December 21st, 1937

Only half a decade it’s been Muli, since I read your letter of surrender and learned of your self-detrimental decision. I used to believe you didn’t know -- when you left without so much as a word. It was all I could do to resist following you; I was certain it’d lead to the downfall of my mental state. Although, after all this time, I can’t bring myself to believe -- that you didn’t know of what you were walking into, on that fateful day.


I’ve grown used to it now: the pain, constant pain -- never numbing; an eternal fire spreading through the centre of my palm and throughout my fingertips. And I can’t say the pain wasn’t worth it, because it was, it is, Muli; completely. Even so, I long for the ability to play for you again; but of course, both are unachievable unaided, not to mention together as one.

As I sit here, recording this nightmare that is my prison cell, I can’t but help reminisce memories that seem a lifetime away. The lifetime that started with you, Muli; the day I met Martin Ulrich Eppendorf. Twas the day everything changed.

I was seventeen then, on the verge of a new life. But I knew it was wrong -- forbidden -- but that made it all the more contrary to my previous life; it was a fresh start -- a new life. And I didn’t care what others thought; or did, it was my choice, my decision, my life.

However young I was, I knew this couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- last. It’d only be a matter of time, Muli, our time together was limited. Although, it seemed as though the fates spared me that day, for a content decade I managed to spend with you.

Whilst I carry on writing this, I briefly recall a visit from an old friend; Olga Rinnebach. Twas she who was in possession of this, and felt the kindness to give it to me. She told me to keep it safe, to hide it -- from the guards -- and I will Muli, I will; with my life.