond my power to stifle, and I beg of you to understand an emotion which I am very ashamed of and incapable of understanding myself—and understanding, will write nothing to induce in me that perfectly miserable feeling, which, happily, is a stranger to your own un-jealous heart. If this is a little beyond you, (as I must admit, it is a little beyond me), still, I know you would be good enough to spare my feelings. The very thought, narrow though it may seem, and as it undoubtedly is, of anyone holding you in his arms, even for the perfectly innocent pastime of dancing, makes me squirm with a misery I could never begin to describe. I remember telling you something of this a long time ago, Sweet, but I'm not surprised you forgot it, the whole thing is so ridiculous. Still, if you love me, and would spare me this pain in the future, I should be most grateful. Strangely, my jealousy (I know no other name for it) is just as fierce where Adele is concerned, so try to be careful, for the sake of your very unreasonable hubby, who, withal, loves you and your daughter very dearly (perhaps too dearly). I can't—in all justice—ask you to forgive this weakness, I don't deserve it—I only ask you, Sweet, to humor me in this matter. Please. 

You say something about a favorite “snap” of the punkin, which you are being asked by Sarah to enter in the “Daily Mirror” contest. I'm not entirely sure which snap you are referring to, unless it's the one in which she is holding onto the fence and has her face half-turned and smiling that adorable smile of hers. But that is all beside the point. You ask me what I think of the idea of entering the picture in the Baby Contest. I don't have the right to forbid it—I can only tender my views on the subject (and what with the above paragraphs, you'll probably be thinking I'm a pretty queer duck by the time I’m through). Right now on this Base, there is a similar contest, but while I am supremely proud of my daughter's very obvious charms, I did not for a moment consider entering her picture, of which I have many, as a participant. Why?Well, I've been forced to think about the “why”—you remember Wolpe’s contest—and I think I have it figured out. When I turned the idea over in my mind, I was aware of a definite distaste for “beauty contests” where me and mine are concerned. Being well aware of the abnormality of my feelings in regards to this, I asked myself “why?” Why the “distaste” for a very usual institution that more normal people didn't think twice about? My inner self told me “why.” It said—if you enter your child's picture in this contest, you are declaring to the world at large that you think she is the prettiest child extant. This, in itself, is the soul of vanity, as each parent feels pretty much the same way about his offspring. Vanity is a synonym for self-esteem or self-praise—and you know what they say about self-praise. It stinks! I agree. Some less-thinking people would argue that pride, not vanity is the factor involved. I dis-agree! Pride is a very private emotion. Proof: If a man is secretly or unspokenly proud of something, his emotion is pride, pure and simple. But let that man start to brag about the object of his pride and immediately he is looked down on as a boaster and a braggart. His pride degenerates to vanity and vanity is—etc. And that, my Sweet, is why the thought of entering Adele in a “Beauty Contest” is anathema to me. Finally, the “most beautiful baby,” when you think about it, is just as much an accident as the ugliest baby. She is an entirely spontaneous creation. Neither she, nor her parents, nor any agency whatsoever, is responsible for her beauty or ugliness (whichever the case may be), so why does she deserve a prize for an attribute that owes its being to no one but fate and nature? The more I think about it, the more ridiculous the idea is. Remember—Self praise stinks!—and I (and I hope you), am not a stinker! Not knowingly, anyhow. Nuff said? 

I haven't fully answered your letters yet, Sweet, but it's almost time for “lights out” and I don't want to hold this up another day—so—I'll bid you the fondest good-night, remind you of my all-enveloping love for you, and close with the heartfelt wish that the day is not too long coming when I will be able to demonstrate the extent of my affection to the utmost. My love to all. 

Ever,

Your Phil

Post #271 - January 16, 17, 1944 I Find Myself Taking More Than a Passing Interest in Writing and Ida Haendel Plays, Tenderly, Sweetly, with the Song of the Violin a Woman’s Whispered Caress

 

January 17, 1944 

Precious. 

Yours of Dec. 27 and January 7 arrived simultaneously—as you say, unpredictable are the ways of the post office. The latter made me feel unusually good. Naturally— most of it complimented me. I don't have to tell you how much it means to me to have you think so highly of my “literary sufficiency.” I find it easier after daily practice to say what I wish with the word's most expressive of my thoughts. I guess practice makes perfect—huh? Besides, I find myself taking more than a passing interest in writing. The clipping from S & D’s Extract with the news that Mark is also in England sounds good. Hope you get to see “a familiar face” soon. 

I changed Adele’s routine a bit today by bathing her after lunch and then she took her afternoon nap. You ought to see Adele walk around this place! She's in every nook and cranny and doesn't miss a trick. A tiny thread or a piece of dirt never escapes her attention. She does all her tricks if she likes the person requesting them. She looks good enough to eat when she rolls on the floor like a puppy or shows her pretty dress to someone. She sings on request and never never tires of dancing. She looks mighty pretty—all in rose. I'm wearing my blue wool. 

Also received a letter from Syd. He can't get over the fact, as everyone else, that Adele is such a replica of her daddy. “One face” is what they all say. He received that “charming” snap I sent and my package. I love you, baby! 

Your Eve

Bottom line is cut off by the V-mail and can't be read. 

At the top: P.S. Rae’s candy is delicious and I hope to mail it off tomorrow with the hankies. 

January 17, 1944 

1:00 P.M. 

Eve, dearest,

Only a few hours now before I must catch the train back to camp and there is much I haven't told you. Looking back, it isn't easy to set down events in their proper sequence, so I'll just touch on the high spots. I finally got around to seeing a musical comedy. It was “Striking a New Note.” It is a variety show, the cast being largely made up of kids of 16 or 17. The action is fresh and sparkling, and the music is largely jive. The dancing is fast and furious as is everything about the show—except the comedian, Sid Field. He holds forth for a full half hour on his first appearance. He takes his time, alright, but he is so excruciatingly funny that the audience didn't care if he never left the stage. He has a delicious sense of humor (pardon) humo-u-r, and his timing kept the audience laughing almost every moment of his tenure on stage. The glamor kid of the show is Zoe Gail, a tall, talented, sweet-faced young thing with long red/brown hair. But the specialty which brought the house down was Evelyn “Goofy” Barr (the Czechs spitfire) singing and clowning ”Long live me!” She is a shorty with an animated monkey-face and a body of a miniature Venus; but those gams—yeah man! (Wonder what there is about the name of Evelyn that endows the owner with nether-limbs of such remarkable beauty?) I could write and write about the show, Sweet, but time is short, so I'll just say it was swell—and I enjoyed myself very much, indeed. The rest of the time was taken up with just plain loafing and reading at the Hans Crescent, seeing a movie, Albert Hall and the W. London Synagogue. The movie was “And the Angels Sing” w/B. Hutton, D. Lamour, a coupla other cute chicks whose names escape me, F. McMurray, E. Foy, Jr., Raymond Walburn—and a more hilarious comedy and pleasing musical I haven't seen for a long, long time. The high spot, of course, is Hutton’s singing of “When Jrs. Wocking Hoss Wan Away.” If Hutton is a “fad,” then she is very far from palling, believe me. I enjoyed her clowning fully as much (or more) than I did in “Moider, he says,” remember? The other “Angels” are as pleasing to the ears as they are to the eyes. The “baby” of the family combines the face of an angel with the biting sarcasm of a spinster, and the combination is designed to tickle—and it does! If you want a good laugh, Honey, see this one! Yesterday aftern—wait a minute. Friday evening, after hunting about a good bit, I finally managed to find my way to the synagogue. It was a novelty in more ways than one—listen: A low ceilinged room, indirect lighting, severe modernistic paneling in ivory and gold, a melodion in the center of the floor, people—about 30 of them, sitting along the four walls on long, straight-backed benches, women and men intermingled, singing to the music of the melodion Sunday-school fashion, four elderly women dominating the singing with four beautiful bell-like voices. Then, the Rabbi preaching in English—lapsing from time to time into Hebrew with a limey accent. (I swear it!) After a half-hour of this surprising tableau, services were at an end, and a moment later, I was out in the cold, dark, damp London night, wondering if I hadn't dreamed at all—it was so “unreal.” 

Saturday evening, I came back to the Hans Crescent from the “Angel's Sing” to find the ballroom jumpin’. So I killed the rest of the evening sitting and watching the dancers and tapping my toes to the very nifty music and wishing—oh, so very much— that you were there for me to dance with. Baby, when I think of the good times I passed up—! I guess I could have danced—and I won't deny I wanted to—but the hell of it is; I want so much to dance with you that I have no stomach for dancing with just anyone. So I just sit and tap my toes and keep wishing— Occasionally, among the dancers, I seem to recognize a suggestion of your face, or a reasonable facsimile of your ever-lovin’ legs and my heart skips a beat and “the lump comes up” and I slink off to bed feeling very blue, indeed.—Which brings me to Sunday, and Albert Hall. You've heard about London fog, no doubt, well yesterday we really “had it.” It was so thick that it was impossible to see beyond your outstretched hand. In this eery atmosphere, then, I walked to the Hall. Since it can't be reached via the Tube, and taxis are downright dangerous and impractical in the impenetrable mists, walking was the only alternative. After a half hour’s groping in a world that seemed to be entirely populated by me, I “found” Albert Hall. It was just 2:30 and time for the concert to begin. When I took my seat in the Grand Circle and looked around at the immensity of the building, I was surprised to find that the fog had penetrated into the Hall. Although it was not nearly as thick as on the outside, the mist made the stage and podium appear very far away and indistinct. It was an all Beethoven program, and while I'm not partial to this music, it was far from displeasing. When it came time for the soloist, Ida Haendel, to appear, the manager took the podium long enough to announce Miss Haendel had been held up by the fog, and would play the finale. The audience (about 8000, I should say) greeted the announcement with roars of laughter. (Seems the “London fog” is a standing joke for the English.) I don't get it. The lengthy “Eroica” is exciting and tranquil at intervals and the very able Louis Cohen conducted with a fine appreciation and a great sensitivity for the various shadings of the music. After the intermission, during which I chatted with a white-haired gentleman sitting next to me—Ida Haendel! Picture her: very diminutive, as she walks slowly, violin and bow in hand, to stand beside the podium; Soft, thick, raven hair reaching, no, “collecting” on her shoulders, standing very straight, as if to add to her scant five feet nothing; full breasted, well-rounded arms and shoulders just a shade lighter than the full-skirted, ivory and gold evening dress. She stands, once the orchestra starts the prelude, very demurely, head a little bowed, squarely facing the stalls. Then, in one motion, the violin is tucked under her chin and half-facing the podium, and standing as still as if carved from the ivory she seems to be made of, she plays. The effect is astounding. From the very first note, the audience is in a trance. The only living and breathing thing in that vast place seems to be the tiny figure of Miss Haendel, motionless, except for the gracefully flowing bow and arm and the incredibly swift fingers of the left hand. She plays, tenderly, sweetly, with the song of the violin a woman's whispered caress; suddenly the mood changes, and she fills the utmost corners with the swelling, impetuous tones of a man in rage. And so it goes—through all three movements of the concerto. She makes a magic thing of the small wooden contrivance, she fills the very soul of the listener with tenderness—then anger—then contrition—with all the gamut of the emotions between. Through it all, she is a graven image, and the 8000 sit almost breathless at the portals of so much beauty. When the last note has flown, the audience sits tranquil a moment, figuratively licking its lips—then, as if with a single accord wild acclimation—the walls resound with the plaudits of the admiring mob. The tiny artist four times acknowledges, with a slight nod, and an even slighter smile, the frenzied thanks—and another memory is tucked away among those very special ones of yours ever-lovingly. And now my holiday is over, Sweet, and I must hie myself back to the mud and muck and good food (for a change) of my post. I close this with the earnest hope that my writings convey, in some small measure, some of the “good things” that were mine on this furlough, and knowing them, can gain some of my satisfaction for yourself. Au Revoir, my lovely. I love you—constantly and always. 

Your Phil 

Post #270 - January 15, 1944 Mom is Mailing Off a Letter to Zelda and Wishes You to Write to Her

 

January 15, 1944 

Dearest Hubby,

Mom didn't care for the color, (heather blue) of her fascinator, and Mickey offered to take it. When she tried it on, she really “went” for it. Looks well on her, bringing out the blue of her eyes. To make a long story short, I'm now making the exact same thing for Mickey. Speaking of eyes—Adele's eyes are light brown around the pupil and grey from there on. Finally, huh? Takes after you, sweet. 

We may lose our next door neighbors. The sink stopped up and a water pipe broke. When Betty complained, the landlord told her to fix it herself or move. She told him off. They fixed the damages, but she was fired, however, as they put up a ”For Sale” sign. She is disgusted with being shoved around and may buy a home shortly. 

Al has to report to his draft board on Tuesday, so we'll know what's what. Ethel just loves her fascinator and raves about the neatness of my work. I'm going to make her newcomer a white sweater and cap (with the white satin thread running through it). 

Ruth and I went to 5th and Olney last night, but didn't get a thing. All they have in the dress line is not worth a rusty collar button. Ruth tried on many (from $9 to $15) and there wasn't one I would buy. Better luck next time. I'll probably go downtown with her on Wednesday night. 

Mom is mailing off a letter to Zelda, enclosing that particular snap I like so well of Adele. Mom will send you her address and wishes you to write to her. 

I managed to get two precious rolls of film after much shopping and patience. I shall try to get as many different poses of Adele as I 

January 16, 1944 

can and, of course, the snap of my fur coat and suit. Helen called yesterday and asked me to lend her the fur coat for a big date, to which I naturally said yes. However, she postponed (or rather—called off) the date so she didn't take it after all. Miss Hahn called this morning. My stationery came in, so you'll see it shortly. She wants me this Wed. and next Wed. I can't go all day, but I think I can manage 4 hrs. It isn't really worth it to me, but she has been swell and depends on me. Furthermore, I shall always be able to get any discount permitted on any magazine books, stationery and whatever else she may sell. I'm surprised she still wants me. The magazine companies have had a hard time with green help and rationing of paper, and consequently, there are numerous complaints and errors. Hence, her need of my services. I'm almost broke and the extra money will keep me going for a while. 

I wasn't in the letter writing mood last night, that accounting for the two dates. I did do some knitting on Adele's peach sweater, nearly completing the front. 

It snowed last night and there is about an inch of snow over all. It was a pretty sight this morning. 

Ruth received a letter from Eddie and he said that he received 50 (yes, I said 50) letters at one time plus three packages. I sure do hope you’ve seen him by now. 

Mom, Harry and Goldie are going to the Browns for dinner and a movie. I can't go 'cause I can't get anyone to take care of Adele. It's times such as these that give me that unrepressed urge to have you near me. I get all filled to overflowing with desire to see you. I'm waiting for Adele to wake up from her afternoon nap. I finished writing to Harry W. and Jack S. Got to keep up with my correspondence. This morning Adele wet the crib and when she saw me approaching she covered it over with the blanket—knowing I would get angry. She watches my facial expressions closely, and when I'm displeased, does everything she can to change the expression to a pleasant one. This morning I took her into bed with me and I pointed to various items in the room and named them. Then I repeated. She knew where to look for each one—picture—above our bed, da-da—on the chest, baby—above her crib, and so forth. She likes to hear the clock tick tock and invariably motions to Goldie to put her wrist watch to her ear. She says “tick tick” as she listens. She likes to open all the drawers and either throws the contents of the drawer on the floor or changes contents of one drawer to another. 

(Later) I had a swell afternoon. Ethel, Al and Paul stopped over to bring the candy I had ordered and some lamb chops Mom had ordered. They suggested I go back with them and they would drive me home, with, of course, Adele. Well, baby, you ought to see Adele make love to Al—she kisses him on the lips and he loves it. Every time Paul motions to her with outstretched arms, she throws her arms around his neck. What a kid!! Ethel is overly “nuts” about her. 

Well, sweetness, time to say how much I love you. I have your picture before me and I kiss it now. Oh darling, how I love you! 

Your Eve 

January 15, 1944 

Dear Phil:

Your V-mail was received and it was certainly good hearing from you. Glad to hear you received the package and liked it. We all here are fine and we hope you are in the best of health also. Milton was home this past week-end for one day. Sunday Tante, Harry and Goldie were at the house and we all had dinner together, and we took pictures, which we hope come out. The boys are fine. Mickey and Miriam are still in Florida, and I suppose you know Syd is in Italy. We have received pictures from him and he looks wonderful. Also received your letter and you really look well. Well, I've covered all the news up to the present so I will close. Hoping to hear from you soon. 

Regards from all. 
Uncle Nish, Tante Bash and Beatrice. 

Post #269 - January 14, 1944 Ruth Has Gotten Thinner and Shapelier and I Rode to the End of the Line, Which Happened to be Aldwych and the Strand

 

January 14, 1944 

Dearest Phil,

Yours of the 5th (V-mail) (Incidentally, where did you acquire the habit of writing the date as such: 14 Jan. 44.) (I like it.) was in the mail this morning. I'm glad you won, especially after asking for a few “spares” in my previous letter. I'm contemplating the purchase of three rather expensive items, to wit: a sports coat (mine is completely shot and I've outgrown it). (I saw a lovely red camel hair fitted coat with a black velvet collar that I'd like to own, but the price was a bit too high $49.95) a dress (I haven’t a decent dressy one in my wardrobe) and that hat I mentioned in my previous letter. I'm still waiting for your suggestion. I'm fairly set on a medium size off-the-face, as a large hat would be too much for the bulky coat. I don't know whether to get a “made up” hat and have it trimmed with the fur or have the whole thing made. Do you think I'm getting extravagant? I saw the enclosed ad in the paper and thought it would be nice if Adele and I could have such a set. There will be plenty of nicer ones when the warmer weather sets in, but I wondered at your opinion of these. I would prefer “pinnies” with ruffles as they are more feminine. So much for clothes, except that I'm going to accompany Ruth to 5th and Olney to help her select address and shoes for her graduation, which comes on Jan. 28th. She goes into her second year of “high.” She has gotten thinner and shapelier—she's developed more than I am and is quite attractive. She still has some babyish ways, and when they disappear, she will be quite an attractive young lady. 

A few people were hurt ’cause you neglected to send them your picture (isn't it always the case?) I gave mom the spare, but she gave it to Harry and Goldie to pacify them. Etta and Nat also said sumpin’, but I set them straight. That 8 by 10 still goes. Betty says they come through alright, as she got one from her brother in Africa. 

We got two V-mails from Jack S. and he wishes us well, as usual. His morale is unusually high considering the fact that he is in New Guinea. 

I’ve finished Mom’s fascinator. I did a lot of hard work yesterday and today—I took the mattress off our bed, cleaned the springs and turned it over (Ruth helped). I cleaned the windows in our room and all those on the porch. I washed the floors, a whole cellar of clothes and pressed. I dusted, polished and swept. Sarah and I took Adele for a walk to Broad Street. 

I guess there will be a pile of mail for you when you get back from your furlough. Wish I could be there, too. I love you so much, Phil. 

Your Eve

January 14, 1944 
(12 M.)

Ev, Darling

After two days of almost continuous activity, I'm taking it easy. If I leave the club at all today, it will be to go to services. Now to resume where I left off—after finishing my letter of the 12th, (it was about 8:00 P.M.) I wandered into the ballroom where the Hans Crescent table tennis team was playing against the team from General Electric. The teams were pretty evenly matched and the players of pretty good caliber, and the action was hotly contested, which all served to make it interesting for the spectator. After an hour or so this, I suddenly remembered that there was a command performance of symphony records scheduled for the “music room,” and I wasted no time getting there. The “Red Cross” girl in charge had just put on Handel’s “Water Music” when I entered. There were about 20 G.I.s laying about the place in easy chairs, with that faraway dreamy look in their eyes. I sat myself down in a straight-backed wooden chair that was the only unoccupied seat, and in a jiffy, was “one of the mob”—dreamy eyes and all. The chair was damned uncomfortable and I was forced to change position from time to time, but in spite of it all I managed to enjoy the music; very much so. After the “Water Music,” the ballet music from “Prince Igor” Borodin. This particular record brought memories flooding in its wake. It was once a favorite with Jeanette and myself. The music is Oriental in quality and very colorful and exciting. Then Fritz Kreisler playing “Hymn to the Sun.” Very insipid after the grandeur of “Prince Igor.” The “piece de resistance” of the evening was the entire “Scheherezade Suite” of Rimski Korsakoff. I say the “entire suite” because it is very seldom that one gets the opportunity to listen to all twelve sides of this rather lengthy work. Well, Chippie, you can well imagine what a treat this was for yours very lovingly. So utterly delightful did I find the “Scheherezade,” that I promised myself that that would be the first purchase when we start our collection. It's recorded by Leopold Stokowski and the Phila. Symphony. Next times you are in town, Sweet, stop in at one of the department stores and let them play it for you. I think you will find it well worth your while. Tell me if you agree that it would be a fitting selection to start off with. This just about covers Wednesday. I had a snack of coffee and cake before I went next door to the annex where I am bunking and turned in. I slept snugly and heavily, gratefully conscious of the pleasant and unaccustomed feel of fresh sheets. I must have been very tired, for I didn't wake ’til 10 A.M. the following morning. 

I rolled out without any further ado when I noticed the lateness of the hour. Grabbing a towel, I washed up, then dressed and got out of there. The dining room at the Hans Crescent was jammed to the doors with the queue of some hundred soldiers waiting to get at the counter. Not for me! I had no definite ideas as to what I was going to do and I was in no mood to wait in line for breakfast. So I decided to walk until I chanced on a restaurant. When I got outside, however, and saw the leaden skies and felt the damp and chilly breeze, I changed my mind about walking. I decided to do my sightseeing from the comfortable vantage point of a top deck of a bus. Hopping the first one that came along, I rode to the end of the line, which happened to be Aldwych and the Strand. By this time I was thinking only of breakfast (or brunch—it was now 11:30). As I walked up the Strand, I saw a sign “Tea Shop.” That was for me! I breakfasted on savoury and tea. The “savoury” consists of eggs mixed with cheese on a piece of bread and the whole toasted. Doesn't sound like much, but it was surprisingly tasty. I'm sticking to tea from now on ’cause the English coffee is almost undrinkable (for an American). Breakfast over, I continued my stroll up the Strand. The Strand is a very busy thoroughfare, and I soon got bored with trying to walk in that mob. A fine drizzle had started, and I decided it was high time to look for shelter. Luck was with me, ’cause a block further on, I spied the “Tivoli” where they are showing “Guadalcanal Diary.” I had no intention when I started, of seeing a movie—especially since I had a ticket for the “The Bell” for the evening, and I guess I could have hopped bus at about that time and returned to Hans Crescent and a quiet afternoon loafing, but I did want to see the picture and I never was one to deny myself, so, albeit uncomfortably mindful of your disapproving eye, my Sweet, I treated myself to a ticket. “Guadalcanal Diary,” while a very interesting, fast-moving, realistically action-packed picture, and one bound to impress, is hardly for your stomach, Baby, so pass it by. As for me—well, it was a good picture, so I enjoyed it. After the show; back to the “Tea Shop,” where I repeated my order of a few hours earlier. But before I go on—as if to illustrate further the English affection for “Yank gum” the girl in the ticket booth at the cinema, as she gave me my ticket, inquired, “Do you have any gum soldier?” I'm getting used to it now, so instead of gaping foolishly, I reached into my pocket and gave her the few Chiclets I had left. Anyhow, there I was demurely sipping my tea and reading a newspaper when a well-dressed, well-groomed gentleman in his early forties begged my pardon and wanted to know if I minded if he shared the table. Of course I didn't mind, especially when he showed an inclination for friendly conversation. He proved to be very intelligent and we talked on a variety of subjects over our tea and cigarettes. After a half-hour or so of steady and congenial chatter, he excused himself to keep an appointment. On parting—a healthy hand clasp, “Cheerio, and all the best.” He had not been gone five minutes (I had resumed my perusal of the paper, being in no great hurry to get any place in particular), when another bespectacled gentleman, after asking my leave, took the seat opposite me. He soon evinced the same desire for conversation and I, nothing, loath (both?) obliged him by answering as best I could, the questions he put about America. He proved a very eager listener, and to my great surprise and gratification came back with a few theories and opinions that tallied identically with my own. We got onto the subject of religion and he was surprisingly (for a Christian) well versed in the manners and customs, (even the rituals) of the Jews. We must have talked for close to an hour; when I looked at the time it was 5:30. “The Bell” was scheduled for 6:30 an I wasn't taking any chances on being late, so when the other gentleman got up to go, offering his hand at the same time, and thanking me (can you imagine?) for a very pleasant chat, I was right behind him. The Strand was jammed with people coming out of the various matinees and I literally had to push my way through to Leicester Square (about 10 minutes walk). Lady, you never saw so many uniforms as there are in London now. They seem to outnumber the civilians—I daresay they do. When I reached the Eagle, I had about 45 minutes to “kill” before show-time, so I parked myself in the lounge and finished reading the day's news. At precisely 6:20, I preceded to walk to Haymarket. I have been looking forward to this particular picture, having read some very favorable reviews on it, but I wasn't at all prepared for the surpassing masterpiece it proved to be. I had overheard a G.I. say of it “What is there to it? They blow up a bridge—that's about all! I feel very sorry for that particular G.I. if that is all he saw in it. My opinion, for what it's worth: positively the best of the year, and perhaps second only to “Gone With the Wind” in sheer beauty and dramatic power. Ingrid Bergman, as “Maria” is wonderful beyond the scope of mere adjectives. Lovely, appealing, winning are all adjectives that have been applied many times over to far less deserving heroines. How then to describe her transcendent beauty, the heart-piercing quality of her smile, the sheer genius of her histrionics? Words are pitifully inadequate for the task—of that I'm sure. “Maria” weaves a spell that is difficult to shake off. Her love for Gary Cooper as Robert Jordan is the realest, most inspiring, most heart-rending thing I have ever witnessed on any screen—or in real life for that matter. Whether her chief attraction is in her lovely face and figure, or in her surpassing genius as an actress, it is almost impossible to say. Taken altogether though, the effect is not one wit less than devastating. I could write and write of “Maria” and in the end not even come close to doing her justice. Gary Cooper, as competent as ever, is superbly cast in a part that doesn't call for too much scope in any direction. The critics rave and rave about Tina Paxinou's as “Pilar” without once mentioning the very evident fact that the part is fool-proof. Akim Tamiroff, as I see it, deserves the posies in the “acting” department. His role is difficult to play convincingly (Pilar is cut and dried—if colorful), but he, too, is superb in portraying the complex character of Pablo. The supporting cast is everything that could be desired. The story—suspenseful, intriguing; the production—unstinting; the photography—a joy to behold. But strangely, everything is put in the pale by the stark reality of “Maria.” Need I add SEE IT!? Back to Hans Crescent via the U.G. and thinking all the while whether or not Robert Jordan did the right thing by Maria, and watching the jitterbugs in the ball-room and still wondering—(talk about “from the sublime to the ridiculous”) here it was with a vengeance. A snack again,—and still wondering. To bed finally,—and, (you guessed it),—still wondering. Today I'm more or less convinced that there “ain't no such,” I mean, men of the steel that Robert Jordan seemed made of. Seems to me that if Maria is “real” and she is—as unquestionably as love and women are real, then the quasi nobleness of Robert Jordan is a lie. A real man would have understood the love of Maria, and, understanding, would have reacted entirely differently from the well intentioned, but withal thick-skulled Robert Jordan. (Or maybe I'm crazy!) Anyway, there's food for a lot of thought in that ending—you’ll see. 

This morning I again woke much later than usual, the time—10:30. For a change, clear skies and a bit of welcome sun. After rubbing my beard, I decided that I better shave—damn it. Breakfast at the Kardomah Cafe on Brompton Road, and, surprisingly, another chat with an Englishman who chose to sit at my table although there were plenty of empty tables in the place. He was a pleasant-faced old man with an iron-gray mustache, and a bit of an intellectual. He wanted to know if I had visited the Abbey, the Palace, etc. He tried to acquaint me with the desirability of a Russian Bath and was surprised when I informed him of my “weakness” for the Turkish Baths. So we chatted about this and that while I put away a prodigious meal of sausage, beans, mashed potatoes, roll and butter, three cups of tea, two cakes, a trifle, and (on his ill-advised recommendation), a cup of the famous “Kardomah Coffee.” Ugh! I bore no grudge, though, and we parted friends, Almost forgot to tell you, Honey; I stepped on the scales yesterday and that hand went to 12s-3 (171 lbs. and stopped right there. Not bad, eh? (Who you callin’ Skinny?) 

Directly from the “Kardomah” to Hans Crescent to knock this off, which I'm just about finished doing. It is now exactly 4:38 and time to conclude this with the heartfelt wish that you could be here, Chippie, to share my holiday. My only regret is that this is not so. However, as I've said before, “there’ll come a day.” Until then, I hope my accounts of my own “good times” give you some measure of divertissement without intruding my own sense of loneliness, which is a constant and troubling companion in my travels. Just as constant, on the other hand, are my thoughts of you, my darling, and I never fail to find solace in the memory of your adored face, your tenderly caressing fingers, and—well, I won't go into that—not now, anyway. (Subtle—ain’t I?) I love not only you, dear; the memory of you is a warm and living thing within me—and I love that, too. Keep the punkin’ well and safe for me and the “day”—Kiss her for me. My love, as always to Mom and all the Strongins and Pallers. My best to the neighbors. I am 

Your ever-lovin’ 
Phil