July 22, 2020 About the Konnarock prison camp, this letter which I wrote to Mommy: 19501227JE Konnarock, Virginia December 27, 1950 Dear Margaret, It is midnight now, and I cannot tell whether it is today or tomorrow. I wish I could go to sleep, but I know that if I tried, it would be in vain. I wish you were here, so that I could talk with you, because I have done all the work I can do today,-it is still incomplete. Writing to you is the next best thing, because while it will not make me relaxed, still it will occupy the time between now and sleep. - But it would be so much better if you were here - -. This has been a strenuous day emotionally and spiritually, - it has been too long, - and Margrit, as though it had not been long enough, is still listening to the Magic Flute. I wish everyone had gone to bed and left me alone with the palpable night. Outside the creek is murmuring just as it did last summer when I wrote to you at this desk, - but much, so much has changed since then. Beside the creek, in the cornfield at whose edge blackberry bushes used to grow a prison camp for Negro laborers has been built. - I knew it would be there when I came home, but it was too difficult to speak about in anticipation. Now that it is there, at least I can use the realistic description to veil my emotions. Most humiliating of all is that the camp has been built on the land of the church, - it is a five year lease, and I believe the rent must be some multiple of $30 a year, - in silver. Ironically the prison is immediately adjacent to the new church which is being built, - but no one is aware of the irony. The camp consists of four gray barracks, a watchtower, and a high fence. The convicts are transported to and from work in wooden boxes mounted on the backs of trucks. There they sit on planks - like brown parrots in a cage. It is said that the prisoners are treated "well," - although the story is told that upon refusing to work some of them were once hung by their heels. - You see, I write you concerning all this, because I dreamed it last night and in writing of it perhaps I can avoid dreaming of it again. Probably you will think my exposition tasteless and inappropriate, - I know of no one who would not, but then I'm not asking you read it. I'm merely writing - -. Where the corn used to grow and where we went swimming many summers many years ago, the barracks stand now, and the smoke from their coal stoves drifts into the house. There is asphalt paving, and all the bushes - the blackberries and the elderberries, - in the vicinity have been cut down lest they protect any fugitives from the guns on the watchtower. At night the yellow lights glow behind the boarded windows, and the roof of the huts is silvery in the light of evening. Sirens are blown at various times during the day, - otherwise there is no noise from the, - except when occasionally, like tonight, the surging of confused voices, - saying I don't know what, - mingles with the moaning of the creek. - What shall I say else? Can you understand what I am trying to say. - I know of no one who does, although I like to think that perhaps Dostoevski was able to say what I feel, - and therefore he must have been able to understand it, - must he not? Have you ever read his notes from Siberia? If I were you I would say that they speak to my condition. The grey buildings of the camp against the bare trees and the leaden sky, - what else would Siberia be? Why must I be in Siberia? Poor Dostoevski, how he must have suffered! Do you remember the story of the Grand Inquisitor in the Karamazovs. I am beginning to understand now. - If Jesus lived today, where else would he be, if not among the prisoners. - But if you tell that to anyone, they will laugh, - how naïve is not human nature! They pacify their consciences either with the pragmatic arguments or with self-deceptions, - in the one case saying that it is the only possible solution, and the other that it is the best thing for the prisoners that can be done. - I cannot even speak to my family about these things - they have too many more pressing worries.... But you see I cannot go to church anymore, at least not here, because since the convicts have come, God can hardly be expected to concern himself with the righteous, particularly since church and prison camp are adjacent, and he surely cannot turn his eyes away from the camp as lightly as do his most vociferous worshipers. For none of them loves him as do the convicts; and any one prisoner loves him more than all the righteous put together. Not only is this true because the prisoners need him so, although doubtlessly this is some relation to his love, but also because he suffers much on account of his humanness, and whatever a man does because he is human, he does because he loves God. The others love God only because he promised them eternal bliss,-and some of them even think that the "holy" life has earthly rewards. But which of us loves God enough to go through hell on earth for him? No, - who loves him enough to be willing to suffer hell for eternity for his sake? Hell, they say, is separation from God - but that which one loves, - must one not lose it, - and that which one would preserve, must one not throw it away? They who love themselves will desire eternal life for themselves. - But what can he who loves God ask more than eternal separation from him. Dear Margaret, - do you forgive my writing all these things of which I do not know whether they are true or not. That decision I leave to you. I can only ask questions and learn to ask them better. But the answers are in your power, and you must not despair or be unhappy over my helpless questioning. Very probably I shall see you as we planned. I think of you very often, and I hope that my thoughts may not be too great a burden for you. Good night. - I wish I knew what you meant to me, - I know only that it is very much. Jochen and these sonnets I wrote to her after her death: Fidelio Mein liebes Kind, im kleinen Kinderzimmer wo ich seit Deutschland wohn, vorm düstren Fenster am grünen Holztisch anders nicht als immer, blick ich aufs Arbeitslager1 wo Gespenster den Buchenwald mir in Erinnerung bringen, und mein Gedächtnis hört zugleich ein Singen: "Und spür' ich nicht linde, sanft säuselnde Luft, und ist nicht mein Grab mir erhellet? Ich seh, wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft sich tröstend zur Seite, zur Seite mir stellet," Wie dumm von mir Dir dieses Lied zu singen, Kannst Du doch garnicht wissen was es meint. Bald aber soll's in unseren Herzen klingen, Als Loblied das zwei Liebende vereint. * * * * * * Komm bald Mein liebes Kind, die gräulichen Gespenster vom Arbeitslager endlich zu vertreiben flattert ein Vöglein hin und her vorm Fenster. Was sucht es wohl? Wo wird's am Abend bleiben? Ihm folgt mein Aug mit Sehnsucht und mit Freude. In seiner Schönheit ist's Beleg für Dich. Wär' es vielleicht ein Gleichnis für uns beide? In Unentschlossenheit zählt es für mich. Ich stell mir vor, dass Du das Vöglein wärst, Und kämst um mich zu trösten. Komme bald, Komm bald so wahr Du meine Bitte hörst, Komm, komm zu mir in menschlicher Gestalt. Ach, hätt ich doch die vorbehaltne Gabe,3 Zuletzt zu rufen "Komm, komm aus dem Grabe”. * * * * * *