Conversations that normal people never get to have (in open letter form.) From this role, to my last:
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Dear Martha,
Since last we parted, I retired from teaching and loving people who don’t want it. Haven’t cried once in two-and-a-half weeks. (A coincidence? I think not.) I should be back to normal snot-regulation soon.
It was by no means a “picnic” to say goodbye to you, but I fear your influence was a heavy burden that being held too much longer, would have seen me 40 pounds heavier, and a full-blown alcoholic by the end.
…The morning kind.
…Who like to pretend it’s cranberry juice in their tumbler next to the Wheaties, and not a cheap $5 bottle of Cabernet.
…But I digress.
A lot has changed for me lately.
…First of all, I’ve jumped ahead a bit, (from ’39 to ’42), and yet have aged 14 years.
Ouch.
Am stuck in Holland, for the duration of the War. (And I thought being a lesbian in a small town was bad.)
…My Dutch is terrible, and don’t even get me started on my English. And now that I finally have a decent wardrobe to show off (complete with fur coat)…there’s nowhere to go and no one to see it. In fact, in a couple of years, my husband’s just gonna sell it for a pack of smokes on the black market, which in two days time, will be totally gone. And they won’t even be Turkish. Which, I mean…if not…why even bother?
The rationing is killing me.
…Also, I’ve converted. (It was a super short ceremony.) Am Jewish now…and married. (It was a super long ceremony.) Also, I’m told I have a son…but can’t be bothered with him much right now, on account of just moving into an attic, on the forth floor. I’ve no idea how long we’ll be here (maybe a month or so??)…but am damn glad I brought my bedpan.
The food is terrible.
The company, isn’t much better.
…Except for the men. But only when they flatter me. Otherwise, I have no use for them either.
Meanwhile, I’ve lost 5 pounds in the past 8 days, doing this new diet. I made it up, and am thinkin’ of maybe marketing it later…when the War is all over. It’s called, “You live on rotten potatoes and black beans, fatty, better drop a hot ton so you can sorta fucking look like it,” plan.
…The kid with the diary says I should maybe think of a shorter name. But what the hell does she know about anything?
…Whatever I call it, it’ll have this whole revolutionary kick-starter plan.
First off: overindulge in everything to the point that you are guaranteed to be puking all the following day from a hangover. Build this solely on the fact that one cannot embrace the idea of the Holocaust without being reduced to a puddle of sick, unless there is a sizable amount of liquor to help. You may later find irony in this as you grasp the toilet bowl…but you will also wake up finding three pounds missing from your general tonnage.
…And, you’re welcome.
Next: Give it all up, and embrace the life of food and drink-abstinence, for the entire duration, (‘cept for one day a week), while praying heavily for liberation.
…And then, complain about it.
…With wide gesticulations.
…And shouting bouts with your spouse.
Mazel Tov. You are now officially Attic-Jewish.
(This offer good from now, through April 27th.)
With fond self-affection,
~ Mrs. Van Daan
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~D
