Two wars, divide and unite Europe. Two women, United and divided a secret. War break human destiny, but secrets, stored, seemingly the best of intentions, ruin people’s lives in peacetime. Somewhere leaped pride, some wounded pride, and now a few people miserable for years, seemingly forever.
This story is too simple. If it were not written in the form of a novel in letters, and could be lost among many similar novels of wartime. There’s no intense plot, everything is simple and uncomplicated. There’s a young woman, a poetess, received the first letter from my first fan and enthusiastic reader.
Is the most enthusiastic reader – student-American sharing with a girl from a distant wild of Scotland, with its still childish secrets, pranks and artless description of his life. It is at this time describes his life on the quiet Isle, who never left never in my life, from time to time sends his “dear boy” a fresh collection of his poems and says not a word about her husband. As long as the boy didn’t want to go to adventures in war-torn Europe.
From the distant American shores, the war doesn’t feel real, and hungry boyish soul requires the accomplishment of feats. So here Davey and turns the wheel of the ambulance, traveling about the bombed-out French roads, and Elspeth (if you like sue) have already forgotten her husband, who passed away earlier on the front, and with some despair thrown in a new, romantic love, which lacked her subtle poetic soul that she could not give a simple Scottish fisherman.
Twenty-three years, at the beginning of another war, and Elspeth’s daughter Margaret finds that her mother hid all my life – strange yellowed letters and secret, which Elspeth had kept all his life. But the feeling that she was hiding so much from her daughter as from herself, as if afraid to admit something that gnaws at her and gnaws at incessantly. And, perhaps, cost a long time to release this secret to freedom, not waiting that it will isjust inside the soul, like sea salt tin with a collection of poetry, a lock of hair, and a child’s wooden rattle?
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