Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. I'm undecided whether I would
rather feed a scanner and a copier to print 13 copies of
169 pages, or wade into a pond and clear it of algae. I
suspect the latter. On the 65 acres of abandoned farm that
we bought in northern New Hampshire 23 years ago, there 
was once a pond, curiously located near the top of a hill.
It had been used as a watering hole for the cattle that grazed
there. When first we went, there would be migrating ducks
enjoying the water; but over the years the pond became choked
with sedges and filled in. I toyed with the idea of restoring
it or having it restored, but obviously given our ages and
physical condition, the obligations of Konnarock and Nantucket,
not to speak of this big old shabby house that you'll soon see,
I can't possibly take on another project.

As you can infer from the correspondence with my cousin which
I have been forwarding to you, the compulsion to write has
gotten the best of me; and I recognize myself as a garrulous
old man with unseemly intellectual pretensions. But I'm too old
to change and my cousin obviously is sensible and laughs it off.

You asked about my parents in Konnarock. It's a long story which
is distorted by my own hopes and disappointments. The 1938-1939
transatlantic correspondence between my parents which just a 
night or two ago I retrieved from the filing cabinet in the train
room was so agonizingly despondent that I didn't think I should
expose myself to it at this time, when I need to husband my
energy and wits for the appeal in progress. Both my parents,
never having been separated subsequent to their marriage, except
for the three weeks that my father was in Buchenwald, were racked
by separation anxiety, which was only intensified by the unsuccessful
attempts to communicate their feelings. My father living in the
apartment of his brother and sister-in-law was isolated, lonely
and afraid. After my mother arrived with my sister and myself on
March 31, 1939, the anticipated improvement in their states of
mind didn't occur. My mother had an aweful time trying to be
a domestic servant, a role for which she was not suited. My father
worked heroically to prepare for his language and medical
examinations. He succeeded, being one of only a small fraction
of applicants who passed. Then on the eve of our departure for
Virginia, on October 13, 1939, my parents and I witnessed the
uncrating of our household goods and books at a storage facility
on Staten Island, and saw to our horror that the lift-van had 
been dunked into NY Harbor in the process of unloading. The
Mayflower moving van drove to Virginia less than half full. Most of
the furniture was so badly damaged, it had to be burned on the
spot. The mission supervisor, one Paul Andrew Kirsch, had assured
my parents that once in Virginia they would be provided a house
"with all modern conveniences." Instead it was a glorified shack,
then about 45 years old, with a smoky coal fired furnace, a wood
burning kitchen stove, four small rooms and a single bath. All this
was stuffed with what was left of our furniture plus my father's
medical equipment which fortunately had been loaded in the upper
regions of the container, and being largely metal was still
useable. My father had been told that he would receive a Virginia
medical license by reciprocity, - but possibly as a result of
complaints from physicians in nearby communities, specifically
a Dr Clendennen in Damascus, who was afraid of competition,
the license was withheld, and there was even some question whether
my father would be admitted to the Virginia medical examination.
At that juncture my parents were very discouraged; though penniless,
they were ready to abandon the Virginia project to try to return to
New York State. It was probably political pressure by the church
authorities which persuaded the Virginia bureaucrats to permit my father
to take yet another medical exam, which he again passed; and finally at the
beginning of December 1939, he was permitted to practice, - but had
no place to do so. The promised construction of office facilities,
grandiosely called "Konnarock Medical Center" had been delayed for
unknown reasons. Rumor had it that the project had been abandoned.
Ultimately the Medical Center was built. It was completed in the
late summer of 1940; about 10 or 11 months after our arrival in
Konnarock, my father finally had a place to work. None of us was
happy. We all wanted to get back to civilization, but given the
social and economic constraints, such a move seemed impossible.
I don't believe my parents ever recovered from the trauma of that
dislocation, and over the years, I tried hard to make their life
in Konnarock bearable. I have lots of stories for you in subsequent
letters. After the house was built for them by the church in 1952,
they settled down somewhat. My father became deeply attached to his
very successful practice, and now refused even to consider moving away.
My mother learned finally to adapt herself in a limited degree,
to the prevailing culture. For the local citizenry my parents acquired
charisma of sorts. Many of their patients became very fond of them.
Specifically a girl named Jeane Walls, at whose birth in 1942 my
father had been the obstetrician, helped my mother with the house
work, and when my parents became old and ill, I made arrangements
for Jeane to move into the house to take care of them. She was
very loving and nursed them until they died, my father in
March 1987, my mother in January 1990. Since then Jeane has been
looking after the house for me. She telephoned this afternoon,
to assure herself that Margaret and I were well.
 
I hope I didn't tell you much more than you wanted to know.
There are a lot more stories in the pipeline, so to speak.
Stay well, and give my best to Ned. I look forward to seeing
you next month, but before then, a lot more words will wash
over the Internet.

Jochen