Chapter 3: Eugene's Nostalgia

London England

August 3, 1942

Dear Patrick, From the distance that separates us and with a heart full of nostalgia, having no response from you, my love. Walking through the garden and looking at the beauty of the place, I can't help but cry, holding on to your words so as not to lose sight of what keeps me alive in this war. The news is not encouraging where you are, and this makes me want you with agony. Time passes and how to stop it? Over and over again, night after night, I would give to hear from you.

They are the songs of the birds on these cold mornings that I want to be in your arms; feeling the kisses and confusing me like a girl. It isn't the fear of losing you, but the fact that I cannot tell you what I keep inside of me; in the mourning that seizes me for the departure of my mother how dark and fragile we can be!

Mr. Tobías has been like a father to me in this solitude, who loves to smoke his cigars and sit in that reclining chair, having a cup of tea and with that serene look. I look into the distance...

When will I be right about you? I only look at the faces of the infants who were orphaned and I like to visit them, bring them a few fruits, play the piano on which I interpret Chopin's Sonata 20; melody that relieves my loneliness, in the midst of the wind that caresses my face.

I write to you under this big tree, my hands a bit cold, kissing the paper for when you have it and feel how much I love you.

Always yours Eugene.