Free Too Jewish by Patty Friedmann Page A

girlfriend in my mind. I met English girls all the time. London was packed wall to wall with American boys, and English girls came out in the evenings to entertain us. They were so pink, even if they were hungry, and I could have paired off with a number of them. After all, the time I spent in London was so much longer than the time I spent in New Orleans. But I measured each against Letty. And none had a chance to know me as well.
    Dear Bernie,
    I am trying to be your salesman. I took Mama's matchbox into a little shop on St. Charles Avenue and showed it to the owner. I could see in her eyes that she liked it, but I didn't get a yes. I was all dressed up that day, and I think she got the idea. Even though I don't smoke.
    You're not learning to smoke over there, are you? I would never kiss a boy who smokes!
    I listen to the radio a lot. I wish you could tell me where you are. I think about you all the time. I tell my friends I don't want to go down to the French Quarter because it reminds me of you. But even the dining room in my house reminds me of you. I miss you.
    Love,
    Letty
    If I danced with another girl, I would hold her close and pretend she was Letty. I was careful in the letters I wrote back, because I didn't know what I would do after the war, but I let out love without plans. That was all she needed. One of us would have to make a choice when I went home. It was as simple as that. For all I knew, she would meet a boy at Tulane in my absence. He would be 4-F, but there was no shame in 4-F. There was some shame in conscientious objector, but I'd only heard of such men, never actually met one. Letty was such a tender soul. She might push a boy across campus in a wheelchair and discover his mind. Letty was such a wise girl; she might make one of her professors fall in love with her. But Letty also was such a straight-shooting girl that I knew she would tell me if she found someone else. Instead she kept finding me.
    It was Letty, more even than the war machine surrounding me, who made me think about what was happening in Germany. I was still in London when the camps were liberated. I heard newsreels when Letty saw newsreels, I couldn't avoid them. If I wanted to see a film, I sat through the newsreel first. I could close my eyes, but I could hear the voice over. I could hear the sounds of others in the audience, the inrush of breath, the cries, some screams, and I had to protect myself because I knew the images were indelible. I knew, too, that I would search for familiar faces, ruined beyond recognition, but recognizable all the same. Letty wrote to me about what she saw, sparing me the details, saying only that she was frightened for me, that if I needed her to go to the Red Cross for me, I needed only to ask. I wrote her back. "Knowing about my mother is necessary before I can feel I have a home," I said in a letter early that summer. "But not knowing about her might be better. I'll always have hope."
    The Red Cross had offices in London. This was not like New Orleans in the early part of the war. Now the Red Cross had the task of saving the world, one destroyed person at a time, and the place was packed to the walls with workers, all trying to be efficient, but struggling against the demands of millions with equal tragedies. I waited my turn. Everyone there waited his turn. I could see on their faces that coming in was a dare. The possibility of a bad answer made it almost not worth coming in at all. The possibility of a good answer drove our dreams, though. Just the night before I'd dropped off to sleep thinking of taking my mother to Peltzl. No, I decided, I'd take her to Saks Fifth Avenue. A mink for my mother. She would be so proud.
    The Red Cross worker gave me a slip of paper. On it I wrote the name of the camp, Bergen-Belsen, and my mother's name, Dora Kuper. She gave me a number and told me I would be called when my information was found in the books. Did they have anything about the liberation of that