My last letter
Friday 10 December 1943
It’s the 10th of December 1943 and the entire world is at war. Gunshots, bombs, plane attacks and the terrible ghettos that the Jews get sent to have become a living for most people. War is the only thing I hear about all the time. On the radio, in the newspaper, at my job, at the town. I can’t take it anymore.
Not only is the war really terrible itself, the fact that I’m homosexual doesn’t make life easier. I constantly have to live with the fear of someone finding out about me. The Nazis hate Jews and people that are different, and being homosexual is really different. I’m just so scared that they’ll find me, and God knows what they’ll do then. Will they send me to a ghetto? Will they kill me instantly? I really don’t know the answer to that question and I for sure don’t want to know it either.
Saturday 13 Mars 1944
The past weeks have been really weird for me. It has felt like I am being watched wherever I am. At the store, in the town, at my job and even at home. I don’t think it’s because of my newly grown gray hair, it’s because of something else and it’s really terrifying. I don’t know what to do. Yesterday when I went to the store to buy some vegetables for the dinner, i just had this strange feeling that everyone was avoiding me. I got very confused and a little bit sad actually so I walked straight home to my best friend Matilda Van Der Woodsen and asked her if she knew anything about it and that my dear reader, that was the worst conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Even worse than the time when my mom told me that they were going to leave me.
Matilda told me that she had heard that there are some rumors going around about me. When I heard that my heart stopped for a second. What rumors? I asked. Rumors about your sexual orientation. When I heard that, it was like the world collapsed and brought me with it. I started crying and couldn’t stop it. I sat there for hours just crying in her ash colored sofa with her doing her best trying to comfort me.
After many hours of rivers flowing from my eyes, I finally took my vegetables and walked home, and that takes us to where we are right now. Me sitting here in my brown, boring chair, in my small, boring house, writing a letter. A very special letter. To a very special someone. Probably the last letter I will ever write, because what I’m going to do next is nothing fun, but I think it’s the right thing for me. I know it’s the right thing for me. You have probably already figured it out but think that it’s to terrible. It’s not, I’m going to kill myself.