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ALL THIS HAPPENED, more or less. The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true. One guy I knew really was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn't his. Another guy I knew really did threaten to have his personal enemies killed by hired gunmen after the war. And so on. I've changed all the names. I really did go back to Dresden with Guggenheim money (God love it) in 1967. It looked a lot like Dayton, Ohio, more open spaces than Dayton has.There must be tons of human bone meal in the ground. I went back there with an old war buddy, Bernard V. O'Hare, and we made friends with a cab driver, who took us to the slaughterhouse where we had been locked up at night as prisoner! of war. His name was Gerhard Muller. He told us that he was prisoner of the Americans for a while.We asked him how it wa to live under Communism, and he said that it was terrible a first, because everybody had to work so hard, and because ther wasn't much shelter or food or clothing. But things were muc better now He had a pleasant little apartment, and his daught( was getting an excellent education. His mother was incinerate in the Dresden fire-storm. So itgoes. He sent O'Hare a postcard at Christmastime, an it said: and here is wh
KURT VONNEGUT
I wish you and your family also as to Your frien i M,r,_ Christmas and a happy New Year? and I hope that we'll meet in a world of peace and freedom in the taxi cab if the again will.' acci dent
I like that very much: 'If the accident will.' I would hate to tell you what this lousy little book cost me money and anxiety and time.When I got home from the second World War twenty-three years ago, I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen. And I thought, too, that it would be a masterpiece or at least make me a lot of money, since the subject was so big. But not many words about Dresden came from my mind then—not enough of them to make a book, anyway. And not many words come now, either, when- I have become an old fart with his memories and his Pall Malls, with his sons full grown. I think of how useless the Dresden part of my memory has been, and yet how tempting Dresden has been to write about, and I am reminded of the famous limerick: There was a young man from Stamboul, Who soliloquized thus to his tool: `You took all my wealth And you ruined my health, And now you won't pee, you old fool.' And I'm reminded, too, of the song that goes: My name is Yon V -onson, I work in Wisconsin, I work in a lumbermill there.