Leon’s letter about Nazi laundry attendants was the last one in the box of family papers I bought at the flea market in 2002. It left unanswered the question of what happened to him afterwards, although the other things in the box made it clear he came home safely from the war. It wasn’t until late 2015 that Leon’s son Roger found a few further clues. One was a letter on USO letterhead dated August 4, 1943. It seems that Leon had been transferred yet again, this time to California:
Here we go again… First an explanation of why no letter the past two days. Tues. nite I was Ass't Charge-of-Quarters from 9 till 12. I wrote a Yucca-wood card -- nope, that was in L.A. -- Let's start over. -- I had typed almost a whole sheet of a letter to you, but I was so continually interrupted by guys wanting to sign-in that I was unable to make headway and finally I became so sleepy I jist gived it up. I had managed to rip off letter to the Railway Express at Indio (in reply to a card from them about my laundry, I think) and to Capt' Foston of 358 (p!!xt¢) about my furlough ration money.
And last night I drew guard duty from midnight till three. Ja ever walk around a lonely post totin' a 9 lb rifle for 3 hours? Most unfunny.
And tonite -- earlier -- the Kay Hyser broadcast originated at our grandstand. Don't know whether I told you our Camp is the former site of the famous Pomona Race Track and we soldiers now use it for our outdoor theatre, special presentation, etc. Real classy.
Based on the mention of the Pomona racetrack, Leon was now in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the Army’s presence there wasn’t limited to a camp for servicemen. What’s now the parking lot of the LA County Fairgrounds was, at that time, being used as an internment camp for more than 5,000 Japanese-American citizens. It seems impossible that Leon didn’t know about this, and even less possible that he didn’t consider it an outrage, but none of his letters mention it.
This move didn’t squelch Leon’s hopes that he and Elly might be able to see each other again soon. It did seem to put an end to any thoughts of her return to DC, though.
Doll, I simply don't know what to say or advise on the biz of your coming out here. Of course I want you more than anything, but our status here is so goddamed indefinite. No one knows whether we'll be here two weeks, two months -- whether maneuvers will start again, etc. They haven't even made up their minds as to what kind of an Ord. outfit we are, to which Battalion we should be attached, etc. etc. If you are willing to gamble for (possibly) a few weeks' superhappiness and are prepared to spend the enormous sum for fare here (and back) I say "Come at once!" There is, of course, the chance that we will be stationed here for quite a while, too -- so it's clearly a case of banking on "breaks". The married men here get to see their wives practically every night. However, sometimes when work piles up, the workday goes to 8:30 p.m. so you can see how little time per evening they have if he is to get enough sleep to be up and ready at about 5 a.m. Again, "normal" days end at 5:30 and hubby could be home before 7. It's a mess, honeee, as you see from the foregoing. In the letter I half-wrote I urged you to plunge into vital work in Cleve, perhaps rooming with Gail. I know you would find it thrilling and gain priceless experience from the swell people there. But I can't decide whether to be terribly selfish and jealous -- understanding, of course, that you would also do good work here -- or "noble" and practical -- urging you to stay there.
So once again you've got the ball!
I shall understand and abide by the decision whichever way it falls…But make it quickly!
Forgot -- inspired by my wunnerful wife, I too donated blood last week, and didn't faint or scream or puke or nuthing. Matter of fact -- nothin' toot.
Gee, hon, maybe I got some of Momzy's sentimentalism in me but it sure tweaked my ticker to think that D.C. -- our glorious D.C.! -- was a thing of the past. No more Petworth Expresses, choc malts at People's, National Symphony Hour each nite at 9, Little Theater, Pennsy Avenue, the memorial buildings, Greenbelt .......... the composite made my throat lumpy with nostalgia. And the fine friends we had just learned to know and like so much!
Someday, if fate and fortune permit, we must go back, no? Enough for tonight, dearest. I feel as you do about the letters. You must write me every day at Camp even if you do come to beautiful Pomona. Okay, every other day -- but longer letters, then.
Sadly, I don’t have any of those letters from Elly. Or, as it turns out, any more from Leon. But I have one more puzzle piece to share.
