Home again I went into the study with my coat still on, sat down beside a
box. 1943. I had written the date in big letters, probably sometime in
the fifties. Suddenly, like the day a few years ago when I drove to
to a small town near the coast, looking for the remains of the antiaircraft installation and the
house where we lived, I was no longer afraid of opening the box.
Nobody who writes about me remembers Luke or asks about Luke. Is it
because I never mention him or because one dead soldier is considered of no
consequence?