Folded into the next letter was a plan of Lehmann’s room. He had his own notepaper now with his name and title – Architekt – printed large across the top. Under the window is a table, and on the right of this table are my drawing things. In the middle is my writing case, and on the left are my inkpot and the silver box with your lock of hair. I shall then have to make do with their company until I can home to you. Don’t be sad, don’t cry. I hesitate to say I told you to be careful, not to rush around, and I shan’t say it. Or even think it. But rest now, and wait, and I’ll be home soon to look after you. I know a child is the one thing you must want but don’t forget that you’ve got me.
Lily searched hungrily for the next letter, examining the postmarks for 1932, for June.
Next to the picture of you on my table, a dark red carnation is standing in a narrow vase. Just as you love them, it is admiring you. But you look sad, and I’m trying to make your lovely eyes a little happier. Last night I awake, thinking about our plans for Palestine, and all the difficulties involved in settlement and travel. You must bear the possibility of this in mind, my love, because the time is coming when we will have to find somewhere else to go.
Lily folded the letter, the cream of the paper, the grains watery as silk, and as she slid it into its envelope she pressed it to her nose. There was the sweet, sour smell of tobacco, the dry dustiness that threatened to make her sneeze, and she wondered if this was Lehmann’s smell, sealed in a capsule, or more likely the smell of a cupboard in North London where the other Lehmann had stored them in their carrier bag through all the years.