Suddenly she knew what to write. What she must say to that
grief-stricken English boy. Quickly her hand penned the words:
"DEAR LAD: There is nothing to forgive. I see you as you
are--your troubled goodness. I feel you coming to me like a little
boy astounded at having done ill when you meant well. You seem my
son. I am glad your hands cared for my other boy. I had rather
you than any other touched his earthly body. He was my youngest.
I think you saw his fineness. I know the torture of your heart
since you have slain him. To women brotherhood is a reality. For
all men are our sons. That makes war a monster that brother must
slay brother. Yet perhaps women more than men have been to blame
for this world war. We did not think of the world's children, our
children. The baby hands that clutched our breast were so sweet, we
forgot the hundred other baby hands stretched out to us. But the
Earth does not forget, she mothers all. And now my heart aches with
repentance. I long to take you in my arms and lay your head upon my
breast to make you feel through me your kinship with all the earth.
Help me, my son, I need you. Be your vision, my vision. Spread the
dream of oneness and love throughout the land. When the war is over
come to me. I am waiting for you.--DEINE MUTTER."