I’d waited so long to open the mysterious Army trunk from my parents’ attic that a part of me was afraid to open it. I’d imagined where it had been–England, France, Germany, on a ship bound for China, Burma, or India. One of the rusty locks was broken. Another hung loose. With a breath and a prayer, I lifted the lid.
Inside were letters–so many letters they were in danger of overflowing. Airmails and V-mails, stationery and telegrams, cards and postcards. Packs and stacks of letters tied in boot strings, untouched since 1945. Here was my parents’ story in hundreds of letters. They’d written each other 2-3 times a day while caring for wounded soldiers, prisoners of war, and survivors of concentration camps.
I fingered the letters and grew more and more determined. I had to write their story. What I didn’t know was how long it would take me.
Dandi Daley Mackall, WITH LOVE, WHEREVER YOU ARE
Tags: With Love Book