The letter that gives the blog its name: 8th November 1943

This is the letter that gives the blog its name. My father, the author, was 17 when he wrote it, and Leo was 20. When I came across it, it was with a bundle of Leo's letters. The red pencil on the envelope says "died in action: return to sender". The letter was unopened until February 2010. I can easily see how that happened.

Later in 2010 I was on the BBC website for "A History of the World in 100 Objects", which was a radio series done by the director of the British Museum. On the web page there was a link for listeners and viewers to upload a photograph and a brief story of one object that they would put into a cyber museum of human history. I uploaded the image you see here.

Shortly after this, I was contacted by BBC Radio 4 by a researcher who was intrigued by the entry. In November of that year, they came with some recording equipment while my father was visiting and made enough tape to make a documentary. This will be aired in 2012.

Oberhummer was one of the gardeners who worked at the large house in Vienna where my father's family lived with other members of their extended family, and their grandparents.

8 November 1943

Dear Leo

I’m sitting here at home for a few hours leave, and my thoughts are with this coming Christmas--what will happen and what it will be like. Will we all be together? As you know, Andi is in Paris with his company until the holiday. That boy has luck like no other. Naturally he’s getting leave at Christmas, Edina too, and so am I, I hope. And as for you? It’s high time you were allowed home, don’t you think?

I suppose you’ve heard that good old Oberhummer has gone to the other side. With him, a big part of our childhood has died too. We will no longer see him puttering around in the garden. It is as though everything from our youth is dying away. Leaves are falling everywhere, and winter is here. Oberhummer was always for me an ancient relic, somehow secretive and not quite of this world. We often discussed what it would be like to actually die. He would grin broadly at me like a good natured troll, a smile that I can see vividly as if it were yesterday.

It makes me see clearly how we are getting older. Time is running away from us like sand through an hourglass. So fine, that you don’t even notice is slipping away, and yet it is always disappearing. Our parents are getting older and are getting grey hair and need our help more and more. In time they will put their destinies, with everything that they have and are, into our own hands. For us to protect. And we will look after them with great joy and pride, because we will want to do for them what they did for us. This is tied to the sorrowful realisation that the beautiful world we inhabited as children is no more.

But one thing we have from this time: the glorious memories of our enchanted youth. No one will be able to rob us of this, even if times become even worse than they are now.

Please excuse these ramblings--they are errant thoughts escaped! I was just letting my pen dance across the page, as it wished.

See you soon at Christmas!

Your brother,

Rudolf