February 8, 1932

February 8, 1932
10 a.m.

My Pinchos, please do not scold me for writing in English instead of Jewish, for I am in such a mood, and who should allow and understand my moods if not you.

Here I sit with my book “The Children of the Ghetto” before me and cannot concentrate. I have the feeling that I must write to you first since I am  sentenced not to speak with you, and who is it that has pronounced this judgment? Were it a man of flesh and blood, I would beg him for mercy, or take revenge of him, but since it is fate, who am I to go against it, and to ask why of fate. I am tired. I have asked “why” ever since I was but five years old and now I am tired. Oh my Pinchos my only friend, it is so hard to understand life with its curled up problems, with its cares, with its duties. Only this I know and feel, how poor and meaningless my life would be without your everlasting understanding, through your ever watching eyes.

As I sit now and read these sad lines of these great men “Shpiz******” “Momoyn,” “Jusepa,” “Dacosta,” who are just a few of the many thousands more who have suffered, each in his own way, I cannot help but glance back to my years gone by. And what do I see dear Pinchos, sadness, gloom, it seems like a black cloud has always covered the sun for me. I have had no childhood, no girlhood. And ever since I was 13 I thought of Death as my only friend, my only redeemer, and how I have prayed for him to come and make an end to all my suffering. But this I learned, that even Death does not come when I desire it.

And all through this without the least bit of understanding from anyone, until you came along and awakened me, showed me that even through the blackest clouds one can see the sun if only one should look up. Yes my Pinchos, you have taught me that, you have taught me much, much more than I am able to explain. You have made me see that life could be tolerable, that life could even have a little happiness for me, and I am waiting as patiently as I can for it. You, who sees life as I do, whose heart and soul bleeds like mine for every injustice done from man to man, from life to man, and from the creatures who call themselves our brothers and sisters who make all the beauty of this world low and intolerable. I do pity them and forgive them, for I say to myself “they do not know any better.” But oh my Pinchos I cannot mingle with them, the nothingness about them, the very air chokes me. Oh my beloved, if I could only get away from all this with you into freedom, into the beauty of nature. To study together the different problems that puzzle us, to seek beauty and truth together. I am trying so hard to believe that this dream will come true.

The rain is still pouring, and the skies are not clear yet. But I am waiting for the sun, and when it will come out I shall look up and let her rays awaken me, to life and to beauty.

And now I feel a little better, it seems I have spoken to you. Will you mind if I write to you instead of a diary? Will you? I see you, you smile.
Good bye until next time. B.

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