Yiddish, I must write in the language of my parents. Beautiful description of parents on Shabbos, kissing his high forehead.
Dear Sala, I just thought, dear child, that today I should write to you in Yiddish. I am sure that you will not be angry at me for it. So often, I feel guilty. I imagine our dear father is near me and he says, Raizel, could it be that I put all my hopes in you and that you don't even write in Yiddish? Surely, we owe this to them, to write in the language in which our parents spoke to us, the language in which we spoke to our parents, I must admit that it is harder for me because I’m thinking again in Polish. And then it comes again to my mind, how they earned [the right for us to write in Yiddish],even if we have to struggle to give them this gift? How many sleepless nights did they spend with us and how many days would they go without food when, God forbid, something was wrong with a child? What wouldn’t our dear mother do to put a child back on her feet? Nothing was too difficult for her. It is 12 o'clock now on Friday. I see our dear mother fussing in the kitchen to prepare for Shabbat, our father getting ready to welcome a guest. Ah, that's all my imagination. I wish I had at least a picture, so that I could at least be able to kiss his high forehead and his long grey beard. When you came home the first and only time from Geppersdorf to see us, it was also on a Friday. How happy we all were, how quickly it passed by. How hopeful our dear father was to see you still alive. I read every one of your letters to him ten times. He was so sorry to put them away. You can't imagine what it meant to him, how he talked the whole day about your return home. Beyond his words, Sala, I see our father again, his voice comes to me again. Our dear parents, they gave us their future, and it was our job to find you. Is it possible that you have some news from Moshe David or from "Congress?" May God grant that someone from our family will be found and if not we have to say, unfortunately, unfortunately -- we can't help that anymore. We are powerless. I asked about our family in Italy and they answered that nobody is there with them. They sent my letter to Warsaw. As soon as they hear some news, they'll let me know immediately. For you, I'm getting papers constantly to fill out, dear Sala. I'm writing that you are in Bergen Belsen in care of Zusi Ginter: remember that you should be there. If not, it will be impossible for us to bring you here. Whenever someone is not found right away, somebody else is sent in their place. You have to have patience to wait. We too must have patience and hope that eventually it will happen and we will have our great happiness. Just that thought, that it could happen after such a long separation, that we could be together again, is making us very happy. We can hardly wait for that moment. I'm providing your birthdate as 1924, you should know that too. Now dear Sala, please write to us if you received our mail. We're won’t stop writing even though we have nothing special special to say. My letters chase each other, one after the other, so don’t be surprised if they aren't so systematically written. I need for us to be together because I feel anxious from this correspondence: writing all my feelings, our dearest, writing, writing, writing, every free moment. Now, dear Sala, how are you, are you well, in general, how is everything with you? By us, everything is normal, we are well, thank God, and just wait for your arrival. Remember, remember, to be in Bergen Belsen. Again, I hate to separate from you because when I write to you, I am with you. IT is almost Sabbath. I wish you a good time in the pleasant atmosphere [of Ansbach.] Missing you a lot, your sister, with a lot of kisses, even though from far away, I'll never forget you. Raizel. A lot of heartfelt kisses from the heart from our sister Blima, good Sabbath. Regards to all your friends. I don't know if our friends are with you. Sala, is it possible to copy the photographs of our dear parents and send to us so we can look at them until you come? We have no mail from [our family in] Palestine. Raizel