Jane Meinrath Bloch (1926-1967) Writes to Her Son, Peter
May 4, 1963, Cincinnati, Ohio

My dear Peter:

I have wanted to write you a special letter for a very long time.

I have wanted to tell you about all the things that have happened these past fourteen years, starting from the hot August days in 1949 when the hospital ward was filled — sometimes with death or physical destruction, or sometimes miraculously with returned health. These were the days of the polio epidemic.

I want to take you with me through those dim summer days and then through the many that followed in increasingly shining succession…

We have not spoken together, you and I, much about God. Because I have felt so deeply, I have remained silent — too silent. And if you have felt, because my life has had little formal religion, that I have removed myself from deep belief, you would have been given reason to have concluded this.

I can only tell you that I have felt very close to God. In the very early days of my sickness, half destroyed and understanding little, I began a prayer, and each night the same simple words returned again and again to me: “Grant me the strength, the courage, and the wisdom.” There was no ending to the prayer, just those words, and the feeling that some spirit far greater than mine would hear me, and help me. And in my room over the years, this belief has grown stronger.

Although I know that there are disbelievers, I doubt that there are many men among us who in time of darkening trouble do not feel the need to turn to an unknown, but omniscient presence.

And in my room, thinking and believing, I have been restored. I share with you your deep feeling, and in a larger sense, like that calendar of time which I once feared, I am no longer torn when I acknowledge the force of my feelings. I have learned what I might not have learned had the hand of destiny not guided me into this very different life. Or was it, perhaps, the hand of God?

And so, Peter, dear, the chapters come to an end, but the story continues. There are just a few things left to be said.

When the time comes, as it inevitably must, that you and I will again be separated, I shall meet this with the greatest possible freedom of spirit, because I know, despite our closeness and great affection, you will be equally prepared for any separation. You are young, and independent, and strong, and you will find temporary sadnesses breached for you by your own freedom of spirit. You will always go ahead, even while welcoming the memories of what I hope is perhaps a uniquely experienced and enriched past.

I know now the hurdles of the years that you have passed, and so I know too the hurdles you will pass in the future, and by this knowledge I am freed.

And so we will continue to enjoy our tomorrows, you, and your father and I, each of us prepared in our own way for the future, and each of us supported by the bonds of our united pasts.

I have chosen to end my writing on an especially sun-warmed, summer day. The leaves are moving slowly in the beautiful tree outside my window, and the golden morning light throws shifting patterns into my silent room.

There will be many happy, sundrenched days ahead, and I will see you tomorrow and each sun-filled tomorrow thereafter.

And when there are no more tomorrows, we will have shared a splendid bond. And so as I began, with love, I end for now.

From a selection of Ethical Wills from the American Jewish Archives in Cincinnati, Ohio, a document study led by Dr. Gary P. Zola, Executive Director Emeritus.