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By Root 12541 0

her break off in helpless tears, and I had to piece together the rest of the tale later. The date of that encounter in Höss’s joyless attic was—like her April Fools’ Day debut—instantly memorable, and remains so still, for it was the birthday of three of my heroes: of my father, of the autumn-haunted Thomas Wolfe, and of wild Nat Turner, that fanatical black demon whose ghost had seared my imagination throughout my boyhood and youth. It was the third of October, and it was embedded in Sophie’s own memory by virtue of the fact that it was the anniversary of her marriage to Casimir Zawistowski in Cracow.

And what, I have asked myself (pursuing George Steiner’s speculation upon the existence of some sinister metaphysical time warp), were the activities of old Stingo, buck private in the United States Marine Corps, at the moment when the terrible last dust—in a translucent curtain of powdery siftings so thick that, in Sophie’s words, “you could taste it on the lips like sand”—of some 2,100 Jews from Athens and the Greek islands billowed across the vista upon which she had earlier fixed her gaze, obscuring the pastoral figures of serenely grazing sheep as completely as if a towering fogbank had swept in from the Vistula marshes? The answer is remarkably simple. I was writing a letter of birthday felicitations—the letter itself easily obtainable not so long ago from a father who has cherished my most vapid jottings (even when I was very young) in the assurance that I was destined for some future literary luminosity. I extract here the central paragraph, which followed an affectionate expression of greetings. I am profoundly appalled now by its collegiate silliness, but I think it worth quoting in order to further emphasize the glaring and even, perhaps, terrifying incongruity. If one is historically minded enough, one can be charitable. Also, I was eighteen years old.

Marine Detachment, U.S. Naval V-12 Training Unit

Duke University, Durham, North Carolina

October 3, 1943

...anyway, Pop, tomorrow Duke is playing Tennessee and the atmosphere is pure (but restrained) hysteria. Obviously we have great hopes and by the time you get this it will be pretty much decided whether Duke will have a chance at the Conference championship and maybe a bowl bid, since if we knock over Tennessee—which is our strongest opponent—it will probably be clear sailing until the end of the season. Of course Georgia looks strong and a lot of people are laying money that they will come out #1 in the country. It’s all a horse race, as they say, isn’t it? Incidentally, have you heard the rumor that the Rose Bowl may be held again at Duke (whether we take the #1 spot or not) because the gov’t, has a ban on big outdoor gatherings in Calif. Afraid of Jap sabotage apparently. Those little monkeys really loused up the works for a lot of Americans didn’t they? Anyway it would be great fun if they had the Rose Bowl here, maybe you could come down from Va. for the big show whether Duke plays or not. I’m sure I must have told you that, due purely to an alphabetical coincidence (everything is alphabetical in the service), Pete Strohmyer and Chuckie Stutz are my roommates here. All of us learning to be hotshot Marine officers. Stutz was second team All-American from Auburn last year and I need not tell you who Strohmyer is, I’m sure. This room crawls with reporters and photographers like mice. [Early aptitude for metaphor] Maybe you saw Strohmyer’s picture in Time magazine last week along with the article in which he was called easily the most spectacular broken field runner at least since Tom Harman and perhaps Red Grange. He’s a hell of a nice guy too, Pop, and I don’t guess it would be honest of me if I did not admit that I rather like basking in the reflected glory, especially since the young ladies who flock around Strohmyer are so numerous (and delightful) that there are always some left over for your son, Stingo, the male wallflower. After the Davidson game last week-end we all had quite a ball...

The 2,100 Greek Jews who were being gassed and cremated at