Dvr. H Adler

No 30765
173 Hen.Tnpt Coy
R.A.S.C(P)
M.E.F.

July,1942

Ma chere Yvette,

Sand, sand eveywhere. Under the bed, in the bed and on the bed into the bargain. Not a blade of grass, not a tree. The yellow of the sand and the gold of the sun —(here  a line is erased by years of folding)—- that beats constantly down on to your nervous system. Nothing but sand.  It gets into everything. Eyes, mouth and nose are full of it. You find it in your pockets, your shoes and under your shirt. It  penetrates the very pores of your body and pitilessly attacks your heart. Nausea follows and then that sacred beast one so generously calls depression. And it’s certainly not the surroundings that give you “the courage to live until evening”. On the contrary, that only makes for delusion. It is like that that I dream of you. (You see, that in writing it is no longer easy to tutoie you — Don’t laugh…)

Oh, Yvette, Yvette, believe me, I beg you- I don’t use grand words. I don’t want to and I’m not capable of it. I am fully conscious of the fact that my feelings for you cannot express themselves, no matter how much I desire it. But since hundreds of kilometres separate us, I can permit myself to be frank.  And also, the conditions in which I live now allow me to pay myself this luxury of freedom.  I feel for you an immense tenderness. I have already told you that; it is not that sort of “amour sauvage” which crashed down on the miserable one like Stendhal’s love at first sight.  It is something else. It is more gentle (sweet,pleasant), more durable too. When my thoughts fly towards you it is not under the exclusive influence of sex, of sensual desire. No. For then, a violent tempest would take possession of my body and all my muscles would become violent. I would be  en mal. When I think of you, a sweetness invades my soul.

It is ten days since I left. My last two mornings I spent with you. Alas, we were always accompagnied by people who I usually like very much but who got on my nerves when I was with you. We were not alone. What a shame. For I was not able to lead you into a tranquil corner and sit myself next to you, eyes meeting, hands touching, and  open up my heart a little to you. You needn’t fear my admissions. On the contrary you only need to laugh and say be hanged to it. But the fact is there,  solid and powerful, I had a strong desire to have you, several hours at least, to myself alone. Is it weakness or strength which prevented me from sending all our visiters to the devil?!

Yvette, all that I am now saying to you might seem to you foolish , romantic but platitudinous, insignificant, “petit-bourgeois” etc. That is not true. Life and men are not as they are in one of Celine’s books. Humanity is not as debauched as Celine would have it.  The debauchery is  rather in him. Sweet notes and tides of poetry and noble sentiments are hidden in every man. That is why I wanted to hold your hands and speak with you, to speak before leaving.  However it is on the whole brusquely that we separated. I still see  that sordid little Levantine street, the car, the  hasty hand shake and the quick look.  But that is not all. That night, in the train, I was  laden with (filled with) pictures of you. It was these pictures that sent me sweetly to sleep.  And now, here I am in this sad  landscape(!)  writing you phrases which soon will cause a marvellous burst of laughter from you that I would like to have heard. It is hard for me to concentrate. The heat, the war and those who make it with me (a  gang of hypocrites) don’t permit it. One day perhaps that will be finished. One day I will be able to tell you the great difference between my first war and this one.  As  in the first, now also  a woman’s accompanied me on the road ——[illegilble along fold] let loose by men. This time, it is you. Whether you want it or not- you are my mascotte.

Henry