ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝

Sunday Morning
[August 1944]

Dear Janie C.

This is just a note for it is quiet at the moment here but I don’t know how long it will last as such. I’m enclosing a chemical caricature which should draw a giggle from the crowd.

The happier days of the war seem at hand now—it seems almost impossible that at one time the Germans pounded the armies of Europe in pulp along the western front. Now we can see what lack of faith can do in all its horror. While on pass the other evening I had a chance to see one of three presentations—a stage play—of unknown quality—“For Whom the Bell Tolls”—and “None Shall Escape”. I find myself embarrassed at stage plays for I am somehow conscious of the acting and if it is at all bad I suffer terribly—so I avoid stage plays. Ernest Hemingway I have never read but your description of his book decided me to boycott his movie—the point is that I didn’t know what was on at the last movie until it started. I guess most people who see “None Shall Escape” will feel like muttering “propaganda”. Yes—maybe it is—maybe. But as bad as it presents the story of Poland, it is probably not overly brutal to the facts.

The other day I read in an English editorial where the people of Britain should be grateful for not having the trials of the people on the continent—that is a strange melody when things are as they are over here even.

Summer will soon be giving away [sic] to fall, Janie. You know, there is something very remarkable about living in a new climactic environment. Here, I’ve watched the procession of insects, birds, flowers and days—the wings of butterflies are becoming a little more ragged—there are fewer fledglings—the blackberries are losing their petals now to swelling fruit—but it all goes on without the one important gauge of passing summer—the cricket. No crickets here to speed the coming of the fall; of course, golden rod and iron weed always come before the frost—the milkweed turning to snow—the lightly coloring maples—the thinning of the tadpole swarms; the slow drift of the monarch butterfly to the south from Canada’s Hudson Bay—all them told me mutely in their hour that fall was coming—but the cricket—he sang all day to everyone—and all night, too. Here, strangely enough, the visual signs of summer’s coming of age are appearing—but I haven’t experienced fall here yet and so I don’t know what beastie is the chosen herald of summer’s end. I love the fall, perhaps best of all—it thrills me to feel it blowing through memories—but I guess after thinking a moment, I love all seasons best when I can put my feet away from the sidewalks and paths of my fellow beings for a few hours.

This is short, but could it serve for now? Till later. Good luck and most sincerely,

Yours,

Bill

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