28 April 1938

Dearest Mama,

I write to tell you how proud you must be of Paul. Not that his jokes and fidgets have been abandoned for sober respectability. Staying in his chair for an hour at dinner is still more than he can manage. It’s as difficult as ever to convince him to read any book not a dry scientific text; fortunately he is able to practice his English on such wonders from the ship’s library as Capacitative Resistors: Design and Use. And sharing a stateroom is turning out to be a matter of calling him back time and again to fold his clothes or mop up the lavatory.

But those are small irritations, and I’m ashamed to think how they once exasperated me. Among our fellow refugees we hear such tragic tales! A girl my age, Ursula Krause, from Berlin, goes to her uncle in Shanghai alone. Her father and brother were taken by the Gestapo, and she’s heard nothing since-except a smuggled note from her brother begging her to leave while she could. Mama, my blood runs cold! I, the family skeptic, have found myself saying a prayer for Ursula.

Oh, Mama, I don’t mean to upset you. Seeing what I’ve written, I nearly tore this letter to shreds. Please believe me: We’re well, and being brave, and having adventures! But to tell you about those adventures only, to write about the sparkling waves and the salt breeze-those things are true, of course they are, but so is the terrible reason we’re on this ship to see them.

Mama, I’ve just roused myself; I’ve been sitting for some time, wondering again whether to ball up this letter and throw it in the sea. But no. We are fine, but the world is not. If I can’t sit beside you and talk about this, I must lighten my heart by sharing my thoughts over time and distance.