I recently left my job on Wall Street to take care of a 99 year old relative, Henry, who was told he had seven months to live. While staying at his home, I stumbled across a treasure trove of WWII letters he wrote to his future wife, my cousin Evelyn, from 1943-1945. The letters illustrate a wartime love story; a firsthand history of a time of crashing, difficult transitions and stupendous, wonderful coincidences.
She grew up wealthy, a townhouse off Fifth Avenue, a hairdresser at the Plaza Hotel, attending Barnard College – until her father, a successful restaurateur lost it all in the 1929 Stock Market Crash.
He worked as a longshoreman on Manhattan’s west side docks, having been raised in a tenement on Perry Street in the Village, pranking bootleggers, playing stickball, and stealing the occasional pear or harmonica.
One day at her new, less-expensive salon, the formerly wealthy, Evelyn Cipriani, heard from the hairdresser Bob about his friend, Henry Barriero, a G.I.in Europe who was in need of a pen pal. In an act of patriotic duty, she volunteered to serve as a correspondent, having no idea how these things worked, or where it might lead.
The letters flowed between the young soldier in Europe and the elegant woman from the upper west side.
September 1943
Dear Miss Cipriani:
I’m gambling when I write this letter. Please do not take my action as that of a man with gall. I would appreciate it, if you would answer this letter, just so I know you received it.
Henry
And she…
September 1943
Dear Henry-
Now I’m the one who is gambling…I answered your very nice letter when it finally found me and told you I’d be delighted to have you call me when you came to NY but I haven’t had an answer from you. I should hate to have you think that I snubbed your friendly introduction because I really would like to hear from you and meet you sometime.
I saw Bob last week. He told me you were a New Yorker. He also told me you weren’t Italian, which I’d assumed from your name. If we should ever meet I hope you’ll come over for dinner. Are you fond of spaghetti? I adore spaghetti, in fact every time I sit down to eat, I thank my lucky stars that I’m a “wop.”
Sincerely,
Evelyn
As with all love affairs, it had its ups and downs.
January 1944
Dearest E:
Please, stop writing to me. I’m so miserable. I’m sorry I can’t give you all that you deserve. Let me find myself. I’m going to try and unravel the things that make me who I am. Until then, I remain more than your friend.
Henry
And she…
January 1944
Dear Henry:
I’m not trying to torture you, nor am I trying to have the last word. I hope there will never be “last words.” Try not to be so unhappy – stop torturing yourself. You have a job to do, you have the brains to do it, so find solace in your misery, for in that and in your friends and in the pure heart, and in the early spring outside your window, in the stars and moon — all is not ugliness around us – it’s those same things that I shall be trying to find comfort in myself.
Evelyn
After 8 months of letter writing and war, love made Henry a poet.
May 1944
Dearest E:
It’s a very beautiful day. I witnessed its birth. It began with a beautiful sunrise, a sky of fire, the song of birds and most important, the finding of one of your letters. I have never experienced a more beautiful day on this side of the Atlantic. I’ll give mother nature some credit, but your letter comes in for its share of honors. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you the warmth of the sun could not compete with the warmth of your written words. Here I was, carrying a “duffle bag” filled with sunshine-your letter-and I was unaware of it. Your letter was tucked away in the bottom of my duffle. I rummaged through my bag in hopes of finding more letters, but it was “no dice.” I had to be content with the little luck I was fortunate to have. I’ll remember this day always.
Henry
And she…
September 1945
My Dearest-
Two years ago today, I longed for you but didn’t know you existed. Two years ago the seed of love was planted in my heart. Surely there was never a more beautiful day to commemorate the beginning of a more beautiful love, which The Gods of Chance delivered to me.
E.
Shortly after New Year’s in 1945, Henry returned to New York and went to Claremont Avenue with a bouquet of flowers to meet his pen pal. He said if Evelyn was homely, he was going to pretend he was the delivery boy. There was no problem, she was beautiful.
