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Peter Rutkoff's father died when Peter was only seven, so the memories are faint. In 1949, Harry Rutkoff succumbed to wartime wounds, having been machine-gunned on a battle field in France five years before. Peter's yearning was always for his father's voice—as he says in his intro, he could never quite bring back the timbre of it, the sense of a soul there, speaking to him. But with his father's wartime stories, found years later, Peter had more to go on. They comprise a thread of Harry's experience and attentions, as slender as life can be. And in correspondence here is Peter's own story, rich remembrances of young eyes, finding the father that life would bring him.