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Dear Mama,

There's something in the wind that I don't like. I'm certain you've smelled it already but I wanted to confirm it with you, just to make sure I'm not jumping at shadows. I still feel very new and unsure about all this. There will never be a time when I don't look to you for guidance if not as a parent then as a teacher. Tell me if I am imagining things or not?

I've been dreaming of shadows and blood, of the bright steel of knives and the dark steel of guns. These aren't just the result of an over-indulgence of Bogart movies at the cinema, either. These aren't regular dreams. They aren't even someone else's midnight fancies, I know enough by now to tell the difference. What I'm afraid to ask is...are you and Papa all right? When I wake up, my first thought is always of the two of you; fear not for my own safety but for yours. I know the war has been over a good two years now, but I can't help feeling frightened. Please, is there something I should know? Don't shelter me. If something has happened, I want you to tell me. Perhaps I can help.

Don't keep me in the dark, Mama. I want you to be safe.


Your loving daughter,

E.


*

My dear Edna,

You're right my darling, the winds are changing and most likely not for the better. It's true no more bombs fall here, but I've felt the shadows creeping too. No, you aren't imagining things, I've had the dreams too, of running and falling, of blood pricks and a gunshot. I don't know who they're for, only that...it seems to be for one of us. No my dear, not for you, for your father or I, perhaps both of us. I do not want to panic you, but this is what I see. It may happen, but it may not. Everything, as you know, balances on the choices we make. Perhaps this can be prevented.

The Reich is dead, but that does not mean that evil has been abolished. There are still far too many in this world that wish to cause harm from the common crook all the way up to the warmongering xenophobes like our late Hitler. May he burn eternally in Hell. But to keep to the point, there are those who are wary of the famed "special forces" of the various militaries. Particularly that of the English. No my dear, Ernest was not gunned down maliciously, that is, no more than any of the other poor dead boys in his unit. He was shot because he was English, not because he was special. He died an anonymous death. And for that, strangely, I am grateful.

We wear no masks but are hiding just the same. I beg you my dear to be careful. Do not flaunt your gifts too flagrantly. Someone will surely suspect even if they are entirely wrong. I don't want you to be hounded too. Yes, your father and I have had some minor things to deal with- nasty notes without address in the post box, soap markings on the lower windows, cryptic remarks here and there by people bumped on the street. I cannot say that it does not cause me some alarm. We have taken what precautions we can, but I cannot help but think we are suspected. Someone has noticed something, though what that could have been, I cannot imagine. We have been very careful. Perhaps they are only making a lucky (or unlucky) guess. Or perhaps they are employing our own methods to seek us out.

I am afraid the war is not over, my dear. We are being hunted still, here and farther abroad. We are a commodity too valuable to be ignored. Therefore, we must be captured or killed. What has happened to which...I cannot say. I will tell you this much, many have vanished, a few have died, all of those violently. I feel the scars on my heart and the memories cry. I'm sure you've felt them as well. We knew them and we loved them but may wear neither black nor white. The mourning must be silent and invisible, just as we ourselves must be. I pray we have not yet been discovered but I fear the worst. Do not despair for us, though. You know very well that of all people, we can protect ourselves. None shall go willingly. Who knows, perhaps we can put a stop to this? It is, after all, what we are here for.

Keep your spirits, keep your faith. Pray for us. The thoughts of your heart do not go unheard.

Love always,

Okaasan


*

Mama,

Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on? Stranger things I have never seen and this is AFTER the blitz and D-day. Nothing much is happening here, nothing ever does happen in America, but this is becoming distressing. Images fill my head with darkness and death, I hear distant screams all around me. Mama what are you doing, what is going on? I ask you and you do not tell me, sometimes you don't even answer! I know that you cannot always talk to me immediately but you have never shut me out like this before. Mama, what's wrong?! Please, tell me! Tell me what I can do! Tell me how I can help! I will come right this minute if you need me to!

Please... Just answer me.


Love,

E.


*


Dear Papa,

I know.
I'm sorry.
Just tell me how it happened, if you can.


E.


*

My dear Edna,

I thought you might know. I could never feel the link both ways as the two of you did, but I knew just as soon as you. I felt it in my heart if not my head. Yes, your mother is dead, God rest her soul. I'll try to tell you what happened, but you must forgive me if this is a bit illegible. It is difficult to write.

About two weeks ago our flat was broken into. Nothing of obvious value was taken. The good silver was left intact, and the crystal, as were your mothers pearls and diamonds. What the thief took alarmed us far more. Your mother's little table shrine was laid completely bare, the Asian shawl draped over the open window, all the little artifacts taken: the crucifix, the incense tray and stick, the bell, the candles, the little kanji Gospel, everything. At first we thought it was just a cruel prank by the shaven-headed punks in the neighborhood but your mother smelled something fouler, crueler. Upon further investigation we discovered many of the books were missing, my binder of personal designs and sketches, a leaflet of her calligraphy and water colors, the little rose-brass urn, the iron dragon, the tea box, her hair pins, Ernest's old camera, one of your drawings, several pens and notebooks, and a few odd bits of otherwise inexpensive and unremarkable jewelry and the cases they were kept in. Your mother's Russian watch box had disappeared but the watch, since she had it around her neck that day, did not vanish with it. Edna...you know as well as I do the significance of these items. Whoever took them knew exactly what they were looking for. It chills me to consider who would even know about such things, much less possess the gall to take them. Talismans like those are not interchangeable and cannot be handled by just anyone. I can only surmise that they were taken in an attempt to weaken us, to wound our pride and shrivel our resolve. We were distressed, certainly, but determined to stand our ground.

No other attempts were made on the house. I suppose the perpetrators surmised they had taken everything of value. We had made it a rule since the disappearances never to go out alone. We were coming home from an outing when we were assailed, and not by common thugs either. These were...different. They were like us, but cold and merciless. We fought them off as best we could. In the end I told your mother to run, an error for which I will never forgive myself. At once they left me and fled after her. It was not me they wanted. I chased after them but soon lost them in the dark. I tried calling out to your mother but she could only answer twice before...

I found her later, on her back amid someone's dustbins. Her heart had been gouged out and so had her eyes. Her watch and ring were gone. I'm sorry, love. You may blame me if you want. I have failed you both. Forgive me if you can, for I'd hate to lose you too. You and Elsie are all I have left.


Deepest love, heartfelt regret,

Papa


*

Dearest Papa,

Of course I'm not angry! It was not your fault! How could it be? I would come and hug you right now if I could, for I think we both could use it. Please do not blame yourself. If you do, then let me take some, for it was just as much my fault as yours. You at least tried to help, did your best. I did nothing at all. That is far worse. Please, Papa, let's not argue over whose fault it is. I'm sorry too.

I'm coming over to help. Do not try to dissuade me. I have already bought a ticket and I am coming so you may as well get used to the idea. You should not have to bear everything by yourself. Not only am I your daughter, but I am Family as well. Please, I want to help you. Perhaps together we can at least give peace to mama's memory.


Much love,

E.


*

Dearest Karl,

How long has it been since I last wrote in your little book? I'll give it to you if I ever see you again. I know you're still out there...somewhere...at the very least alive. I don't feel that horrible empty echo when I listen for you. There are three hollows in my head and heart now where there used to be people. Ernest's has grown over some, but the others are still raw and fresh as the graves they rest in. It's still hard for me to think of them that way. As dead. They don't feel "dead" to me. They don't feel at all. They aren't there.

My parents were killed, murdered within days of each other. Why, I do not know. They're still looking in to it. As far as we can tell there's quite a group of dissidents who never liked the idea of "special forces". Government and Superiority paranoia grown out of control, I suppose. The only problem is, it seems the attackers were ones as well. Ones that knew enough to give subtle digs and indications that they knew. They robbed my parent's house of everything important before they attacked outright. They attacked my mother first, killing her for the watch that had bought us five days to escape to England and the ring that had granted her my father's love and passage to the West. What they took from my father, I do not know. He was beaten very badly, even after he was dead. All he had with him- his wallet, pocket watch, and cigarette case- were beaten to mangled scraps. Needless, wanton destruction of innocent objects and an innocent man. Evidently he didn't have what they were looking for. Or perhaps he was just made an example for someone. I could not begin to guess for whom, perhaps myself and others like us.

Elsie and I would have dealt with the family affairs and estate if there had been anything left to deal with. The house, when we got there, had been gutted and half-burned, one side reduced to charcoaled timbers. There was nothing left, not even furniture, just a few broken fragments of wood and plaster that had fallen and wires that had been freed from their places in the walls. Everything was gone, Karl, except their money. That they had dealt with themselves and put in a trust. I gave it all to Elsie. I have no need of it. If I learned anything on that trip it's that things...no matter how much sentiment they hold, are just things. If I thought I could have stuffed you into my suitcase I would have. I would give anything to have you here with me now. It's foolish but...I would have liked one little thing to remember them by. My father's fountain pen or my mother's watch. Perhaps the absurd little "deposed Buddha" as we called him, who was removed from his place in the family shrine and set on the mantel when my mother chose Jesus instead. He didn't seem to mind, just smiled softly through it all as I imagine the real Siddhartha would have. Just thinking about it makes my heart hurt. It was only a cleverly shaped lump of pretty green stone, but still another face which I will never see again.

I would send this to you if only to warn you. I would come myself and speak it in your ear. But I don't know where you are. I have only a vague feeling in my head and heart that you're alive still, somewhere. I think about you every now and again, dearest, until it hurts too badly and I have to stop and turn my mind to other things, to make myself so busy that, for the moment, I forget. Forgive me, but I have to forget a little bit some of the time or else I'd be crying night and day. I've been crying inside so much...I feel as if I shall be carried away on the tide of my own tears.

I hope this poor little note reaches your heart if not your hands. I hope that wherever you are, that you are safe, that you are happy. Perhaps you've discovered you would rather go on without me. Perhaps you have found another happiness. I will try to be glad for you if that is the case. If not...come back to me if you can. I would find you if only I knew where to look, how to look. But maybe you aren't ready to be found yet. At least I can take comfort that you are still here. I feel so alone without my family. It is only Elsie and I left, now, and I don't hear from her often. We were nothing alike, though I love her dearly. She doesn't keep up with me. At least I know she's safe, her and her family. I have someone somewhere.

I wish you could be here with me now. I want to see you with my own eyes, touch you and know that you're standing right there in front of me. I want to hold you close and be held by you, to be told that it may hurt now but it will be all right later. To hear you tell me that you are still here and will not abandon me. You told me you would come to me. Please, if you can, no matter how long may take, keep that promise. I have not abandoned you, I know you have not abandoned me. You may not be sitting beside me, but I can feel your presence just as surely as if you were.

You will probably never read this, but I want you to know that I love you, my dear. Please be safe. You are all I have left.


Love always,

E.