Love in the German Ward

Eva

‘Letters mostly, about drawings. And a few news clippings,’ she says.

She picks up the last envelope. A British stamp, Queen Elizabeth II in her middle years. The postmark has bled and the date is unclear – nineteen seventy-one, perhaps. Oxford.

It is her, the woman from the German ward. And it is her, Woman Stretching.

‘Fuck,’ she shouts and slams the magnifying glass onto the bench.

The curator’s head jerks up. She frowns. Eva apologises, takes a breath, re-establishes her veneer of calm. She picks up the envelope and looks at the return address.

It’s been fifty years.