Every day I send you my warm thoughts and wishes. I often look at your photo and feel a strange empty feeling, a longing to see you, to shake your hand and talk to you, but at the same time I feel drawn to the things you see, the distant strange country which has taken you in among its millions, and the language people are talking there-a language which I love myself, because it is in that language a literature has been written which is much richer than in any other language in the world . . . . Now we no longer have a grandfather. He was right after all when he said it was the last time the two of you met. The funeral was held last Wednesday. He died last Friday and lied in state in his coffin . . . . An old warrior has fallen, a man who you had to respect for his doings. There were more than 50 funeral wreaths and large funeral party to the church was full . . . . We are sending you the newspapers where it was mentioned . . . .