A letter written on two sheets with fine perforation; the second sheet shorter than the first one by half. Arnold Majorek began writing this letter as the fourth one, gave up writing, then sent another letter, then resumed this one. Hence, the addressee’s handwritten notes, describing the letter as the fourth one (putting the letters in order, she judged by the first date, July).
Content of the letter:
4.VII.43.
Darling,
if I have not replied to you for such [unfinished; a new letter begins in the following line:]
7.VIII.43
Renia,
I have now opened the letter block and have just found the lines above [word underlined with a wavy line; above, a note: (how many?)]. It was supposed to be a letter to you, which I did not manage to finish, and in the first words of which I was going to excuse myself for a longer silence.
So, instead of making excuses again, I am simply writing on the same sheet. Let this be a proof that I wanted but was unable to do that. Anyway, it seems to me that I did write to you in the meantime, but it is must have been on a different paper [see letter of 19 July 1943]. In general, for more or less 2 weeks, i.e. from the time when we started having such wonderful weather, I have absolutely no time for myself, performing the various duties of a teacher, governor, graphic artist, porter and water carrier (and also a "milk carrier"– or maybe better a "milk roundsman"?). Today I have breathed a sigh of relief: there is a pleasant coolness, a bit of rain falls, Waldemar is calmer due to the weather and, as is the case with him, a bit "moody" and actually, besides studying, there is not much to do with him. A moment ago, with real satisfaction, I wished him a good trip to the priest: upon the request of W.’s mother and a team of aunts, the Reverend is to have a second private conversation with him today, which, in the opinion of these worthy but very naive women, is to open his eyes to the absolute paganism of his conduct. He has returned unexpectedly quickly at this very moment. I gave him tasks for Monday. May he train his mind and let me talk to you.
In one of your last letters, you asked me what I thought about the erotic aspect of a friendship between a man and a woman.
Well, I will answer you out of duty and a little for the satisfaction of adding my two cents worth into the complicated matters of this world: this element exists in absolutely every intimate (i.e. close, not necessarily "amoral") relationship between two beings, and not only of the opposite sex. It is just as present in friendship between men or women. Of course, this eroticism is very delicate and very, very subtilised. It is [the word "as if" stricken out] a faint but very nice addition to the feelings of friendship, the contents of which are, of course, broader and more lofty matters.
And now straight from the shoulder and from the heart: I do not want to split hairs of living and healthy feelings (the more so because "etiam capillus unus habet umbram suam" [Latin, sententia by Publilius Syrus: even a single hair has its shadow]). Why analyse and dissect (in this case "vivisect") your attitude to someone, an attitude based on friendship (what is friendship? – I do not want to probe about it – I prefer to take and give it, breathe it). We both have a predisposition to torture ourselves with analysing people and life. And, in these matters, I cannot shake off my nature. I analyse myself to get to know others – and vice versa. I analyse and think, think and debate. But I call on all my healthy instincts for help, to defend myself against killing the freshness and beauty of feelings with the blunt instrument of "introspection".
In such cases, something seems to be crying out inside me: "do not tarnish holiness!". It is different for myself: I have to know myself in order to live a conscious [word underlined] human life, and different for people, seen from a smaller or greater distance, like puppets in a puppet shed: they are very funny and you never know them too well. But wherever a feeling comes into play, one that that arises from sincere human inclinations, there is no need to introduce a scalpel of analysis.
In this case, "awareness" is often dangerous.
– Meanwhile, my little vulgar beast has gotten into mischief for good, so here I am falling from the heights of applied psychology down to the hard ground of a "healthy" life. I think I will give him (Waldemar – not life) a hiding.
Holding your hands
a.
Why aren’t you writing?
