Chapter 20
10 February 1959
Dear James,
I’m writing this letter, knowing you’ll never read it, because I’ll never send it. In spite of all your words to the contrary, I’m too big a coward to tell you to your face what I did and chance you walking out the door.
You asked who had told me you were dead, and I said I couldn’t remember. It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to you, my dearest love. And yes, you are my dearest love, although I can never say those words to you. How can I? We’re men, after all, and men don’t say such things, at least not to another man.
The truth of the matter is, it was Father who told me—not that you were dead, simply that you hadn’t made the checkpoint, were in fact more than a week overdue. That was all he needed to say. His sombre expression, the grief in h
