A Wall of Light - Edeet Ravel [68]
“Do you mind if give you some advice?” Solomon looked kind and affable.
“Nossir.”
“Well, can you cut down on your, er, romantic terms? Yes, your romantic terms and your political views?” There was a hint of regret in his voice.
“Nossir, I cannot. I don’t see why I should. This war is being fought for the preservation of democracy and freedom, I thought.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Solomon responded quickly. “Those political pronouncements. And Jewish issues. Against the British. It’s embarrassing for me and the two other Jewish officers.”
“I’m sorry about that, sir, but it’s my right and privilege to write what I want.”
Solomon suggested I bring my mail directly to him from then on. That system worked until he was transferred. I again deposited my mail in the regular post office. Two weeks passed and I was required to report to Major Susan Musgrove, Commanding Officer of the Women’s Division. On her desk lay a letter written in Yiddish.
“What language is that, LAC Stavitsky?”
“Yiddish, ma’am.”
“How am I supposed to understand that?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well, you can’t write in a language that no one can read.”
The deep frown never left her rather handsome middle-aged face.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but what do you think I write to my parents that requires censorship?” I experienced a debilitating sense of frustration.
“I don’t care what you write to your parents as long as it’s in English.”
“What about French?”
“Don’t be snarky, Airman,” she shot back in apparent anger.
“My parents can only read Yiddish and I believe it’s my privilege to write to them.”
“LAC Stavitsky, this interview is terminated. French or English.”
I went directly, letter in hand, to the Catholic padre. He was a red-faced jovial-looking man. When he heard the story his round face crinkled and he laughed. “Bring me your letters. Promise me that you will not include any military information. Directly, or in any other way.”
The padre subsequently was also transferred and once again my letters went straight to the post box.
Knowing that the officers were discussing my letters, the letters became, in part, didactic. I described in detail to Varda the activities of the Women’s Division, the proliferation of pubic lice amongst the airmen. I reported on anti-Semitism on the base and in the world at large. I criticized the deplorable policies of the British in Palestine and reviewed the books I had read. In short I had a captive audience and I did my best to score points.
Some weeks later my name again appeared on the Daily Routine orders to report to the medical officer.
The doctor was a very short pudgy man with a boxer’s face. His name could have been Jewish, but he was a Toronto
Presbyterian. He politely asked me to sit and relax. I sat and waited. Finally he spoke.
“I censored your letter last night in the officers’ mess. I was intrigued by your comment on Arthur Koestler’s Arrival and Departure. Can I borrow it?”
I brought him the book and subsequently, at his request, all my mail.
“I won’t read your letters, but you must be aware that they arouse some pretty wild reaction in the mess. You will be well-advised to bring me your mail.”
It seemed obvious to me that the doctor was lying. Not only did he want to read my letters, he wanted to discuss them. At first I felt inhibited, but then, conversely, I experienced a sort of exhilaration. “He wants excitement, this doctor, I’ll damn well give it to him.” At one of our meetings, always pleasant—the batman served tea and wonderful pastry—the doctor made a startling statement. “You want a discharge, I can get it for you.”
“Why do you think I want a discharge?”
“Because you hate it here.”
“But you also know, I’m sure, that I’ve been requesting transfers to an aircraft carrier, far cry from a discharge.”
“From your letters, the message I get is that you want out.” “What kind of discharge do you have in mind?”
“On mental grounds.”
“You must be kidding, Doctor. Thanks, but no