For Esmé—with Love and Squalor (Salinger)
from the Collection “Nine Stories”
Short Summary
Devon, England, April 1944. An American soldier, Sergeant X, attended a British Intelligence training course before the D-Day invasion.
He went to town one rainy afternoon and attended a children's choir rehearsal in a church. He noticed a girl with a distinct, lovely voice and later encountered her in a tearoom.
Esmé approached Sergeant X directly, noting he looked lonely. They exchanged polite, thoughtful conversation. She said she enjoyed stories about squalor and asked X to someday write one for her. Before leaving, Esmé promised to write letters and gave X her father's large wristwatch as a talisman for luck in wartime.
Several weeks after V-E Day, Sergeant X, now deeply traumatized, struggled to read or write in Bavaria. He received a delayed package containing Esmé's watch and a kind, articulate letter from her. Touched, he finally felt soothed, remembering their meeting, and thought, "You take a really sleepy man, Esmé, and he always stands a chance of again becoming a man with all his fac—with all his f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact."
You take a really sleepy man, Esmé, and he always stands a chance of again becoming a man with all his fac—with all his f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.
Detailed Summary
Division into chapters is editorial.
The Wedding Invitation and Memories
The narrator received an air mail invitation to a wedding scheduled to take place in England on April 18th. He deeply wanted to attend and initially considered making the expensive trip abroad. However, after discussing it with his wife, they decided against it, partly because his mother-in-law was planning to visit them during the last two weeks of April. Despite not being able to attend, the narrator felt compelled to contribute something to the occasion.
He decided to write down some notes about the bride as he knew her almost six years earlier. The narrator hoped these notes might cause the groom, whom he had never met, some uneasiness. His intention was not to please but rather to edify and instruct.
Pre-Invasion Training in Devon
In April 1944, the narrator was among sixty American enlisted men taking specialized pre-Invasion training directed by British Intelligence in Devon, England. He described the group as unique because none of them were sociable. They were all letter-writers who rarely spoke to each other except to ask for ink. When not writing letters or attending classes, each went his own way.
The narrator typically spent clear days walking in scenic circles around the countryside. On rainy days, he read books near a ping-pong table. The three-week training course ended on a rainy Saturday. That evening, the group was scheduled to take a train to London, where rumor had it they would be assigned to infantry and airborne divisions for the D-Day landings.
By mid-afternoon on the final day, the narrator had packed all his belongings, including books he had brought from America. With nothing particular in mind, he put on his raincoat, muffler, galoshes, gloves, and cap, then walked down the cobblestone hill into town, ignoring the lightning flashes around him.
The Children's Choir and First Meeting with Esmé
In the center of town, the narrator stopped in front of a church to read a bulletin board. It announced children's choir practice at three-fifteen. After checking his watch and reading the list of children's names posted on the board, he entered the church. Inside, several adults sat in the pews, some holding small rubbers in their laps. The narrator sat in the front row.
On the rostrum sat about twenty children, mostly girls, ranging from seven to thirteen years old. Their choir coach, an enormous woman in tweeds, was instructing them to open their mouths wider when singing and to absorb the meaning of the words rather than just mouthing them. After blowing a note on her pitch-pipe, the children raised their hymnbooks and began to sing.
Their voices were melodious and unsentimental. While listening, the narrator particularly watched one child seated nearest to him on the end seat in the first row. She was about thirteen with straight ash-blond hair of ear-lobe length, an exquisite forehead, and blasé eyes. Her voice stood out from the others, having the best upper register, the sweetest sound, and the surest tone. Despite her talent, she seemed slightly bored, yawning twice between verses.
When the hymn ended, the coach began lecturing about proper behavior during sermons. Realizing the singing portion was over, the narrator left the church before the coach's dissonant speaking voice could break the spell cast by the children's singing.
Conversation in the Tearoom
Outside, it was raining harder. After looking through the window of the crowded Red Cross recreation room, the narrator entered an empty civilian tearoom across the street. He ordered tea and cinnamon toast, then searched his pockets for letters to reread. While on his first cup of tea, the young choir singer he had been watching entered the tearoom with a very small boy and a woman in a limp felt hat, presumably their governess.
The girl selected a table directly in front of the narrator. The small boy, about five years old, annoyed his governess by repeatedly pushing in and pulling out his chair before finally sitting down when his sister spoke to him. After their tea arrived, the girl caught the narrator staring at her party. She stared back, then gave him a small, qualified smile. He smiled back, hiding a black filling between his front teeth.
The next moment, the young lady was standing beside his table with enviable poise. She wore a Campbell tartan dress, which the narrator thought perfect for a rainy day. She remarked that she thought Americans despised tea. He replied that some Americans drank nothing but tea and invited her to join him. She accepted, sitting on the forward quarter of her chair with perfect posture.
When the narrator commented on the terrible weather, she responded with a clear voice that revealed her dislike of small talk. She placed her fingers on the table edge, then closed her hands, revealing bitten nails. She wore a military-looking wristwatch with a face too large for her slender wrist. She mentioned seeing him at choir practice, and he complimented her voice.
I'm training myself to be more compassionate. My aunt says I'm a terribly cold person... Do you find me terribly cold? I told her absolutely not—very much to the contrary, in fact.
She acknowledged her talent and stated her plan to become a professional jazz singer on the radio, make money, then retire at thirty to live on a ranch in Ohio. When the narrator offered her cinnamon toast, she declined, saying she ate like a bird. She correctly guessed that he attended the "secret Intelligence school on the hill" despite his evasive response. She then remarked that he seemed quite intelligent for an American, which he pointed out was a snobbish comment.
She blushed and explained that most Americans she had seen acted like animals, even mentioning one who threw an empty whiskey bottle through her aunt's window. The narrator defended soldiers, saying many were far from home and had few advantages in life. The girl touched her wet hair, mentioning it was quite wavy when dry. She then asked if he was deeply in love with his wife, acknowledging the question might be too personal.
I'd be extremely flattered if you'd write a story exclusively for me sometime... I prefer stories about squalor. I'm extremely interested in squalor.
Charles's Riddle and Goodbye
During their conversation, Charles interrupted by asking the narrator a riddle: "What did one wall say to the other wall?" When the narrator gave up, Charles delivered the punchline: "Meet you at the corner!" The boy found his own joke unbearably funny, requiring his sister to pound him on the back. Esmé explained that he told the same riddle to everyone he met and always had the same reaction.
Soon after, Esmé announced she had to leave. She asked if the narrator would be returning to the tearoom in the near future, mentioning that they came there every Saturday after choir practice. He said he would like to but probably couldn't make it. She then asked if she could write to him, saying she wrote "extremely articulate letters." He gave her his military address, and she promised to write first so he wouldn't feel compromised.
I hope you return from the war with all your faculties intact. I thanked her, and said a few other words, and then watched her leave the tearoom. She left it slowly, reflectively...
Staff Sergeant X's Mental State After the War
The narrative then shifts to what the narrator calls "the squalid, or moving, part of the story." The scene changes to Gaufurt, Bavaria, several weeks after V-E Day. The narrator, now referring to himself as Staff Sergeant X, was in his room on the second floor of a civilian home where he and nine other American soldiers were quartered.
This is the squalid, or moving, part of the story, and the scene changes. The people change, too. I'm still around, but from here on in... I've disguised myself so cunningly that even the cleverest reader will fail to recognize me.
Sergeant X was seated at a writing table with a paperback novel open before him, but he was having great difficulty reading. He had been triple-reading paragraphs and now was doing the same with sentences. He closed the book without marking his place and shielded his eyes from the harsh light of the naked bulb overhead.
He was a young man who had not come through the war with all his faculties intact... He suddenly closed the book, without marking his place. With his hand, he shielded his eyes for a moment against the harsh, watty glare.
He lit a cigarette with fingers that bumped gently against each other. He had been chain-smoking for weeks, and his gums bled at the slightest pressure. Suddenly, he felt his mind begin to dislodge itself, a sensation he had experienced frequently in recent weeks. To counter this, he pressed his hands hard against his temples and held on tight.
He thought he felt his mind dislodge itself and teeter, like insecure luggage on an overhead rack. He quickly did what he had been doing for weeks to set things right: he pressed his hands hard against his temples.
His hair was dirty and needed cutting. Though he had washed it several times during his two-week stay at the hospital in Frankfurt, it had gotten dirty again on the jeep ride back to Gaufurt. Sergeant X stared at his writing table, which was covered with unopened letters and packages addressed to him. He picked up a book by Goebbels titled "Die Zeit Ohne Beispiel" that belonged to the former resident of the house, a Nazi Party official whom X had arrested.
Written in ink, in German, in a small, hopelessly sincere handwriting, were the words 'Dear God, life is hell.' Nothing led up to or away from it. Alone on the page... the words appeared to have the stature of an uncontestable indictment.
Clay's Visit and War Memories
The door suddenly banged open, and Corporal Z entered without knocking. He had been Sergeant X's jeep partner and constant companion from D-Day through five campaigns of the war. He lived on the first floor and often came up to share rumors or complaints. He was a large, photogenic young man of twenty-four who had been photographed for a national magazine during the war, posing with Thanksgiving turkeys in Hurtgen Forest.
Clay commented on the spooky atmosphere of the room and asked if X was writing letters. He turned on the overhead light and sat on the edge of the bed. His brick-red hair was freshly combed and dripping wet. He wore several military decorations, including some he wasn't technically authorized to display. He mentioned a Bob Hope radio show that was about to start, but X said he had just turned the radio off.
Clay pointed out that X's hands were shaking badly. He recalled how X had looked like a "corpse" when he visited him at the hospital. Clay then mentioned they needed to get up at five the next morning to drive to Hamburg to pick up Eisenhower jackets for the whole detachment. X said he didn't want one and questioned why they needed to leave so early since the war was over.
Clay noticed that the side of X's face was twitching, and casually mentioned that he had written to his fiancée Loretta about X's nervous breakdown. He added that Loretta, who was studying psychology, believed nobody gets a nervous breakdown just from war—they must have been unstable their whole life. This comment irritated X, who asked Clay to take his feet off the bed.
Esmé's Letter and Watch
Clay began reminiscing about a time they were shelled in Valognes and he shot a cat that jumped on their jeep. X didn't want to hear the story, but Clay persisted, saying Loretta and her psychology class had discussed the incident. X sarcastically suggested the cat was a German spy in disguise, which offended Clay, who asked if X could ever be sincere. X suddenly felt sick and vomited into the wastebasket.
Clay invited X to listen to the radio show downstairs or to join him later at a dance in Ehstadt, but X declined both offers. Before leaving, Clay asked if X would fix a letter to Loretta that contained some German phrases. After Clay left, X tried to write a letter to a friend in New York but couldn't insert paper into his typewriter because his fingers were shaking too violently.
X noticed a small, unopened package wrapped in green paper that had fallen from the pile on his desk. It had been readdressed several times, showing at least three of his old A.P.O. numbers. He opened it without looking at the return address. Inside was a note and a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
The note was from Esmé, dated June 7, 1944. She apologized for taking 38 days to begin their correspondence, explaining that her aunt had been ill with streptococcus of the throat. She mentioned their meeting on April 30 and expressed concern about D-Day, hoping X wasn't among those in the initial assault on the Cotentin Peninsula. She also sent regards to his wife.
In a postscript, Esmé explained she was enclosing her father's wristwatch as a lucky talisman for X to keep during the war. She described its various features, including its ability to tell walking velocity. Charles had added a childish note at the bottom with repeated "hello"s and "love and kisses."
I am taking the liberty of enclosing my wristwatch which you may keep in your possession for the duration of the conflict... I am quite certain that you will use it to greater advantage in these difficult days than I ever can.
X found it difficult to set the note aside and lift the watch from the box. When he finally did, he saw that its crystal had been broken in transit. He wondered if the watch was otherwise undamaged but didn't have the courage to wind it and find out. As he held the watch, he suddenly felt sleepy. The story ends with the suggestion that a truly sleepy man always stands a chance of becoming a man with all his faculties intact again.