Dear Ma,
I wish you could read this letter, be comforted in the knowledge that I am alive. But that is whistful thinking. I feel guilty, sometimes, indulging in these little fantasies of mine, where I don't jump at every scurry of a rat in this gloomy basement, don't cry myself to sleep, where I can close my eyes without fear that they will awaken to the barrel of a gun. I know you would've scolded me, but I can't help myself, Ma. I just...Can't.
Forgive me for the aweful handwriting, the small candle Mr. Kline so graciously gave me sheds little light and the pencil is nearly a stub. But enough pleasantries, I should tell you first that life is hard, but I am still blessed to have the luxuries I know you and Pa are not given. Mr. Kline is a gracious man, and I am thankful to have found someone not part of the Nazi party. Especially in this town.
I get two meals a day, usually the leftover stew...Maybe, if little Timmy snooped around the market that day, I end up with a small slice of bread or even a potatoe. I have a blanket to wrap around myself at night, so I don't die from the chilling cold.
I know you told me not to bring anything before I left, but I sinned, sneaking along a photo of us from hanukkah five years ago. We looked so happy then...It helps fill the agonizing emptiness in my gut.
I love you.
Your son,
~ Benjamin L.
