The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
–Ralph Waldo Emerson: The Past
When I opened the mailbox and took out the package inside, I felt my heart skip a beat. Tucked in among the bills and commercial flyers was a letter. I recognized the sender's name and address: Hildegard Austerlitz, Dusseldorf, Germany. Anticipating its content, I impatiently ran up the stairs. After reading it, I was both pleased and disappointed at the same time.
Dear Basilio: What a great surprise to receive a letter from you after so many years! Thank you so much. I am very sorry that we cannot resume our communication. I am eighty-six years old now, and I can no longer write. But I wanted you to know that I received your letter and that I still live in the same apartment, in Dusseldorf. Only the postal code has changed (it used to be 9200; now it's 09599). Despite that, I received your letter. I wish you the best in your future life. Greetings from Hildegard Austerlitz.
Months earlier, I had sent eighty-seven letters. One by one, they were returned to me with different stamped notes: «Wrong address», «Postal code does not exist», «Recipient no longer resides at this address», or «Return to sender».
Ever since I was a boy, I have always wanted to travel around the world and get to know people from all corners of the earth. I used to stare at the pictures on my geography textbook for long periods of time, daydreaming that one day I would visit those remote places. But before the Internet and email existed, my only window to the outside world was shortwave radio. Thanks to the magic of the ionosphere, the waves could travel around the globe, bouncing from the sky to the ground, back and forth. Every evening I would spend a couple of hours sitting next to the old Philips radio receiver. I remember the thrill of being able to tune in to a radio station from far-off countries like Japan or South Africa. I frequently listened to BBC, Deutsche Welle, Radio Netherland, Radio France International, Radio Canada International, and Radio Moscow, among other stations. The stations had listeners’ clubs and mailing lists. Those lists were sent to all members so that they could write to one another. That is how I got to have eighty-seven correspondents, or pen pals. For years we exchanged postcards, stamps, coins, banknotes, and details of our countries and our daily lives.
In 1988 I wrote to each one of them, notifying them that I was moving to another country, that the letters would stop for a while, that I understood the beginnings were always difficult, but that I would resume the correspondence once I had settled in my new home. The reality is that the beginning was much more difficult than I expected. Immigrating to a new land where I had no relatives, no friends, and no acquaintances, with a wife, a three-year-old child, and a nine-month-old baby, was extremely complicated. Nostalgia, loneliness, winter, and financial problems proved to be a very oppressing weight. I got sidetracked by the ups and downs of life, and I never wrote again.
Twenty-four years later, rummaging through a trunk where I keep things from the time when my children were children, I came across a list of names and addresses. When I realized it was the list of my pen pals, I was astonished. A violent wave of nostalgia swept me away, and I decided to write them once more. I was aware that there was little chance of success; it was like sending a message in a bottle, hoping that somehow it would reach the other side of the ocean. I thought that most likely they had all moved, and therefore no one would reply. Yet, I did it anyway. Months later, when I had already given up on the project, not without some degree of sadness, I received Hildegard's letter. I had returned to her a little late. Her life had changed. Mine too.
I am currently trying to find fulfillment in a variety of activities, such as reading, writing, traveling, listening to music and promoting peace and goodwill among my fellow human beings. Lately, I have been striving to reconnect with old friends, schoolmates, and former teachers. Attempting, I suppose, to attenuate existential loneliness and give some direction to my life through love and interpersonal relationships. It is the only way I know to achieve salvation.
I visited my old school. After many years of searching for my beloved second grade teacher, I finally found her. She lives in New York. I spoke to her on the phone twice. I told her I was traveling to New York just to see her. She assured me that she would be waiting for me. Last summer I went. I called her several times, but there was always an answering machine at the other end. I left her messages, telling her that I was in town and that I wanted to meet her. However, she didn’t return the call. I didn't know her address. As a result, I left without seeing her.
For the most part, the effort has been futile. Almost all the letters I sent to my former pen pals were returned to me. They have evidently moved. Or, there is always that possibility; perhaps they do not want to respond; maybe they don't want to renew contact with old friends; and maybe they are right. It's probably not a good idea to try to go back in time. The past is in the past, and we have to leave it behind. We must move forward, and only forward.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024
