"I'm allowed to say that at the moment of writing I'm intact in life and limb and an occasional smile has yet been known to flick across my war-weary face."
This letter was included in a bundle of letters written to my mother by her fiancé during WW2. Asher was another old friend, possibly an early boyfriend, whom she’d met when he was training as a doctor and she was training as a nurse at the Booth Hall Children’s Hospital in Manchester.
Asher joined the army as soon as he’d qualified although, as a doctor, he could have stayed in the UK. But his parents were Polish Jews who’d been brought to England as children and raised in Whitechapel. Joining the British army and fighting overseas, Asher had a lot to lose – but also a lot more reason to fight.
Three weeks after writing this letter to my mother, Asher was killed in Italy.
Transcript:
Dear Bobby,
Your true to form as your Air Mail of Dec 19th arrived at 5.30am this morning. To be fair though, I can't lay that at your door but must blame the rather complicated tactical [unclear] which makes most things inevitable. If I try to explain in more detail, I'll be running up against the Base Censor, so use your wit. I was quite aware when I sent you a Christmas Air Graph that you were probably at the London, but since I never heard that your appointment had been confirmed, I wasn't taking any chances.
So you like Whitechapel eh? Well if you're interested in the house where my sleepy eyes first saw the light of day, take a stroll down to Dempsey St & look at the remnants of 109. Its about 10 minutes walk from you & is a good place to go as any between tea & supper. The hole in the curb just outside the front gate was excavated by yours truly for the purpose of working a whipping top - did you ever use such things in Failsworth? Still I don't suppose your interested in the sentimental slush connected with my past though why you should imagine that I don't like wallowing in nostalgic memories of home, God knows I spend at least 3 hours at it every day.
You want to hear all about what I'm doing. Well I'm afraid that my lips are sealed, so you must read the papers & use your imagination. I'm allowed to say that at the moment of writing I'm intact in life & limb, & an occasional smile has yet been known to flit across my war weary face. It may also be of some interest to you to know that we don't carry central heading around with us, & since I haven't changed my vest & pants for 2 weeks, I look like one of the kids the police used to dump in BI at Booth Hall. The reason for all this is, as you may have gathered from the address, is that I have joined the infantry in fact, when not interfered with by Jerry & the impossible situations created by Brigadiers & Generals, I'm supposed to look after the health of this batallion. Laugh! The other interesting point is that my experience of pediatrics garnered with such devotion at B.H. has stood me in good stead. Italian bambinos have the same illnesses as the youth of Manchester plus a few which are the act of man - so far the price of a bottle of vino or a kilo of dried figs & my shop is open to the local peasantry, who are a spineless lot, but you can't help feeling sorry for them. Having a war on [unclear] 20 years of Mussolini is no joke.
(Did you know that there were 3 writing pages on an Air Letter?)
I was very interested in the news of Bruce's location & future prospects, of which I heartily approve. Curiously enough, I did bump into one of your adolescant Gallahads a couple of months ago. He was a guy named Brierley, lives in Failsworth - I was the grateful recipient of an ounce of castor oil. I met him at a Rest Camp where I was running a doctor shop for a week - not that I had much rest. But all that is in the dim & hazy past now. I don't know how you got into conversation but anyway you did, to the accompaniment of much unilateral blushing -& you've never know me to blush - so you muct have done something to the poor guy. I haven't the faintest idea where he is now. You must feel pretty smug, when, curled up in an armchair beside a great fire, you think of great bunches of your paramours dotted around the Italian countryside. Still, I for one enjoy it - so you're welcome to any satisfaction the thought gives you. Well Bobby, its nice to hear from you even if you're letters, like your erstwhile phone-calls, arrive at unearthly hours of the night. Give my love to the ticket-collector at Whitechapel Stations.
Yours ever Asher
Tagged:Europe
Contributed by:Clair Goodwin Figes
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