I’ve become the unofficial quartermaster, due to my perceived fussiness. Schedules, shipments, complaints, aggravations, detritus—my head’s a railroad station. Every so often the Captain rings up and I’m called on the carpet, the whole swindle about to come out. At such times I should be visualized like that boy we saw in the garden in Königsplatz, staring into space like an idiot.

With all our recent movements, the regular mail has not arrived. It’s doubtful that anything will come tomorrow, either. The day before yesterday we were in a village that brought me closer to you geographically than any time since Friedrichstadt.

Are you still dug in? Are you safe behind your fortifications? A view of your escarpment, please.

Müthel recently passed through, with his unit. They were headed east! We had a short conversation on politics. He certainly is one of his family; you’d think you were listening to the father, with a little more humor. Still, he’s a good fellow, a Marc-type, not conventional, with eyes and a heart.

Speaking of that, more ugly news: Veidt wrote that a friend of his was beaten to death in a hotel catering to sailors in Hamburg. Twenty-two years old. The news made me contemplate again how few fulfill themselves before death. I resolved to judge all interrupted careers with more pity.

It’s been so long since we conversed. What will happen when you see me? The door will open and an emaciated beanstalk will be swaying there, finally smiling (incessantly, and more out of embarrassment than pleasure). He’ll then sit where he’s told. When the welcoming ceremonies are over, he’ll scarcely speak, since he lacks the strength to do so. And he won’t even be as happy as he feels he should be, lacking the strength even for that.

Hans! What you are for me can’t be found in the scraps I send you. Remember when you argued for the writer’s greater pleasure, for moving others across time and space? How did people ever get the idea that they could communicate adequately by letter—?

You complain about my letters that there “isn’t a single word that isn’t well-weighed.” And yet those are the letters by which I hope to draw myself closer to you.

I can no longer lament the falling-apart. I lament instead the wait for the rebuilding.

But listen to me: I should be making clear that I’m only frightened and self-berating. Instead I posture. I pose.

Throughout our time together I have forced you to settle for murmured sounds and inattentive ears. Forgive me.

I don’t know how to approach my other subject. I begin by saying that about my own fidelity I deceived myself, the way a teacher, out of exhaustion and yearning, allows himself to be convinced that one correct answer means that his student now comprehends the subject.