43

Elizabeth Bay, 28 August 1933

Dear Alys,

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve written to you. At a rate of once a month it must be more than a hundred letters, all of them unanswered.

I don’t know if they’re reaching you and you’ve decided to forget me. Or perhaps you’ve moved house and not left a forwarding address. This one will go to your father’s house. I write to you there every once in a while, even though I know that it is useless. I remain hopeful that one of these will somehow get past your father. In any case, I shall keep writing to you. These letters have become my only contact with my former life.

I want to begin, as always, by asking you to forgive me for the way I left. I’ve recalled that night ten years ago so many times, and I know I shouldn’t have behaved in the way I did. I’m sorry I shattered your dreams. Each day I’ve prayed for you to be able to realize your dream of being a photographer, and I hope that over these years you’ve succeeded.

Life in the colonies isn’t simple. Ever since Germany lost these lands, South Africa has controlled the mandate over the former German territory. We aren’t welcome here, though they tolerate us.

There aren’t many jobs going. I work in farms and in the diamond mines for a few weeks at a time. When I’ve saved a bit of money, I travel the country in search of Clovis Nagel. It’s not an easy task. I’ve found traces of him in the villages of the Orange River basin. One time I visited a mine site that he’d just left. I missed him by only a few minutes.

I also followed a tip-off that led me north, to the Waterberg Plateau. There I met a strange, proud tribe, the Herero. I spent some months with them, and they taught me how to hunt and gather in the desert. I fell sick with a fever, and for a long time I was very weak, but they took care of me. I’ve learned a lot from these people besides physical skills. They are exceptional. They live in the shadow of death, every day a constant struggle to find water and adapt their lives to the pressures from the white men.

I’m out of paper; this is the last piece of a batch I bought from a peddler on the road to Swakopmund. Tomorrow I’m heading back there in search of new leads. I’ll go on foot, as I’ve run out of money, so my search will have to be a brief one. The hardest thing about being here, apart from the lack of news about you, is the time it takes me to earn my living. I’ve often been at the point of giving it all up. However, I don’t mean to give up. Sooner or later I’ll find him.

I think about you, about what has happened over these past ten years. I hope you are well and happy. If you decide to write to me, write to the Windhoek post office. The address is on the envelope.

Once again, forgive me.

I love you,

Paul