Letters Across The Sea
Charleston, South Carolina, June 1945
Esther Calloway's fingers trembled as she lifted the letter from her mailbox. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the Army Post Office marking made her heart clench with the familiar ache that had become her constant companion since the telegram arrived three months ago.
We regret to inform you that your brother, Private First Class Robert Calloway, was killed in action...
This wasn't the usual military correspondence she'd received since then. Those had been formal, typed on official letterhead with appropriate condolences and vague details about Robert's service. This envelope was addressed in careful, slanted handwriting, the blue ink slightly smudged at the edges.
She slid her finger under the flap, stepping out of the way as Mrs. Brewster from next door shuffled past with a basket of fresh laundry. The older woman nodded a silent greeting, eyes softening with the now-familiar look of pity that Esther had come to both expect and dread.
Inside, she unfolded the single sheet of paper, smoothing it against the mahogany side table in the entryway.
Dear Miss Calloway,
You don't know me, and I hope you'll forgive the intrusion of this letter. My name is Samuel Washington, and I serve with the 452nd Anti-Aircraft Artillery Battalion. I was a friend of your brother Robert.
We met during operations in Italy and formed an unlikely friendship. Robert spoke of you often and shared your letters with me during long nights at the front. He particularly treasured the small shell you sent him from Sullivan's Island, saying it reminded him of home, even in the darkest moments.
I'm writing because I feel you should know that Robert wasn't alone at the end. I was with him during his final moments. He spoke of you, and his last words were, "Tell Esther to keep collecting shells. The sea doesn't care what color we are."
I understand that receiving a letter from a stranger—especially one like myself—may be unwelcome. Please know I expect no reply. I simply wanted to fulfill my promise to Robert and let you know that he was deeply loved by his comrades and died thinking of home.
My deepest condolences for your loss.
Respectfully, Samuel Washington
Esther sank onto the bench beneath the hall mirror, her vision blurring. She'd nearly forgotten sending that shell—a tiny, perfect scallop she'd found while walking along the beach, trying to outpace her worry. She'd wrapped it carefully and mailed it with a letter telling Robert to remember that no matter how far away he was, the same sea touched both Italy and Charleston.
She read the letter twice more, tracing the careful penmanship with her fingertip. A colored soldier had been friends with her brother? Such friendships weren't unheard of at the front, she supposed, but they certainly weren't common. And those last words—what had Robert meant?
The proper thing would be to acknowledge the letter with a brief, formal note of thanks and nothing more. That's what Margaret would advise. That's what Charleston society would expect.
Instead, Esther found herself reaching for her stationery box, her mind already composing a real reply—one that would ask about Robert's final days, about this unlikely friendship, about the man who had been there when she could not be.
"You can't possibly be serious about this," Margaret hissed over her teacup two weeks later. Her sister's perfectly arranged blonde curls bounced with indignation as she leaned forward. "Writing letters to a Negro soldier? It's completely inappropriate, Esther. What would people think?"
Esther refilled her own cup, buying time. Margaret had always been the practical one, concerned with appearances and social standing. As the eldest Calloway daughter, she had married well and maintained an impeccable reputation in Charleston society.
"I'm not concerned with what people think," Esther said finally, setting the teapot down with a decisive clink. "This man was Robert's friend. That matters more to me than whatever gossip might result."
"Your nursing work is already causing enough talk," Margaret replied. "Working with all manner of people, treating colored patients alongside whites—it's caused enough talk. This—" she gestured at the letter lying between them on the sunroom table, "—this is something else entirely."
"His name is Samuel Washington," Esther said. "And he writes beautifully. He knew Robert in a way none of us did during those final months."
Margaret's features softened. "I know you're still grieving. We all miss him terribly. But there are appropriate ways to honor Robert's memory, and this isn't one of them."
Esther gazed out at the garden, where azaleas were fading but hydrangeas were beginning to burst with color. "You know what I've seen at the hospital this past year, Margaret," she said quietly. "Boys barely old enough to shave with their bodies torn apart. White blood and colored blood looking exactly the same on my uniform. Death doesn't discriminate, and neither does suffering."
She turned back to her sister. "It's just letters. And they help me feel closer to Robert."
Margaret pressed her lips together, clearly recognizing the stubborn set of her sister's jaw. "Just be careful, Esther. Don't let anyone else know. For your own sake."
July 14, 1945
Dear Mr. Washington,
Thank you for your letter. I cannot express how much it meant to learn that Robert wasn't alone at the end. The official notification was so impersonal, leaving me with more questions than answers about his final moments.
I was surprised to receive your letter, but grateful for the connection to my brother. Since receiving news of his death, I've felt as though a part of my world has been cut away, leaving ragged edges that won't quite heal.
You mentioned that Robert shared my letters. In his letters to me, he rarely mentioned specifics about his comrades or experiences, always saying he didn't want me to worry. Would you be willing to tell me more about your friendship with him? About the man he was there? The Army's official letters tell me nothing of substance, only that he "died with honor."
I've enclosed another small shell I found on Sullivan's Island yesterday. The beach was the same as always, but somehow everything feels different now. Perhaps you might keep this one, as I keep the one from Naples that Robert sent back with his last letter home.
Sincerely, Esther Calloway
The exchange of letters continued through the summer and into the fall. Samuel's letters arrived irregularly—sometimes weeks apart, sometimes two in quick succession. Each one revealed a little more about Robert, about Samuel himself, about the strange friendship that had formed between two men from the same city who would never have spoken to each other back home.
You asked how Robert and I met. It was during a thunderstorm near the front. Our units were providing support for an advance, and we both took shelter in the same abandoned farmhouse. He had your latest letter and was reading it by flashlight. When he saw me, he simply moved over to make room and asked if I liked poetry. It was the strangest beginning to a friendship I've ever had, but somehow perfectly Robert.
Esther kept each letter in a box beneath her bed, alongside the shell from Naples and a photograph of Robert in his uniform. She found herself looking forward to the distinctive handwriting, the thoughtful observations, the occasional lines of poetry that Samuel would include. They discussed Hughes and Whitman, swapped stories of Charleston from their dramatically different perspectives, and always, always circled back to Robert.
He talked about watching fireworks at the Battery as a child. I laughed and told him I'd seen the same fireworks, just from the colored section of the park. He seemed genuinely surprised, as if he'd never considered that before. That was Robert—once he realized something, he couldn't unthink it. After that, he started noticing the separation everywhere and questioning it.
With each letter, Esther found herself more intrigued by this man who wrote so eloquently, who had known her brother in ways she never would. It was a strange intimacy, carried by words traveling across the sea.
October 3, 1945
Dear Samuel,
I hope you don't mind the informality—after so many letters, "Mr. Washington" seems unnecessarily stiff.
The hospital has been busier than ever with men returning home. Some injuries are visible—missing limbs, scarred faces. Others are harder to see. Many of the men stare at nothing for hours or wake screaming from nightmares. I wonder how anyone returns to normal life after what they've witnessed.
You mentioned in your last letter that your unit expects to ship home soon. I find myself both eager for and apprehensive about your return. We've created this friendship across the safety of an ocean, through words carefully chosen and thoughts fully formed before being committed to paper. What becomes of such a connection when geography no longer separates us?
Charleston remains unchanged in most ways that matter. The same families preside over the same social events. The same boundaries exist between sections of town. I wonder sometimes if I'm the one who's changed, or if the world has always been this way and I've only just noticed.
There's a quote from Hughes I've been thinking about: "I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins." Perhaps letters are like rivers too, connecting distant shores despite all that lies between.
Be safe in your journey home.
Sincerely, Esther
The telegram arrived in early December.
ARRIVING CHARLESTON DECEMBER 15 STOP WOULD LIKE TO MEET IF AGREEABLE TO YOU STOP HARBOR CEMETERY 3 PM DECEMBER 16 BY EAST GATE OAK STOP UNDERSTAND IF YOU PREFER NOT STOP SAMUEL
Esther read the words over and over, her heart beating rapidly. After months of letters, she would finally meet the man whose thoughts had become so familiar to her. She'd known this day would come—had even anticipated it—but now that it was imminent, she found herself uncharacteristically nervous.
What would Margaret say? She hadn't told her sister that the correspondence had continued. It had been simpler to keep it private, especially as the letters had grown more personal, more philosophical.
She drafted and discarded three responses before sending a simple message:
WILL MEET YOU AS SUGGESTED STOP LOOKING FORWARD TO IT STOP ESTHER
Harbor Cemetery was nearly empty that Sunday afternoon. A few mourners placed fresh flowers on graves near the entrance, but the eastern section lay quiet under the weak December sun. Esther followed the crushed shell path toward the massive oak that marked the oldest section of the cemetery, her heels crunching softly with each step.
What if someone saw them together? What would they think? For the first time since beginning their correspondence, Esther felt the full weight of Charleston's social expectations pressing down on her. Perhaps she should have suggested meeting somewhere less public, or—
No. That would imply they had something to hide, some shameful secret. Their friendship, unusual as it might be, had been born of shared grief and mutual respect. There was nothing shameful in that.
Approaching the oak tree with its sprawling, bare branches, she spotted a solitary figure standing with his back to her. He wore a simple dark suit, slightly too large for his frame, and a brown fedora. As her footsteps drew closer, he turned.
Samuel Washington was younger than she had expected, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, with a solemn expression that reminded her of the photograph Robert had sent in his dress uniform—the careful dignity of someone who had seen too much. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her, and he removed his hat in a gesture of respect.
"Miss Calloway," he said, his voice deep and measured. It was strange to finally hear the voice behind the words she'd read so many times.
"Mr. Washington," she acknowledged with a nod, then smiled slightly. "Samuel."
"Esther," he replied, returning the smile, though his posture remained formal. "It's good to finally meet you in person."
An awkward silence stretched between them. In the distance, gulls wheeled and cried over the harbor, and the scent of salt water mingled with the crisp winter air.
"I brought you something," he said finally, reaching into his pocket. He extended his hand, palm up, revealing a small, worn notebook with faded blue covers. "Robert kept a journal. He asked me to make sure you got it if anything happened to him. I've been carrying it ever since."
Esther took the notebook with trembling fingers. She opened it carefully, recognizing Robert's neat, compact handwriting filling the pages. Her vision blurred as she glimpsed fragmentary thoughts, poems, sketches—pieces of her brother's inner life she'd never known.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice unsteady. "I... the Army sent his official things, but nothing like this."
Samuel nodded. "He kept it private. Said some thoughts weren't meant for Army censors." His eyes held a quiet understanding. "There are some pages about your letters, about the shells. About what home meant to him."
Esther closed the journal carefully, knowing she would need privacy to fully explore its contents. "I can't tell you what this means to me."
Esther led them to a stone bench beneath the oak's spreading branches. "It's strange to finally meet in person," she said, "after all these months of letters."
Samuel sat carefully at the opposite end of the bench, maintaining a respectful distance. "It is," he agreed. "Your letters... they've been a light during a dark time."
They talked about Robert at first, finding comfort in shared memories. Gradually, the conversation shifted to their plans now that the war was over. Esther had continued nursing, finding purpose in helping wounded soldiers adjust to civilian life. Samuel spoke of his intention to head north.
"There's nothing for me in Charleston," he said quietly. "My uncle in Philadelphia says opportunities are opening up there for colored veterans. The GI Bill will help me get an education."
"What do you want to study?" Esther asked.
"Literature, perhaps teaching," he replied, a hint of animation entering his voice. "Books were my escape as a child. I'd like to share that with others."
From the corner of her eye, Esther noticed a middle-aged couple walking along a nearby path. The woman nudged her husband and nodded in their direction, her expression scandalized. The man frowned, steering his wife deliberately toward another section of the cemetery.
Samuel noticed too. He stood, replacing his hat. "I should go, Miss Calloway. I don't want to cause you any trouble."
Esther remained seated. "I'm not concerned with their opinions, Mr. Washington."
"Perhaps not," he said gently, "but I am. Charleston hasn't changed while we've been exchanging letters."
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small package wrapped in brown paper. "One more thing I wanted to give you. I found it on a beach near Naples before shipping home."
Esther unwrapped the package carefully. Inside was a shell, similar to the one she had sent Robert, but larger, with delicate ridges radiating from its center and an iridescent interior that caught the sunlight.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"Robert and I talked about your shell collection once. He said you told him that the same water touches both shores—Charleston and Italy. That the sea doesn't care about distance or boundaries. He liked that idea very much."
Esther cradled the shell in her palm. "Will you keep writing?" she asked quietly. "After you move north?"
Surprise flickered across his face, followed by wariness. "That might not be wise, Esther."
"I've valued our correspondence," she said. "I'd hate to lose it simply because geography no longer separates us."
Samuel was quiet for a moment, studying her face. "The world has very definite ideas about what kinds of friendships are acceptable," he finally said.
"The world has been wrong before," she replied. "And I've never much cared for other people's ideas about what I should or shouldn't do."
A small smile touched his lips. "So I've gathered from your letters." He hesitated. "I leave for Philadelphia on the 28th."
"Write to me when you're settled," Esther said. "Please."
Samuel nodded. "I will."
As he turned to leave, Esther called after him softly. "Samuel. Thank you for being his friend when he needed one."
He paused, looking back at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "He was a good man," he said simply. "One of the best I've known."
Esther watched him walk away, his tall figure growing smaller as he followed the path toward the cemetery gate. The seashell from Naples warmed in her palm, and Robert's journal pressed against her heart where she had slipped it into her dress pocket.
Sitting alone beneath the oak tree, with the distant sound of waves lapping against Charleston's harbor, Esther made a decision. She would continue writing to Samuel Washington, regardless of what people might think. She would collect shells from Sullivan's Island and send them to him in Philadelphia. She would honor her brother's memory by having the courage to recognize a friendship that crossed boundaries.
In February, a letter arrived with a Philadelphia postmark. Harriet Woodson at the post office raised her eyebrows but said nothing as she handed it over.
Dear Esther,
Philadelphia is cold but full of possibilities. I've secured a position at a printing company while taking evening classes at Lincoln University. The city has its own divisions, but they feel less suffocating than Charleston's.
I visited the shore here last weekend and thought of you. The Atlantic seems different from this vantage point—darker, more restless. I found no shells worth collecting, but the sight of the water reminded me that the same ocean touches both Pennsylvania and South Carolina.
Perhaps one day the tide will carry you north for a visit. Philadelphia has impressive libraries and museums that I think you would enjoy. Until then, letters will have to bridge the distance.
With warmest regards, Samuel
Esther smiled as she carefully placed the letter in her box alongside the others. Later that week, she took the ferry to Sullivan's Island and spent the afternoon walking the beach until she found a perfect spiral shell. She would send it north with her reply, another small piece of Charleston's shore to connect with his.
The boundaries that separated them remained firmly in place—Charleston hadn't changed, as Samuel had said under the oak tree. But they had changed. And perhaps that was where real hope resided—not in grand gestures or sweeping reforms, but in individual hearts willing to see beyond artificial divisions to the humanity that connected them all, like water flowing between distant shores.
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