A Box of Letters
Sorted into the eras of the story, searchable by name or place. Click any card for the full translation.
AI transcribed each letter from the handwritten page — Yiddish and English alike — translated it, and wrote the summaries and search tags that make browsing by name, place, or date possible. Uncertain words and phrases are flagged in the transcription itself rather than guessed at. A human supplied the original letters and reviewed every transcription and translation against the scan.
Read more about how this site was madeNo letters match that search.
Sam shuttles for fur-trade work between Montreal and London, courting Dora (his cousin) almost entirely by letter across the ocean; forks toward Minnesota, Winnipeg, a homestead and Chicago are weighed and abandoned before he commits to return to London, and Dora sends £3 for the ticket.
“So I said I was an Austrian Christian — and they took me.”
Sam writes from Montreal to "Dear Darling Dora" on 11 June 1901. He's disappointed not to have heard from her that day, then turns to describing his hunt for work as a new immigrant: told that employers wouldn't take on Englishmen, he claimed to be an "Austrian Christian" and was hired on the spot, feeling uneasy watching that Jews were being turned away. Reading the contract more closely, he realized it required two months of unpaid labor to cover the cost of passage and food — but other people talked him out of taking the job, and he went back to the office that same day to reclaim what had been taken from him. Dora was only about 12 years old at this date, which makes "Darling" an unusually warm way to address her.
“Stay well.”
A short 1907 letter that a volunteer Yiddish reader, Leslie Train, confirmed is genuinely addressed "Dear Dora" — correcting an earlier machine reading that had garbled it into "Dear Tsokhe." The body itself is too badly damaged to read with confidence: the Yiddish handwriting recognition is badly broken, and two independent translations disagree almost everywhere they aren't simply blank. What little recurs across both readings — an apology near the start for not being able to do something, a mention of having read something from Dora, and a request that she think something over carefully — isn't reliable enough to state as fact. The letter closes "Stay well," signed with initials too faint to make out.
“We sit in the garden and we hear your reading (or what you write) that you record for us.”
Sam writes to his wife Dora while she is away resting in the country, reassuring her that he is fine and that the time away will do her good. He describes their days going by quietly, with evenings spent sitting in the garden listening to her reading. He relays family news — a letter from cousin Alice touching on her plans to visit, and a mention that 'Father' often has no money — and notes that something reached him already opened, which surprised him greatly. He closes with a direct message to cousin Alice, telling her he is not as upset with her as she seems to think.
“It's urgent — do hurry for me; better a word than none.”
Sam writes from London to his cousin Dora on July 10, 1907, signing off 'Your cousin, Sam.' He reports there's no work to be found in London and mentions having written to his mother and sister. He'd wondered whether Dora had simply neglected to write, and was glad when her letter finally arrived. He touches on a wedding she wants to attend, a request from his father, and regards from cousin Alice. He also raises an urgent matter involving someone who won't read something and needs to be pressed for a response, and closes sending his wife's regards along with his own, telling her she should stay put.
“As they say, God helps him who helps himself.”
Addressing "my dear little Perele," the writer describes deciding to travel to London after spending time with a fellow immigrant ("a greenhorn") who had come from Russia. He tried to make a go of it in Montreal for three months, currently has no money, and closes with the proverb "God helps him who helps himself." There are also hints of homesickness and of a reunion with someone he'd been estranged from, alongside plans for further travel.
“When I come home, I will tell you everything — how it was and how it all came about.”
Written from Montreal on July 26, 1908, Sam addresses "my darling, beloved Dora." He went straight to collect a letter from her as soon as he learned it had arrived, and mentions having taken on new work that he calls "no great fortune, but... better than nothing at all." He touches on a visit from an uncle and his longing to see her soon, and closes by promising that when he comes home he will tell her everything, how it all came about.
“Darling, I received your letter today. You cannot imagine the joy I felt reading your letters, darling Dora.”
This page is the middle of a letter, likely written by Sam to Dora. She had written that things are bad enough that he should come home to London, and he answers cautiously that crossing all the way back only to turn around again wouldn't be worth it, since business where he is seems no better than in London. He notes that her latest letter brought him real joy, and mentions an acquaintance named Pietrov, who said things were very bad in Montreal (or Mezritsh). He adds that he's been to see the buyers or firms in his trade, though the outcome isn't stated, and the page breaks off mid-thought.
“Dorele, you cannot imagine how strongly I still long for you. I am drawn to you!”
Sam writes to his fiancée Dora ('Dorele') early in their long-distance courtship, apologizing for a week without a letter and insisting the silence wasn't his fault. He explains he's been preoccupied, juggling business scattered across three farms near Montreal, a three-day journey from the city. He tells her he has finally decided to travel to be with her, and closes with an outpouring of longing: 'I am drawn to you!'
“Even though I still have no work, I trust it will work out, so that I won't disappoint you.”
Dated to around June 1908, this letter finds Sam writing to Dora about the ups and downs of the fur trade in Montreal. He describes furs not yet sold, tariffs rising as skins grow more valuable, and the best furs being so expensive that he questions whether one can really afford to deal in them, noting the factory has had only occasional work lately and calling the situation "a wonder — and bitter." Despite having no steady work himself at the moment, he tells Dora he trusts things will work out so he won't disappoint her, and mentions hoping work will pick up, since things are expected to stay slow through July and into August.
“The best thing I have discovered is simply to write the way it comes into my head, plainly, just as it is.”
Sam writes to "my beloved Dora," opening by saying he has finally received a letter from her and that he wrote one of his own the day before but held off sending it until after dinner because he expected to hear from her that day. He found the news in her letter "half good" — not a clean positive. The bulk of the letter is a reflection on letter-writing itself: he says a letter from her is his whole joy, that he keeps trying to phrase his thoughts better, but has decided the best approach is simply to write plainly, the way it comes into his head, and hopes she'll do the same. He closes by asking her to write back soon.
“We climbed the highest mountain in Montreal — its peak is over a mile high — and from up there you can see the whole city spread out below.”
Sam writes "My dear Dora" a reflective, affectionate letter, saying he's writing partly to unburden himself since he can't be with her, and asking her to answer the moment she gets it. He tells her he thinks of her constantly — barely a quarter hour goes by without her on his mind — echoing something she'd written about missing him. Most of the letter describes a Sunday spent from ten in the morning to nine at night with friends at a farm outside Montreal, including climbing what he calls the highest mountain in Montreal, over a mile high, for a view over the whole city. He closes wistfully that the one thing missing from the day's beauty was her, wishing they could spend their whole life together, and consoles himself that one has to be patient and can't have everything at once.
“Really there isn't much — you take what little you can get.”
Sam writes "My beloved Dorele," apologizing for having fallen behind on his letters — not, he insists, out of laziness — and mentions he'd already written her the day before about going into town to settle a matter. He suggests that if not for some unnamed misfortune, he might have found a job by the time her letter reached him. Asked for news, he says it isn't the worst but there isn't much to report — "you take what little you can get" — and repeats a point from an earlier letter that most of the available jobs in Montreal go to French speakers, shutting him out. It's a short, apologetic, somewhat discouraged note focused on the job search rather than any major event.
“Is it any easier for me when Falkov comes to me in the evening, a man broken by heartache?”
Sam writes to Dora — addressed affectionately as 'Dorele' — wrestling openly with whether to keep travelling on or turn back to London. He says he can't come to her now, penniless, only to have to start job-hunting all over again, and reports that a friend named Abraham has written urging him to press on; he says he's forwarding Abraham's letter to her as proof he isn't inventing the advice. He describes a man named Falkov visiting him in the evenings 'broken by heartache,' suggesting his circle abroad is struggling too, not just him. He closes reassuring Dora that as soon as he finds work he'll send for her right away.
“I have not written since Monday, because I myself did not know what to write to you. From you, for a whole week, I received no letter.”
Writing to 'my beloved Dorele' on a Saturday evening, Sam responds to money Dora has sent him, saying he hopes to receive it by Friday. Much of the letter explains a gap in his own letters — he says he had not written since Monday because he had gone a whole week without hearing from her and did not know what to say, and insists this, not anger, was the real reason. He also touches on a tangled money situation involving Dora's father, saying the older man had not sent an amount Sam expected, which leaves him confused and moved. He closes on an unresolved note, insisting he is trying hard.
“I truly believe that London is gold compared to Montreal! Here you can't earn a single cent.”
Writing to 'My beloved Dorele' from Montreal, Sam describes rereading her letter over and over for the sheer joy of it, then turns to his situation: no work has turned up, money is short, and he plans that once he receives two pounds from her he'll pay off what he owes and may set off for Chicago, since "London is gold compared to Montreal" and he can't earn a cent where he is. He recounts running into an acquaintance, Max the nailer, who brought greetings from Dora and had seen her at her workshop; the two of them walked the city all day looking for work without success. He mentions Max may be heading back to Liverpool the following week and that he'd go along too if he had the money, or otherwise travel with a friend's brother who is taking goods to Chicago. The letter reads as genuinely candid about hardship, closing with his wish to tell her only "the plain, honest truth."
“This evening, coming home from work, I finally received your two letters. One had come yesterday, and the second today.”
Sam tells Dorele there's no work in Montreal, and since it isn't worth returning to London empty-handed, he's genuinely unsure what to do — he says he'd stay if he could earn as much in Montreal as in London, and expects to know by Saturday whether work and wages will come through; he's wary of taking a new position since he got his current one by chance and a 'new broom sweeps clean.' He also describes finally receiving two of Dora's letters in one evening — one that had arrived the day before, one that day — and the anticipation of walking home sensing a letter was waiting. He notes Dora had written that he shouldn't come back without having accomplished something, and says he'll do his best, adding that he's currently looking for a new, more reliable position.
“We long for each other so, each of us for the other, one day after the next.”
Sam writes to his fiancée Dora, thanking her for a small sum — three pounds — that she'd sent, calling it a great kindness and saying he needs it to buy a ticket, though he doesn't specify what the ticket is for. He describes going straight from work to find out about a letter from her; a person named Falk had told him it was coming, and someone named Tsile called out to him about it. The emotional core is plainly stated: they long for each other, one day after the next. It's a short, warm note.
“life here is very dry, and it isn't worth tormenting yourself over it, because I think I'll do far better in London than here.”
Dated 'Mont. August 2, 1908' in the letter itself, this is Sam writing to 'my beloved Dorele.' He says her latest letter hurt him a little — she had urged him to come sooner in an earlier letter, but now seems to be saying the opposite, and he asks her to explain the change if there's a reason. He tells her that next week, or the week after, he'll set out for London, where he already has work lined up; he gives rough figures for his current Montreal wages (around a dollar for four days' work in one stretch, three to three-and-a-half dollars another week, in English money). He frames the move as a practical calculation — London's season pays better and Montreal life feels 'dry' and not worth the strain.
“And I also expect to find you strong as a lion.”
Sam writes to Dora on printed billhead stationery from Dean & Felkoff, Manufacturing Furriers, in London. He's pleased to hear she's improving after having been unwell, and tells her he plans to leave London at 4 or 5 a.m. Saturday so they'll have the whole day together, joking that he expects to find her 'strong as a lion.' He says there's little other news besides missing her, and mentions the business side only briefly — they haven't yet bought stock and are going the next day to inspect a parcel of goods.
“I am very sorry, cannot spare a minute.”
Written on a furrier's billhead the day after an earlier letter to the same recipient, Sam writes to "Dear Dora" expressing surprise and mild anxiety that he's had no reply to what he sent the night before. He proposes a concrete new plan: leaving London around 4 or 5 a.m. on Saturday to arrive in Southend by train at 7 or 8 a.m., so the two of them can have the whole day together. The tone is warm and a little apologetic ("I am very sorry, cannot spare a minute"), closing "Your loving Sam."
“It made me so happy to hear from you, and I hope you'll write to me more often.”
A letter from a cousin who signs as 'Lieb' to 'dear cousins Dora and Zishe.' He reports being well and passing his time reasonably, mentions that business is currently in a busy season where he is, and promises to write again with more news later. He mentions an uncle and aunt, and a place called Zolsteyn. The tone throughout is warm and grateful — he says hearing from Dora and Zishe made him very happy — and this reads as a light family greeting rather than a letter carrying big news.
“I could not have borne being alone so long — without you!”
This is an emotionally charged farewell letter from Sam to Dora, addressed here as 'Dora / Tsirele.' He describes a farewell gathering the night before his departure, attended by roughly twenty people, and writes with real longing about being apart from Dora, hoping to be reunited soon — by Friday the 2nd. He mentions messages relayed through an aunt and a grandfather, and writes candidly about his own emotional state. The letter invokes London by name and reads as an intense, loving parting.
“We have already sold 100 tons of white goods, and we will probably sell another 150 tons in the coming days.”
This letter is signed simply 'your sister.' The writer describes a long silence between them that had worried her, but says things have since improved; she reports the family is well, that her children are learning music, and that business — trading goods with America — has picked up, with 100 tons of 'white goods' already sold and another 150 tons expected to sell in the coming days. She also mentions expecting a sum of money 'on the farm.' The letter closes with a note asking after someone named 'Sheyne' and the children, signed off with wishes for a healthy year.
“When you have no money, there is nothing at all you can do.”
This letter is addressed 'My dear uncle Reuven,' written by Sam from Montreal. He says the fur trade isn't good in Canada, that a shared plan is stalled for lack of money, and that he'll write more once things change. He closes with warm greetings to Zalmen and his wife, Leon and his wife, and Ada and Larry/Sherry Epstein.
“The crisis has thrown people out of work by the hundreds, and I am one of them.”
Sam writes to 'the Falkovs, and you, Elis' — friends from his Montreal stay — reporting that he's well and strong but that the local economy is in real trouble: "the crisis has thrown people out of work by the hundreds, and I am one of them." He says he hasn't lost heart and asks them to pass along any word of available work. He closes with greetings to a longer list of family names, sent through Elis.
“Well, perhaps in time they will remember it! Every dog has his day.”
Sam (signing as "Shemele") writes to Dora about being out of work, saying he's far from the only one — "all the old workers are here now, no better off than I am," with nothing set aside. He is writing to a contact, Avrom Furevits, hoping for a proper answer, and is weighing a move on to Chicago, insisting this isn't wanderlust but a serious attempt to build a life rather than keep chasing fortune in "these golden lands." He describes a family grievance involving people called "the Bulls" and an uncle, touching on accusations of fair-weather flattery and an unpaid debt of gratitude, summed up as "every dog has his day." He closes tenderly, asking Dora not to eat her heart out and to be patient, hoping their correspondence will turn "brighter and more pleasant" than it has been.
“Hundreds of sleighs go by with three fine horses.”
This letter to Dora is largely taken up with Sam describing a Canadian government land scheme he is weighing: it required roughly a thousand dollars and a commitment to farm the land and hold it for three years with ten acres and a house, after which it could be sold. He admits he doesn't know what to make of it and asks Dora to write back with her opinion. He mentions partners already involved in a piece of land and more people heading out to join them, and touches on wages and his feelings for Dora. He describes going around town with a man named Abram, noting that workers are in demand there, and closes with a vivid image of winter arriving: "hundreds of sleighs go by with three fine horses."
“I understand you even when you hold back as you write — that much I can tell.”
This fragment, from Sam, is addressed to 'my dear.' He comments on her handwriting, noting she mixes Yiddish and English a great deal and that it's gotten 'quite spoiled,' but says he still understands her even when she holds back in her writing. He mentions that he's written a separate letter to Uncle Ber, and touches briefly on forgiveness for some remark.
“On hot days people go about naked all day long in the water.”
Sam writes to Dora contrasting the warm Montreal summer with the cold weather she's experiencing, remarking that people there go about naked outdoors on hot days, in contrast to her freezing even in summer. He apologizes for not having much to say, references an unresolved business matter, and asks forgiveness for not writing to others. He closes affectionately to 'loving Dorele.'
“Tell them that I will write to them!”
This is a brief letter addressed to an uncle and aunt, Reuven and Hinde. The writer says he is completely well, thank God, hopes to get some news soon, and closes by sending regards to them with a promise to write.
“I am healthy and in good spirits — I lack for nothing except work.”
This letter is addressed to 'Dear Uncle and Aunt' — Reuven and Hinde. He reports himself healthy and in good spirits, lacking for nothing except work, and expects that to improve soon; he says he'll discuss everything in person once he can. He sends warm greetings to 'your daughter,' Dora, along with several other names, including Chaleh, Shrume, and a family name resembling Plotnik.
A short address fragment rather than a full letter, grouped with a companion piece from the same "Mr. Dean, Montreal" batch — most of the page is blank or too garbled to read, and two independent readings recover almost nothing. Its circa 1907–1909 date is inferred only from that shared grouping (the companion letter names an "uncle Reuven" and a stalled, money-dependent plan tied to the dated June–August 1908 Montreal letters); this fragment's own surviving text — an opening line that seems to name someone and perhaps mentions writing a letter to reassure someone, followed by an illegible return address — is too thin to confirm the date independently.
“Stay well, my dear, and keep up your courage: we are both still young.”
This letter, from Sam to Dora, mentions receiving news that a relative is well. He discusses another relative who has advised against traveling abroad for health reasons, and says life doesn't seem better wherever that alternative would be. He offers comfort: "stay well, my dear, and keep up your courage: we are both still young." He says the decision about coming back is up to her, promises they'll have much to tell each other when they meet, and tells her to talk it over with her father.
“And so I remain your loving Legele.”
Sam writes to his uncle and aunt, Reuven and Hinde. He reports there's nothing much new with the family and no real news from Montreal beyond having received something described only as 'old.' He raises, without resolving, the question of whether he'll come back to London, saying it isn't settled and they'll see how it works out. He closes affectionately as 'your loving Legele,' with a closing request about not sending boxes.
“I think that if I get the chance to travel to Chicago, things will be better there — being settled is better than being driven from place to place.”
This letter opens mid-thought about someone who "was never a true friend" and only looked out for his own interests. Addressing "my loving Dorele," Sam apologizes for writing little, says there's no real news, and encourages her to stay hopeful in hard times. He floats traveling on to Chicago as a better prospect than staying in Montreal, reasoning that being settled somewhere is preferable to being pushed from place to place, and reports that he himself is well and not taking things too hard. He closes with greetings to family and acquaintances, including one named 'Shtolkov,' and signs off as her loving husband.
“You know, after all, that I long for no one but you — so don't be angry.”
Sam writes to 'my dear little Dora' about his itinerant tailoring work. He says he'll know how his wages come out this coming Sabbath, and that he badly wants to come back to London rather than stay away. He's worried because Dora's father wrote that she is unhappy and doesn't know what to do, and reassures her that she can come back whenever she wants and that he longs for no one but her. He mentions a ticket and 'that wretched Canada,' and describes going from place to place with a companion, Barnett Gravitz, asking for cutting and tailoring work, most recently as a 'nailer,' while weighing whether to stay in Minnesota.
“I don't know what more to write — only that I miss you terribly. You can't imagine it.”
The writer confesses that after three weeks in Montreal he still has no work. He says he promised always to tell the truth in his letters and won't break that promise now, asking her not to take the news too hard, and closes as 'your loving husband.' He mentions acquaintances traveling to Chicago and a farm scheme he's awaiting an answer about. He ends by saying the trade is bad right now but they get by, and that he misses her terribly.
“I would be working toward a home for our future — for the two of us alone, our own bosses, so we'd never be crushed under anyone again.”
Sam is weighing his work options. He mentions that Celia received a letter from Zarkin, who asked after them. He explains he considered going to Chicago because he'd heard it might offer better prospects than Montreal, but hadn't managed to go yet and had no one to travel with; work in Montreal itself was very poor at the time, with many people out of work, though a contact he'd spoken to the week before thought something might come up in about two months. He tells Dora he hopes to build a home for their future together, 'our own bosses,' and mentions an alternative plan of going to work on a farm if the chance arises.
“We are both still young and strong, and in time I will find work, together with you at my side.”
The writer reassures Dora that he holds nothing against her and asks her not to torment herself with worry. He acknowledges that her letters show real distress and that things in London are hard, but argues that being in Canada rather than London is, for now, for the best. He insists her health matters more to him than anything, and closes on a note of shared resolve — that they are 'both still young' and that in time he will find work with her at his side.
“Be cheerful, eat and drink, and don't worry. Do you hear? If not, I'll give you a slap!”
He doesn't want to travel back, says he has no one to turn to, and hopes that once he finds work he'll have more courage to keep trying, adding plainly that 'there is nothing here for our future.' He signs as 'Your loving Lemele' partway through, then continues with encouragement to Dorele not to lose heart, to 'be cheerful, eat and drink, and don't worry,' jokingly threatening a slap if she doesn't, and sends regards to her parents.
“And so I wish you a good night.”
The writer remarks on someone in London — a young man named Zimenstein who works with fish — comparing him to someone else he knows by the same name, and mentions the man wearing his own glasses. He closes with a wish for a good night and for the recipient to 'be well and cheerful.'
“even if you hadn't sent it, I would have been more content — because I had a terrible bad conscience about it, and it cost me a great deal of health.”
Addressed to Dora, the writer tells her to stop pleading with others on his behalf for money and insists he's doing fine despite what she may imagine. He says he expects to be leaving Montreal within about a week, having heard from a correspondent that no one should spend even a day there. He gently pushes back on her having gone, more than once, to relatives or a lender to plead for money to send him, saying it pains him that she'd humble herself that way, and repeats that he's already told her several times not to send him money.
“And as for you — you, on the contrary, are a princess.”
The letter concerns work: the writer refuses to take 'a more shameful kind of work,' saying it is not worth it, and worries that some arrangement would 'give us workers a very bad name.' In an aside to the recipient he calls her 'a princess' by contrast. He also mentions spending a Sunday asking around for a place to work.
“if it weren't for your sake, I certainly wouldn't have traveled now.”
Sam writes from Montreal, upset with Dora for not telling him 'the truth about herself,' and says he'd rather have stayed in London near her. He reports being well and says money for a ticket will arrive by Wednesday so she can make a booking. He says things in Montreal are difficult ('a bitter business') but manageable, and that he won't be reachable there for a reply to this letter. He closes with warmth — 'if it weren't for your sake, I certainly wouldn't have traveled now' — urging her to look after herself, and sending regards to her father and mother.
“If I were rich, I would come over to you, to see you and be with you.”
Signed only 'your mother,' this letter describes hard economic circumstances: the writer says she earns almost nothing and spends her days largely idle, and asks the recipient to send her something. She adds that if she were rich she would travel to see the recipient in person, and closes with warm wishes and greetings to friends.
“I have already said my piece.”
Addressed to 'My dear friend,' the writer tells the recipient not to worry about a matter involving a person or family named Falkov, closing with the line 'I have already said my piece.'
“But now I have come to a decision. ... And know this: you will not be separated from me.”
Sam tells Dora that he has 'come to a decision,' involving a possible trip to or from Winnipeg. He pledges that she will not be separated from him, that he will not neglect their future, and that he will not fail her. He frames this in terms of duty and partnership — that a person's one joy in life is providing for the one he loves, and that it should be equal for both of them.
“I cannot get any work for now; if things work out, there will be news.”
Financial worry runs through this letter: Sam tells Dora he hasn't found work, and mentions that Albert's brother may lend him money, since he doesn't have much himself beyond the address where he's currently staying, with a family he refers to as the Bornsteins. He asks why she hasn't written, sends friendly greetings to everyone, and promises to write again the following week once he knows more, saying plainly, 'I cannot get any work for now; if things work out, there will be news.' He mentions he is living in Montreal.
“From me, your loving one, who longs to see you.”
This is an incoming letter to Sam from a female relative in Latvia. She refers to something stirring up trouble with 'your wife' and family, mentions that some travelers have already set off on the journey back and that one has been given Sam's address so he might pass along a personal greeting, and asks him to write with news from America. She includes addresses for Uncle Zalman and Zelig Shofer, wishes him a good year, and signs off as someone who longs to see him.
“Dora dear, I believe you feel for me, and you know that a person has feelings.”
Sam tells 'Dora dear' that he plans to go to London, because the cement-works job he had 'couldn't make a living.' He appeals to her directly, saying he believes she has feelings for him and asking her to bear with him. He reflects on wanting to see the day when they will be together, and closes hoping she will agree with his plan to come to London.
“if I stay here in Montreal until August and still get no work, I'll have no other choice and we'll have to go back.”
Sam tells Dora that if things are bad she should write and he'll come straight back to London, a trip of about two weeks, reasoning that a new country calls for trying one's luck differently, without shame, so long as it pays. He repeats that if he's still without work by August, they'll have no choice but to go back to London. He then asks after her — whether she's working, who visits her, and whether a parent of hers is giving her any trouble.
“And there's something else pulling me to come back: Father writes that you are very sad.”
Sam reports continued bad luck finding work in Montreal — 'no better than before' — with no way to save money once travel and other costs are factored in; he says it's the same story there as it was in London. He's reluctant to travel back right now, but says the decision has to be made quickly, by the beginning of August, because it depends on the working season; what really pulls him toward returning, he says, is that her father has written that she is very sad. He mentions he'll know more by Sunday, that the immigration situation is unchanged, and briefly references a bank matter and another unresolved matter concerning her. He closes with clear warmth, saying he can't imagine how much he longs to see her, and signs off, 'I embrace you, your beloved.'
“The weather here is very hot; on Thursday it reached 90 degrees. It was unbearable to endure, but my health held up through it.”
Sam, signing as 'Lemele,' writes to Dora about arranging her travel ticket: a man named Louis had told him he would take a ticket to pay her way if Sam put down a ten-dollar deposit, and Sam reassures her the delay isn't his fault and that the matter should be settled soon. He apologizes for writing such a short letter, saying there's little other news, and complains about the heat — Thursday reached 90 degrees, which he says was almost unbearable, though his health held up. He signs off hoping to see her again soon and sends greetings to their friends.
“he went looking for someone, a Londoner, and he longed for London.”
The writer asks forgiveness for having been out of touch, and relays that a son had gone looking for someone described as 'a Londoner' and had longed for London himself.
“In a word, write me yourself what you are hearing.”
Addressed to his wife Dora, the writer responds to her news about the Falkovs and about people coming and going, and mentions an emigration ticket to America that is still open. He asks her to write back and tell him what she's hearing, and encloses the address of a young woman traveler for her use.
“You have always been a brave little woman — can't you cheer up?”
Sam writes to Dora, reassuring her ahead of an operation. He assumes he won't be allowed to see her beforehand, tells her twice to be brave, and reassures her that money is no obstacle, offering to arrange a private ward if she'd prefer one. He tells her the operation is not serious and that she shouldn't worry about after-effects or about the children, who are being looked after. He signs as her loving husband, closing with 'Cheer up. Be brave.'
By September 1916 Sam and Dora are married with children, running S. Diamondstein & Co., Fur Dealers, out of Brick Lane; the courtship-at-a-distance voice gives way to the provider-from-a-distance voice that defines the next decade.
“Have you forgotten me as soon as you have had the last of me? Oh, you woman.”
Sam writes to Dora and the kiddies on September 1, 1916, on his fur-trading business letterhead, teasing her for not writing back after he sent three pounds: "Have you forgotten me as soon as you have had the last of me? Oh, you woman." He tells her to stay where she is another week, since Sarah is expected down and will keep her company, and asks after the children's health and whether they're having a good time. He signs off with love to the kiddies, Ollie, and Muriel.
“John and I dined at the Corner House last night — tell Alice he is absolutely a terror with the girls.”
Sam writes to "Dear Dora and darling kiddies" on his business letterhead (S. Diamondstein & Co., fur dealers, Fournier Street, Brick Lane) on 1 September 1916, after a postcard from them arrived late on a Friday night. He's glad they're having fine weather but asks for details she left out — where exactly they're staying, what it costs, whether food and lodging are separate, and whether they're near his cousin Alice — and encloses a one-pound note for their monthly allowance, telling her to ask for more if she needs it by next week. He passes along social news: he asks whether she's written to Sarah, who has a parcel waiting; he and John dined at the Corner House, and John, he jokes, is "absolutely a terror with the girls"; and he asks her to send a postcard thanking Mrs. Ginsburg, who'd had the place cleaned and made him tea. He signs off as her "loving husband and dad," sending love to Alice and Muriel.
“Alice tells me that you are growing fat and in height, and I am glad to hear that Gladys has become straight, and that the baby is improving well.”
Sam, writing on his Diamondstein & Co. fur-dealing business letterhead, addresses Dora and the children, apologizing for missing a Sunday letter because he couldn't get stamps. He's glad to hear, via Alice, that Dora and the children are thriving while away — growing fatter and taller, Gladys growing straight, and the baby improving. He tells Dora to let Sarah know that "Father" will send her a pound the next day; he'd been unable to find an oak he was looking for, and this has kept him busy in the West End every evening. He closes by noting he's enclosing three pounds, signing as "Your loving husband, Dad."
“No doubt you have heard we brought down a Zeppelin. It was a fine sight.”
Sam writes to Dora from London on 3 September 1916, on stationery from his own fur business, S. Diamondstein & Co. of Fashion Street. He opens a little put out that he hadn't heard from her by Saturday morning, then reassures her he's well and she needn't worry about him. He describes watching a Zeppelin shot down over London alongside a companion named John at "Leon's place," calling it "a fine sight." He closes with domestic business: asking whether she's received a pound he sent, and whether the kiddies are enjoying the seaside and behaving.
“There is a great deal of money to be made — one could do very good business.”
Written by Elke and Avrom (Abraham) Deutsch from Riga, this letter describes a business venture: there is a great deal of money to be made, and the two parties could do business with the recipient's money without him needing to provide funds in advance. The trade involves flax, under a government system that requisitions flax and requires it to be finished before payment. They propose sending samples so the recipient can judge whether the venture is worthwhile.
“Are they really so strict as we have been told? I hope you will improve.”
In this short note, Sam thanks Dora for her letter and hopes her journey was pleasant. He asks how she's finding the place she's staying and whether it's really as strict as they'd been told, and closes with hope that she'll improve.
“Tell Beaty and Gladys that if they are good, I will bring something very nice home.”
Sam writes to Dora and the kiddies from a solo trip to Whitstable, saying the weather isn't good but the place isn't bad, with good food and a nice room; he mentions a day trip to Westgate by charabanc that day. He asks her to write letters rather than postcards and says he'll let her know how long he'll stay, adding that he expects to move on to Herne Bay the next day, so there's no point sending mail to him now. He closes with a promise to Beaty and Gladys that if they're good, he'll bring something nice home.
“He just stood there; he could not walk away from the spot, and could not believe it.”
The writer says the recipient's chest is very bad and hopes both the recipient and the children are well. He describes trouble with some belongings and a tense exchange over a sum of marks that left someone standing in disbelief. He asks the recipient to write more often.
“They have rented out your apartment to lodgers. And so that is how things are.”
This letter is addressed to 'my dear Shmuel [Elye]' and 'my dear daughter Dora,' wishing them a happy life together with their children, from one or both of Sam's parents. The writer reports being healthy, thanks God for it, and hopes to hear the same from Dora and Sam. The one piece of concrete news is that their old apartment back home has been rented out to lodgers — 'and so that is how things are.'
“or can you wait until I come on Friday next? If not, let me know by return.”
Only the closing lines of this letter survive. Sam, signing as 'your loving husband and dad,' asks whether the recipient can wait until he comes on the following Friday, or to let him know by return post if not.
“Why, it is disgraceful — if what I hear is true. It took my breath away.”
Sam writes teasingly to his daughter Gladys, telling her to remind 'Mama' to behave herself and hinting, without specifics, at something he's heard that scandalized him ('it took my breath away'). He asks how she's keeping and whether her mother is feeding her well, joking that Dora is 'usually mean' and probably saving up a secret stash of money while Gladys is away. He reports that business is quiet, that everybody at home is well, and that he's gone to bed early the last two nights 'like a good boy.' He signs off as 'your loving husband and dad.'
The largest, most repetitive stretch of the corpus: Dora and the girls sent to the coast for weeks while Sam works in London and on fur-buying trips to Paris and Leipzig, writing a weekly cheque and the same anxious questions.
“I am absolutely cross with you for not letting me come this weekend.”
Sam Diamondstein, writing from his fur-and-skin business on Fashion Street in London, writes to Dora on January 4, 1919, in a teasing, affectionate tone. He is glad she is "going strong" and grumbles, half-joking, that she would not let him visit for the weekend, accusing her of not missing him and of having other company to keep her entertained. He mentions going to the Palladium on Saturday evening with someone named Diana, and hopes Dora will take that news "in a sporty way." He closes by asking after her health and the children's, and the letter breaks off mid-sentence after the word "Money."
“Mama writes that you would like to see me, and to have me teach you to swim. Very well — I will, next weekend.”
This is the second, closing page of a letter from Sam to Dora. He signs off with "otherwise things are as usual," then adds a short separate note to daughters Gladys and Beaty: their mother has written that they'd like to see him and have him teach them to swim, and he promises he will, the following weekend.
“You surprise me — no letter this morning. What, have you forgotten you have left a husband all alone?”
Sam writes home to Dora ("Mama") and the children from his fur business address on Fashion Street, London, opening by teasing her for not sending a letter that morning and joking about being "a husband all alone." He describes an evening out — a dancing lesson, supper, then on to Leon's and dancing at Maxine's with Dora herself — saying he's doing well at it and has booked three more lessons. He also mentions enclosing some cards and forgetting to write a name on them.
“You know, one hand washes the other. There, now you know, don't you.”
Written on M. Diamondstein business letterhead from his Clerkenwell Road fur workshop in London, this is Sam writing to "Dear Mama and kiddies" while Dora and the children are away on holiday. He reports that he's taking her advice about "carrying on" but is still coming home to sleep every night, teases her lightly about being allowed to go to a dance and find "a nice boy," and asks practical questions about whether their lodgings are comfortable, the landlady treats them well, and the children like the food. He mentions weighing a possible weekend trip to Walton and says he doesn't want to stay in town during the week because he sees it as a waste of time.
“Just a line to let you know that Dan is out of work”
A pencil letter dated July 31, 1919, addressed in one section to "Mama and Kellie" and in a separate block to "Dear Ruby." Dan is out of work. The letter also mentions a T. Neale, someone referred to as "Headlock," and includes a note of thanks to Ruby.
“It was an awful train — it stopped at every station.”
Sam writes to Dora and the kiddies to report he has arrived safely back in London at 2:45pm, grumbling that the train was "awful" because it stopped at every station. He notes he saw Fanny, who came through on Monday, and that he went to bed early and had a rest. He asks that Gladys and Betty be told to behave, and sends love to Sarah and, in the closing line, to Joseph.
“I have seen Fanny, and she is wild with you, but I care for you very much.”
Dated August 12, 1919 and written on stationery for Sam's fur and skin business at 37 Fashion Street, this letter has him apologizing to "Mama and Kiddies" for forgetting to write the previous day after a busy day that ended with him asleep by ten. He reports everyone is well, says he won't be coming down for the weekend and that she should enjoy herself in his absence, and notes the heat in London. He also mentions, without elaborating, that he has seen Fanny, who is "wild with" Dora, though he reassures Dora of his own affection regardless.
“I tell you plainly: if I get no letter from you, then I will come to you for the summer.”
This letter, dated around 1920, comes from an anguished relative in Riga, addressed to "my dear children, my sister and my dear brother." The writer describes real distress at a long silence from the family — roughly two months with no word — and contrasts their own hard circumstances with the family's being "in business" abroad. Toward the end the writer threatens or promises that if no letter comes, they will travel to visit for the summer. The overall tone is loneliness and reproach rather than concrete news being exchanged.
“I am sending you all one million kisses.”
A short, cheerful holiday note: on 26 March 1920 Sam writes to "Dear Dora and kiddies" from a stay in Margate, reporting splendid weather and a fine time, plus day trips to Broadstairs and Ramsgate. He says he's staying somewhere with good food and plenty of it, and that he'll be coming home Friday morning and back that evening. He closes sending "one million kisses," signed "your loving husband and daddy."
“I hope you appreciate the good time Mama is giving you.”
Sam writes to Dora and the children after having returned from a stay in Ramsgate himself, on his Diamondstein Fur & Skin Dealer letterhead. He acknowledges receiving Dora's postcard that morning and hopes the children appreciate the good time their mother is giving them while she's away with them. He reports feeling generally well but says he hasn't slept well since coming back from Ramsgate, and asks how the weather is down there, noting it isn't much to write home about in London. He closes with an affectionate request to kiss Mama for him and a reminder to "keep good."
“You promised me when you left for Ramsgate that you wouldn't give Mama any trouble.”
This is page one of a two-page letter from Sam to his children Gladys and Beaty, dated 25 July 1920 from London. He's been talking to Auntie Sarah, who gave him a full — and not flattering — account of their behavior while staying with their mother in Ramsgate, and he reminds them they'd promised not to give her ("Mama") any trouble and asks them to shape up. He then shifts to lighter questions: how the weather's been, and whether Gladys received a card he says he did send (Auntie Sarah told him she hadn't). The page breaks off mid-sentence — "You know Daddy would not."
“Also ask Mama if I should get a pair of white trousers when I come down, and where are my white shoes.”
This is the second, final page of a letter, continuing mid-sentence with "...forget you." The writer, Daddy, asks Gladys and Beaty to check with "Mama" about whether he should get a pair of white trousers when he comes down, and to find out where his white shoes are. He signs off asking for a kiss for Mama and calling himself always their loving Daddy.
“went to bed like a good Boy”
Writing on his Fur & Skin Dealer letterhead (37 Fashion Street, Brick Lane, London) on August 4, 1920 — a date Paul confirmed directly against the original photograph, after an ambiguous handwritten digit first suggested 1916 — Sam sends Dora and the kiddies an enclosed sum, though the exact figure is illegible between two readings of the abraded paper (either £2 or £5). Much of the rest is hard to make out: he mentions a good journey, arriving in London around 10:30 and going to bed early "like a good boy," and something about showing the family "the Cliff" as his train pulled out, before the text breaks up entirely.
“I hope my letter will reach you in the best of health, and when we come to see you I hope we will be able to take you home.”
This is a child's letter: young Gladys writing to her mother, Dora, who is away somewhere. Gladys hopes the letter finds her "in the best of health" and says she hopes that when they visit they'll be able to "take you home." She reports that Daddy (Sam) has bought her and her sister Beaty a painting box, a writing pad, ink, pens, and copy books, and closes telling Mummy not to worry.
“Paris is a fine place; I have been to a Turkish bath this afternoon.”
Sam writes from the Grand Hôtel du Pavillon in Paris to 'Dear Dora and kiddies,' hoping they had a good journey. The letter is dated 25/9 1921, though in the body he says he arrived 'Friday, 7 October.' He reports very nice weather, that he's keeping well, and that he's just come from a Turkish bath that afternoon; he asks her to forward any news and promises to write once he's gotten some business done. He closes with regards to all, signed 'your loving husband and dad.'
“I would like you to stop there another week. You won't miss much in London for another week.”
Writing on August 7, 1921, Sam tells Dora and the children that he has wired them four pounds by telegraph. The bulk of the letter is a request that they extend their stay: he hopes they are keeping well and would like them to stop another week, noting they "won't miss much in London" in the meantime, and he asks Dora to write if she needs more money or plans to keep staying. He adds that he ran into a Mrs. Bart that morning, who told him the family is all looking well. He signs off awaiting her answer, as her loving husband and dad.
A faded, handwritten Yiddish letter on the back of a Grand Hôtel du Pavillon (Paris) letterhead sheet — the scan is too faint and the handwriting too degraded to recover a connected reading. The Yiddish handwriting recognition returned disconnected word-fragments rather than sentences, and only a single machine translation exists to check them against, so almost nothing can be rendered with confidence. A few isolated words seem to break the surface — possibly a place name, an endearment, a mention of a grandmother, and the name "Liza" — but these are single-source guesses on garbled handwriting, not a coherent message; the letter effectively needs a higher-resolution scan and a Yiddish reader before any real reading is possible.
“The waves broke over the ship one after another, as if someone were pouring water down from above.”
Writing from the Alexandra Hotel in Berlin in 1922, Sam tells Dora about a rough Channel crossing, with a storm severe enough that the waves broke over the ship 'as if someone were pouring water down from above' — though he came through it feeling well. Once in Berlin he went out and found the city 'not what it once was,' and looked into prices in Dora's trade: a hat costs 8 marks, and a pricier coat-type item runs roughly 300 marks; he concludes the same goods can be had back in London. He closes mentioning relatives Leah and Molly, who will write later. It's a short travel-and-trade letter — part account of the crossing, part comparison shopping for his fur business.
“I am only good enough as the party who provides; otherwise I am of no interest to any of you.”
Writing on the letterhead of the Grand Hôtel du Pavillon in Paris and dated August 8, 1922, Sam is in a wounded mood: he's surprised not to have heard from home, and says pointedly that he's 'only good enough as the party who provides,' otherwise of no interest to the family. He reports the Paris weather has turned bad, with rain all day, and that business there is very hard — he doesn't know how long he'll need to stay. He sends regards to Jenny and the kiddies and signs off as loving husband and dad.
“Don't you think I am fighting your battles in here to make money for you to spend?”
This is a handwritten letter dated August 2, 1922, addressed to Dora, Gladys, and Betty, and signed 'Dolly.' Dolly writes about 'fighting your battles in here to make money for you to spend,' the voice of a husband away on business. Not feeling well but hoping to improve, he asks how the family finds their new lodgings and reports business isn't very good. The letter closes by relaying that Auntie Sarah wants to visit for a week and has been given permission, with regards to Auntie Jenny and the kids.
“But you know Mummy — she kept arguing until they let her have them for one shilling and threepence each.”
Writing on 'Berachah' boarding-house stationery in Bournemouth, one of Sam and Dora's daughters writes to 'Dear Daddy.' She reports that Mummy is pleased with their new lodgings, that she and her sister Gladys won money playing the card game 'pontoon' at a place called 'Bress's,' and that Mummy bargained hard over a Christmas gift of a thimble and bracelet for each of them. She reminds Daddy of a promised Christmas present of a five-pound note each, and adds a line in Yiddish about their silence over the holidays. She also describes a Winter Gardens outing and asks whether Daddy is still going to his weekly boxing match.
“My sister has to undergo an operation, so I will wait for a few days to see how she comes through it.”
Writing from the Hotel der Kaiserhof in Leipzig and dated January 3, 1923, Sam writes to Dora and the kiddies. He reports he's in good health, arrived in Leipzig on Tuesday, and finds business very hard to do; he plans to stay until Saturday, then travel to Berlin because his sister needs an operation, and will wait a few days there to see how she recovers. He expects to be home around January 12–14, and notes that Sonia is with him in Leipzig for now while Marie has already gone home. He signs off as loving husband and dad.
“It pains me that the loveliest time of my life should pass so fast.”
Written from Leipzig on January 3, 1923, this letter is from Sonia, closing 'your ever-loving sister and aunt,' to Dora and the children. She writes warmly of a family reunion in Leipzig — she is together at last with her husband Moisei, arriving from Riga — and says 'the loveliest time of my life' is passing too quickly, hoping the family will see more of each other going forward. She also writes that Sam had wanted to buy furs for her in Leipzig and Berlin but was warned by a Londoner that goods could be confiscated at the border and he might be detained, so the plan became to go to Wiesbaden first and return to Berlin to buy.
“I have been detained here for two reasons. First, Sonia has gone into the hospital, and second, I could not do anything until this week.”
Writing from the Hotel der Kaiserhof in Leipzig on January 8, 1923, Sam tells Dora and the kiddies he has been delayed there for two reasons: his sister Sonia has gone into the hospital, and he was unable to conduct business until that week. He reports having bought some goods and laid out 'a lot of money,' hoping he made the right call, and says he himself is feeling well. He expects to leave Germany for home on Saturday or Sunday, and tells the family not to bother writing back further since letters won't reach him in time, unless something urgent comes up.
“What kind of a place is Bournemouth? Is the boarding house a decent place?”
Sam writes to Dora and the kids on Christmas Eve, 24 December 1923, from his Barbican fur business address, sounding mildly wounded not to have heard from them that morning. His questions are practical and a little anxious: what Bournemouth and its boarding house are like, whether the journey down went well, and whether Gladys and Beaty are behaving as Gladys had promised. He reports himself well and hopes they're having a nice time.
“Why don't you write me how Gladys is getting on with her ear? Is it improving?”
On December 28, 1923, writing from his fur-and-skins business on Australian Avenue, Sam writes to Dora and the children, away on a trip, saying he received their postcards and is glad they are having a nice time. He asks after Gladys's ear, wondering whether it is improving, and checks in on whether the girls are behaving and listening to Dora. He reports on the weather (bad in London, unlike wherever they are) and says he is feeling well with no news to report. He is enclosing some money and asks Dora to let him know what the new place is costing so he can send a cheque for the difference the following week; the letter doesn't name the destination.
“I saw a doctor, and he has put me on a diet for five days before he can examine me properly, so I have left for Leipzig.”
Sam writes to Dora and the kids during a European business trip, describing arriving in Berlin on a Thursday, seeing a doctor who put him on a five-day diet before a proper examination, and moving on to Leipzig, from where he plans to return to Berlin and then head home the following Saturday. He mentions having done some business in Riga and hoping to do more in Leipzig, and asks, a little exasperated, why no one's written to him. He also instructs Dora to chase a debtor, Morry Sagon, for £17 owed since September 1924, telling her to go to his solicitor and, if necessary, summon Sagon rather than be 'humbugged' any further. He closes asking after the children: he asks after 'Cynthia' and then wonders whether he's spelled 'her name Beaty' correctly — the letter doesn't say whether Cynthia and Beaty are the same child or two different ones.
“I myself am keeping fine, and so are Tiny and Fluff. We all look very well, but we miss you very much.”
Written on S. Diamondstein furrier letterhead (23 Australian Avenue, Barbican, London) and dated August 13, 1924, Sam writes to 'My dear Dora and daughters,' apologizing for a late reply to their letters, which he says he only received the previous afternoon. He hopes they're enjoying their short stay in Eastbourne and gently asks the children to behave and not give their mother too much trouble. He reports that he and the family dogs, Tiny and Fluff, are all keeping well, though everyone misses the family, and mentions he'll phone them that day from an aunt's, Sora's.
“I am sending you a ten-pound cheque for Mr. Weinberg, and two pounds cash for yourself, and for Beatrice her camera to snap the fisher she is catching in bed.”
Sam writes to Dora and their daughters on his fur-and-skins business letterhead, enclosing a ten-pound cheque made out to a Mr. Weinberg and two pounds in cash for Dora herself, plus a camera for Beatrice so she can photograph 'the Fisher she is catching in bed.' He says there's no news of particular interest, but that business has picked up a bit this week, which has him feeling better, and he hopes Dora is enjoying herself and trusts her judgment on how. He mentions he's going to the theatre that evening, and signs off with a row of kisses as 'your loving Dad.'
“I will be waiting at Victoria at 7 o'clock all the same, whether you come or not.”
On August 22, 1924, writing from his Barbican fur business address, Sam responds to a letter from Dora reporting bad weather where she and the kiddies are staying, and says he's disappointed since he'd been looking forward to a nice weekend with them. He tells her that if the weather stays bad she should just come home, but if it improves she can stay through Sunday and come back Sunday evening; either way, he says, he'll be waiting for them at Victoria station at 7 o'clock whether they come or not. He also notes he is sending £4 along with the letter.
“I am very sorry that you did not see your way clear to buy the house. Anyhow, better luck next time.”
On 30 December 1924, Sam writes to 'Dear Dora and kiddies' after receiving two of their letters, telling Dora he's sorry she didn't go through with buying a house, but that it's better not to buy something she'd regret — 'better luck next time.' He reports he's well and the weather is fine and cold with no snow, mentions seeing a business contact whom he expects from another city shortly, and says he's bought some furs after getting a good price quote from Fred Hutt Co.; he'll be off to Leipzig next week. He asks Dora not to mention the purchase to anyone since it isn't advisable, and closes with family news: everyone's keeping well, and his mother is 'very happy' and looking well.
“The crossing was very bad — it was a very bad storm. I am feeling A-1 and having plenty of German sausages.”
Sam writes to Dora on Park Hotel Leipzig letterhead, reporting he arrived Tuesday at 8:30 p.m. after a very bad, stormy crossing but is feeling 'A-1' and eating plenty of German sausages. He says the weather is fine and that if business goes well he'll leave Friday evening for Kissingen. He asks her to tell Fanny he has a cure for indigestion and jokes he'll bring back a present 'in a brick.'
“I have been praying hard for you all to have fine weather, and as I write my letter the sun has begun to shine.”
Writing on 27 August 1925 from his Barbican fur business, Sam tells Dora and the kiddies that her postcard reached him and that he's sorry to hear they'd had bad weather — he says he'd been 'praying hard' for good weather for them, and takes the sun beginning to shine as he writes as a sign his prayers were heard. He explains he won't be able to visit on Friday because of business on Saturday, and will come down Saturday afternoon instead, asking them not to be upset about it. He closes on a tender, wry note about money, reassuring them it's fine that 'it is my money you all want' since he's trying to save some for them to spend.
“I have a bed to sleep in, not boards.”
On September 1, 1925, Sam sends Dora and the children eight pounds in cash, writing from his fur-and-skins business. He reports he is doing well and mentions he now has "a bed to sleep in, not boards." He proposes to come down and meet them on Friday afternoon if the weather holds, or, if not, for them to take a taxi to the station so he can meet them at Liverpool Street, and asks Dora to let him know what train they will be on. He signs off as her loving husband and dad.
“She is a girl of good ability: keen, intelligent, and well-behaved.”
This is a formal school-leaving reference, not a personal letter: dated December 23, 1925, from Oldfield Road L.C.C. School in Stoke Newington, concerning Gladys Diamondstein. It states she has been a pupil there for about three years, has passed through the various Standards, and is leaving that day from Class I (Standard VII). The head master describes her as a girl of good ability — keen, intelligent, and well-behaved — and recommends her with confidence as thorough and trustworthy. It is signed R. H. Ball, Head Master.
“Tell John he can offer about 20,000 rat at 45/-.”
Written from the Hotel Astra in Paris on February 25, 1926, Sam writes to "Dear Dora and Kiddies" with a string of concrete fur-trade business instructions rather than personal news. He asks that a message be relayed to John — to phone Smale about stone martins and dark mink he's bringing back, to check with Belders about a possible order, and to notify the firm Lee Hockins Klein that he'll clear their mink order on his return. He also asks whether anyone wants American otter, due the following week, and instructs that John can offer roughly 20,000 rat skins at 45 shillings. The letter breaks off mid-sentence, before its full closing ("I ... yours, with love").
“Enclosed please find eight pounds. I hope it will cover your expenses; if not, write by return.”
Sam writes a short, businesslike note to Dora and the children enclosing eight pounds, saying he hopes it will cover their expenses and asking Dora to write back by return post if it doesn't. He reports feeling quite well himself and hopes they're keeping well too, adding that the weather has otherwise been fine and there's no other news to share. He signs it "your devoted husband and dad, Sam."
“I bought today about 90 cheap stone martens and 3,000 dyed moles; they are much better than the last lot I had.”
Writing from the Hôtel Montréal in Paris, Sam sends Dora and the 'grown-ups' a business update from one of his fur-buying trips. He reports he's feeling fine, business is moving slowly, and he doesn't yet know how long he'll stay; he's been promised a parcel of 10,000 moles for Monday and has already bought about 90 cheap stone martens and 3,000 dyed moles at 42 francs, which he says he won't sell for less than 53/6. He gives Dora pricing instructions for handling the moles if they arrive before he's home, and closes with reassurance that he's eating and sleeping well and his stomach is 'in good order.'
“am feeling fine with a happy New year”
Writing on Hôtel Montréal, Paris letterhead, Sam sends a short New Year's note to Dora and the kiddies, reporting that he arrived in Paris at 11pm the previous night and has already wired ahead to say things are okay. He mentions the weather has been very bad and that he expects to stay through the coming Saturday or Sunday. He also mentions sending something ahead of his return and 'the people you wanted.' He signs off that he's feeling fine and wishes a happy New Year.
“If I don't come down tomorrow evening on the 8:25 train, I will send you money tomorrow morning.”
Sam tells Dora and the kiddies that he has received her letter and is keeping well. He isn't sure whether he'll be able to come down to visit, since he may need to go to Paris instead, and says that if he doesn't arrive on the 8:25 train tomorrow evening, he'll send money the following morning.
“I found everybody quite well and am soon going on to Hanover, then another week, then will go to Leipzig, and hope to be home about the 17th of January.”
Sam writes to 'My dear Dora and daughters' that he's keeping well and having a good time with his sister(s) and a friend's family, the Mortons, having found everyone well. He's heading on to Hanover, then after another week to Leipzig, and hopes to be home around the 17th of January. He notes the weather is fine though cold, and asks, with some frustration, why she hasn't written back about what happened with the sale of 'the house.' He closes hoping their daughters Gladys, Bertie, and Cynthia are being good, and signs as her loving husband and their dad.
“We miss you very much.”
Sam writes to "my dear Dora and daughter" on 13 August 1921 from Australian Avenue in the Barbican, London, apologizing for a delayed reply since he only received her letter the afternoon before. He hopes they're having a good, if short, stay in Eastbourne, and hopes the children aren't giving Mama too much trouble. He reports that he and someone named "Tiny" are keeping well and that they all miss her, and mentions phoning her. It's a short, affectionate note about an ordinary summer separation.
“I am having a good time with my sister; they are making a fuss of me.”
Sam tells Dora and their daughters that he is well and enjoying a visit with his sister Sonia, who is making a fuss of him. He plans to stay another week before moving on to Leipzig and hopes to be home around January 17. He notes the weather is cold but there's no snow.
“My ear is getting on nicely.”
This fragment contains two short notes to 'Daddy' (Sam) from his daughters. One, signed 'Burglar Bill' — a family nickname for Beaty — says she's well and can't think of anything else to write. The other, from Gladys, apologizes for not writing sooner and reports that her ear 'is getting on nicely.' Both close with love to everyone and rows of kisses.
“Dora dear, I don't know what to do about bringing things home, as I was told they take things away at the Frontier.”
Sam writes to Dora from Berlin, on the fifth day of a business trip. He reports having spent four days in Leipzig buying furs, expects to have to return there around the 14th to see the goods packed up, and says he's 'perfectly fed up' with the trip. He'd like to come home already but is staying to see through his sister Sonia's operation. He asks after Dora's health and a dentist visit, gently presses her about drumming up more business, reassures her not to worry too much about the children, and closes worried about getting the goods past customs — 'they take things away at the Frontier.'
“I've been praying hard for you all to have fine weather.”
Writing from 23 Australian Avenue, Barbican, on 27 August 1923, Sam replies to a postcard from 'my dear Dora and the kiddies.' He writes of being grieved by bad weather and praying hard for it to turn, and notes that the sun came out just as he was writing. He says business will keep him from coming down on Friday, so he may manage Saturday afternoon instead, and closes by telling them not to be upset that it's his money they're waiting on — he's working to earn it for them. It's a short note, signed 'Yours loving Husband, Dad — Sam.'
“Go to my solicitors and tell them to take proceedings against him at once, as he is a rotten humbug.”
Sam writes from Ostend to Dora and their daughters on his way to Berlin, reporting a good crossing and that he's feeling fine. He asks Dora to see a man named Morry Sagon, and if Sagon doesn't pay her £17 by Tuesday, to have Sam's solicitors start proceedings against him, calling him 'a rotten Humbug.' He also asks that someone check his office around noon each day to collect his telephone messages and letters.
“There's nothing to do here; we sit the whole day long and talk.”
Writing from the Hotel Alexander in Berlin, Sam writes to 'My Dear Dora and Kiddies' with family and travel news. He reports that his sister was unwell earlier in the week but is feeling better now, that a visitor named Marie stayed only briefly before leaving, and that he himself is well, though he finds Berlin dull and its clothing prices no cheaper than London's — not worth bringing anything back. He notes he hasn't had a letter from Dora in some time and asks whether the furniture has been brought home, and mentions plans to go on to Leipzig on Saturday and be back in Berlin a few days later. He asks how she's been spending her time, whether she's seen any pantomimes, and how her health is, closing as her loving husband and the children's daddy.
“My Leipzig address: Park Hotel, Leipzig, Germany.”
This is barely more than a note: 'My Leipzig address: Park Hotel, Leipzig, Germany' — no salutation, message, or signature survives. It appears to be a forwarding address sent so family could reach him during a fur-buying trip.
“Oh, why did you leave home?”
Dated September 1, 1926, from Sam's Barbican fur business, this letter to Dora and the kiddies encloses eight pounds in cash. He reports he's feeling well, noting that he now has "a bed to sleep in, not boards." He lays out travel plans for a visit — he'll come down Friday afternoon if the weather holds, or take a taxi to the station if it's wet, meeting them at Liverpool Street — and asks her to write back with what train they'll be on. He closes with a plaintive "Oh, why did you leave home?"
“No other news. Alice had a girl — what do you make of that?”
Sam, writing home, describes a business disappointment: goods sent to him from Paris didn't match the sample, and he may have to go see about it in person. He passes along family news — 'Alice had a girl,' referring to his cousin Alice. He signs off, 'Your loving husband, Dad Sam.'