ABSTRACT
after having been very slow to answer their letters, I heard from both Hildegard and Lore not long after I had been notified of the award of the Merck fellowship. Hildegard’s came first:
Hello to a birthday child!
Does there exist a more conceited man than you? No, impossible. Just one question, Günter, may I reckon with the possibility that in one of your lucid moments, you will reach for your pen, turn your mind back one year, and write to me, possibly at Easter, at Whitsun, or on my birthday?
With me, everything is as usual. There is still no word from my father. I read, I grow, I thrive, sometimes with a little more, sometimes with a little fewer calories. May I give you a tip? Give me a little pleasure again one of these days and sweeten my birthday in advance. Of my thanks, Sir, you would be assured.
Do you remember your last birthday, March 28, 1947? Our climb up the 298Turmberg to the observatory tower in the afternoon? Your birthday party at the Breyers in the evening? Je ne suis pas curieux? And then, you and me, we were all alone for the last time. Was it more beautiful this year?
Your Hildegard