Journal Entry 5

June 21st, 1925

My mother is bustling about with the upcoming Summer Festival.  This is not some large German occurrence, but it is a rather big deal for our little village.  It happens every year and every year I make up excuses not to attend.  I am not exactly a social butterfly.  This year my mother is insisting that I go to the bon fire and dance.  I know what she has in mind and I am simply not interested.  However, how can a young man break his mother’s heart?  I suppose I shall have to at least go for a few hours.

Though I am not exactly looking forward to it, I might be able to get some enjoyment out of visiting the various stands with food and other goods.  I know many of the locals make candies to sell.  It might seem ridiculous for a man of my age to traverse through a summer festival munching on candies, but why not?  I am on my holiday, after-all.

Father has declined all attempts from my mother to make him attend the festivities.  He has grumped about the house complaining of too much work and other things that I barely understand.  I have seen him take a few patients since the appearance of the stranger.  There has been a child with influenza, a man with a rash and a woman that went into his study and spoke with him privately.  All of them left happily ‘cured’ of their ailments.

I cannot know for certain, but sometimes I get the feeling that Father is avoiding me.  At the dinner table he won’t look in my direction and he will not engage me in direct conversation.  I am not certain what to make of this turn in our relationship.  Of course, when I bring it up to Mother she merely passes it off to stress, being over-worked and other such.  The longer I am home, the more I wonder if it was a mistake to return at all.  Perhaps I will make up some excuse towards the end of the summer about needing to work on projects and then return to University early.  If Father barely speaks to me and Mother spends her time wanting me to make merry with women, what point is there in staying?

This whole trip has been a confusing and yet sobering experience for me.  I have come to the conclusion that maybe I am outgrowing my parents.  It was never a thought before this visit, but now I wonder if I could perhaps find a place of my own.  There is really no need to constantly rely upon them as if I were a child.  Though young, I am a man.

It is these thoughts which keep me warm in this ever-growing cold environment.

Tomorrow is the day of the festival but it was today that I received a small package.  There was no return address, nor a label to state who sent it.  My mother gave it to me over lunch.  I was curious about receiving a package.  It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.  Of course, I felt a twinge of excitement; I admit a boyish joy at receiving any kind of mail.

I retired to the gardens to open the package.  Sitting amongst the gorgeous colors with the sun beating down upon my face, I carefully removed the wrappings.  It was a little box with a sliding lid and inside was four chocolates from a nearby shop.  I felt my cheeks become hot and my stomach do somersaults.  It is incredibly scandalous for a man to receive such a gift.  Also, I do so adore sweets.

While I savored one of the sinful treats, I went rifling through the package in search of any sort of indication to who might have been my anonymous benefactor.  I almost over-looked the tiny note that was tucked on the inside of the box beneath the sweets.  It was a simple card with no name, but in a rolling pen there were the words.  “I regret leaving you so swiftly.  Meet me behind the candy shop tomorrow night.”

I know of only one person who ‘left me swiftly.’  It must be the stranger!  He wishes to meet me covertly behind the sweets shop; during the festival of all things.  I am torn about the meeting, and indeed about the chocolates.  Of course, I have already devoured them and though my stomach is filled with regret, my tongue regrets nothing.  My curiosity is getting the better of me, and I will likely go to meet him.  I have no idea what might become of me after tomorrow night.

Wish me luck, Journal.

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