I must find the postcards which my father sent to my mother when he was a prisoner of war in Italy and, later, in Germany.
They are very, very sad. At one point my father says that he feels that, if he'd had better luck, he might have had a very distinguished career in the Army, which gives one some insight into the guilt and sadness which many prisoners of war must have felt. A constant theme in the cards is the lack of food, which reminds me that one of the very few things my father told me about his experiences of the War is that, for long periods, he and his fellow prisoners had to survive on a diet of five prunes a day.
When I first read these cards, forty or more years ago, I thought how wonderful it would be to be able to take some food - of which, ever since I left boarding school, I have always had an abundance - to these starving men. This thought persists with me, but has now come to be associated with one meal: occasionally, to my shame, I make myself a large breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. Every time I have this particular meal I think that, however much I enjoy it - and I do enjoy it, I assure you - it would have given so much more pleasure to my poor, emaciated father as he spent four miserable years in captivity, many years ago.
This thought doesn't ennoble me in any way - after all, it costs me nothing at all - and it doesn't, of course, diminish my father's suffering in the slightest degree: his camp was liberated nearly 65 years ago, and he has now been dead for 26 years. Nor is it a thought which improves my enjoyment of the meal, enhancing the flavour of the food like some kind of cerebral condiment. No, it's just a sad little thought about one's utter helplessness in the face of time and decay. But it does bring my father to mind each time, and remind me how much I miss him (even though he was an utter bastard towards me and my brothers for most of his life), and that must be a good thing, mustn't it? That's what I tell myself, anyhow.
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