August 1st, 1916
A month ago this battle began. Still it rages, but the speed of the flow of soldiers has slowed, and now we are less exhausted. I am always exhausted now, tired of pain and worry and doubt. I miss Frederick, and even Theodore, every minute of every single day. The weeks drag by, and there is nothing good or new but Sophie. She is the only thing that keeps me in a good state of mind. Her friendship is constant, and I have asked for her address so that I may write her once we return home.
Each day is like the last: grey, empty, bloody and terribly sad. I am in such a state of irrevocable melancholy that I hardly smile, excepting only when I am with Sophie, and hardly then. She understands, having lost a few of those that she loves as well. This was long ago, however, and every morning I wake and expect another letter from Frederick, or to see Theodore’s happy face, but they are not here and then all of this hits me like a wave. The only time away from this place that I have is when I sleep, and not always then.
I nearly stopped writing to Mother after Frederick died, but I could not bring myself to inflict more suffering upon here than she must already take on. I did not want to speak to her, and I did not want to have to tell her about how Frederick died. She did not ask. I suppose they told her in the telegram.
August 6th, 1916
I found out today that Sophie is leaving in a month. Her father has called her home, and she will be honorably discharged from the nursing services, and I will be alone here with nothing to keep me sane. I thought that this day cannot get worse, except in the afternoon it did.
I have received a letter. From Edwin’s mother. I will not open it until tomorrow. I want to be able to see the days of before and after, before I learn from his mother that my Edwin, my lilac, is dead. I do not doubt that this is the cause of the letter. If he is not dead, then why would he not write to me himself? I have not heard from him in weeks, and now a letter from his mother. There is only one thing that this can mean. I will open it tomorrow, and begin the after. I wish to prolong my before as long as I can.
August 7th, 1916
I am about to open the letter. The seal is broken now, but I cannot pull the paper out. I do not want to read these words. I do not want them.
I am proved wrong! Edwin is alive, and relatively well! He is in a hospital back in Britain, and will be home in a few days. He has been honorably discharged from the army, and has only lost his right leg from the knee down, and a few of his fingers. Thank God! Thank the earth and the sun and sky my Edwin, my wonderful Edwin, is home!
I feel no shame in going home now, my best friend will be gone, and now my sweetheart is home and well. The war has taught me to cherish the time that I have with those I love, for it has taken two of them from me. I must spend as much time as possible with Edwin, and I will write to Sophie often.
It is unfortunate, however, that Edwin lost his fingers. His piano playing will suffer, but I would rather his playing deteriorate than his life. We often used to share the piano bench, and he would play my favorite songs. I mostly requested “Clair de Lune,” a lovely sad song by Claude DeBussy. It is a few years old. Now it will not sound quite like itself, for Edwin has lost a foot that he would have pedaled with and fingers that he would have played with. However, play he will. He is too stubborn to stop playing the piano, and I look forward to hearing the sounds of his half-baked ballads soon enough.
Apparently Edwin did not write me himself because he is resting, and he sleeps too often to be able to write. He is still recovering from all of his wounds and all that he saw, but even so he will be at home in the near future. Hopefully, I will be there with him soon enough.
I must ask the matron of my ward if I may take leave to go home. The battle has slowed, and I hope that God will grant me one more favor and ask her to say yes.
A month ago this battle began. Still it rages, but the speed of the flow of soldiers has slowed, and now we are less exhausted. I am always exhausted now, tired of pain and worry and doubt. I miss Frederick, and even Theodore, every minute of every single day. The weeks drag by, and there is nothing good or new but Sophie. She is the only thing that keeps me in a good state of mind. Her friendship is constant, and I have asked for her address so that I may write her once we return home.
Each day is like the last: grey, empty, bloody and terribly sad. I am in such a state of irrevocable melancholy that I hardly smile, excepting only when I am with Sophie, and hardly then. She understands, having lost a few of those that she loves as well. This was long ago, however, and every morning I wake and expect another letter from Frederick, or to see Theodore’s happy face, but they are not here and then all of this hits me like a wave. The only time away from this place that I have is when I sleep, and not always then.
I nearly stopped writing to Mother after Frederick died, but I could not bring myself to inflict more suffering upon here than she must already take on. I did not want to speak to her, and I did not want to have to tell her about how Frederick died. She did not ask. I suppose they told her in the telegram.
August 6th, 1916
I found out today that Sophie is leaving in a month. Her father has called her home, and she will be honorably discharged from the nursing services, and I will be alone here with nothing to keep me sane. I thought that this day cannot get worse, except in the afternoon it did.
I have received a letter. From Edwin’s mother. I will not open it until tomorrow. I want to be able to see the days of before and after, before I learn from his mother that my Edwin, my lilac, is dead. I do not doubt that this is the cause of the letter. If he is not dead, then why would he not write to me himself? I have not heard from him in weeks, and now a letter from his mother. There is only one thing that this can mean. I will open it tomorrow, and begin the after. I wish to prolong my before as long as I can.
August 7th, 1916
I am about to open the letter. The seal is broken now, but I cannot pull the paper out. I do not want to read these words. I do not want them.
I am proved wrong! Edwin is alive, and relatively well! He is in a hospital back in Britain, and will be home in a few days. He has been honorably discharged from the army, and has only lost his right leg from the knee down, and a few of his fingers. Thank God! Thank the earth and the sun and sky my Edwin, my wonderful Edwin, is home!
I feel no shame in going home now, my best friend will be gone, and now my sweetheart is home and well. The war has taught me to cherish the time that I have with those I love, for it has taken two of them from me. I must spend as much time as possible with Edwin, and I will write to Sophie often.
It is unfortunate, however, that Edwin lost his fingers. His piano playing will suffer, but I would rather his playing deteriorate than his life. We often used to share the piano bench, and he would play my favorite songs. I mostly requested “Clair de Lune,” a lovely sad song by Claude DeBussy. It is a few years old. Now it will not sound quite like itself, for Edwin has lost a foot that he would have pedaled with and fingers that he would have played with. However, play he will. He is too stubborn to stop playing the piano, and I look forward to hearing the sounds of his half-baked ballads soon enough.
Apparently Edwin did not write me himself because he is resting, and he sleeps too often to be able to write. He is still recovering from all of his wounds and all that he saw, but even so he will be at home in the near future. Hopefully, I will be there with him soon enough.
I must ask the matron of my ward if I may take leave to go home. The battle has slowed, and I hope that God will grant me one more favor and ask her to say yes.
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