Do your remember our trip to Zwickau? Do you remember the fire lilies and purple gentians? Do you remember that black dog in the snow, on the way to your namesake town? The strong red tea, with our English breakfast?

The unit’s all up and about. We’ll be tramping somewhere soon. I have questions for you, as well. How’s our friend Lubitsch, and what does he think—should we declare war on America or not? Have you heard any more about Lasker-S—and Twardowski? What about Paul?

If I survive this spastic war, the summit of an unreal, unspiritual time, I want out of civilized Europe. I want to collect my strength for action elsewhere. I want to join others in acting and not remain dreaming and sleeping. I want to be allowed to be myself without lies, without masks. I want all this before life is snatched away, leaving the ideal image, which disappears, of the bravest swimmer drowning.

I have no idea how I’ll strike you when I finally return from here, all battered and burned out. I’m at work every day at mastering my emotions. Soon I’ll be atop the situation. I wish you all good fortune. Hand in hand with you, I wish you quiet nights, a quiescent front, and many packages from home.

Warmest wishes to you. Remember my prediction—

Hans

7 July 1915
A trench—Riga.

Hans, Hans, Hans,

Still no rest for your sleepless friend. Wildflowers are blooming all around. The fields are filled with a hay that no one cuts and no one uses, other than our “field gray,” to make temporary camps on the damp ground. A warm wind blows clouds and rain over us, and the nights are a complete darkness that one believes could be grabbed in the hand. I’m living in a dugout that reminds me of the heatherhut in Lear: much straw and rain, a lantern and a little madness; only the Fool is missing. I’m so endlessly alone that it’s almost pleasant. Unfortunately there’s always the constraint that stands behind the loneliness. The fact that I can’t suddenly change my situation inhibits the pleasure.

I’ve separated myself from the criminal mindlessness that’s the rule here, so there’s an obliviousness to me among my compatriots that’s breathtaking. Unless I actively seek out a group and insert myself into it—always unbidden, and usually unacknowledged—I spend my time alone. I’m approached only when it’s time for memorials or eulogies. I’m also the accepted authority on cultural activities.