• Words

É.Á. was only the beginning in engaging myself with the closeness of writing, first time done on my native tongue which was full burdened with taboos. She was a Jewish woman, like C.R., eleven years older, than me. I was seventeen, and it was my birthday /the best, ever!/. I’ve got a huge water melon from her and from her artist friend a beautiful, self made japanese, Edo drake. The red and white calligraphically patterned drake was flying on this one day only. We were in a summer art camp. É.Á. wasn’t an artist, but the daughter of a famous painter in exil. She suffered very much from living in the shadow of his fame, to bear his last name, since she was very creative as well. But so she just teached ideology and Russian at my school. As the school started again, I saw and met her daily there. Additionaly we were writing and sending letters one another via snail mail, each and every day. That was our secret game. It was so exciting to escape into the written empire of phantasy, I could feel her warmth and felt safe and secure in her thoughts. But very soon this penpalship seemed to be more than a simple friendship. Each day the letters got more intense and even more intimated. The written, but never spoken words we used were exploded into unknown emotions, Oh, she understood very well, how to handle sensitive words. One day she did write to me „szeretlek“ and the lines got blurred before my eyes, my hands shivered, as I was reading her usually six to eight pages letters till to the end.