Today is my birthday. In 2020, we are in the midst of a pandemic; not the beginning, far from the end, cautiously inching out of our confinement as restrictions are lifted. Seventy-five years ago today, my aunt Helen, from whom I have my middle name, wrote to her mom and pop and her older brothers and their wives. The war was over, but it was not yet her turn to go home. The future was uncertain, but she dreamed of return to her real life, as did everyone. She speaks of my father. Her medical unit is moving closer to his post in France…but he has moved to Germany. So close to each other, yet no way to get together.
Life doesn’t seem so different today.
June 20, 1945
It is almost midnight; the patients have finally quieted down. It is warm tonight and the windows are wide open. It seems so good to disregard the blackout regulation which we have had to observe for so long.
We’ll be out of Dijon shortly. Our next move won’t be toward home but it won’t be too bad. At least we don’t have to go to C.B.I. [China, Burma, India]—not now anyway. Maybe we’ll be home for Christmas. That won’t be too bad.
I wish that George hadn’t moved for then I could see him often and phone him easily.
I spend a great deal of time dreaming about home and what it will be like to return. It seems like I’ve been away half a lifetime. All I can think of is seeing all of you.
Love to all, Helen