July 1945
July 1945Ursula hadn’t heard from Anna and Mutter since April and had grown increasingly worried with every passing day.
“I wish I could go to Berlin and see them for myself,” Ursula complained to her aunt.
“You know that’s not possible, my dear.”
“But why won’t they send us at least a letter?”
“Maybe they have and the mail is not delivered?” Lydia looked up from her needlework and gazed at her niece. “They’ll write as soon as they can. You’ll see. There’s no use in worrying.”
Ursula wished she possessed the same stoic calm as her aunt. “Are you never worried about Peter?” Lydia’s husband had been fighting first in France and then in the East, and they hadn’t heard from him since last fall.
“I miss him, yes, but since there’s nothing my worry will accomplish, I don’t worry
