In this epistolary episode, Wilf discusses daydreams, adultery, apocalyptic doom and eschatological doubt with Hélène, his fiancée. He is in Vancouver, six weeks from his demobilisation date, with no job prospects. Hélène is 3,000 miles away, in Halifax, writing front-page stories for the Chronicle. They are 25 years old.

Meanwhile, in London, on the third day of its inaugural session, the United Nations General Assembly approves the foundational framework for its organisational structure, including the Security Council.

British forces in Germany begin arresting Nazi industrialists in the Ruhr and Rhineland, targeting 76 figures for their roles in wartime production. The country’s U.S., UK, French, and Soviet administrators focus on denazification and economic stabilisation amid harsh winter conditions and food shortages.

The French government nationalises the Banque de France, BNCI, CNEP, Crédit Lyonnais and Société Générale.

In Ottawa, during economic talks between Canada and the United States, Canada expresses disappointment over U.S. shifts toward selective tariff reductions rather than the broad cuts discussed during wartime talks. Prime Minister Mackenzie King maintains cautious diplomacy, prioritising UN involvement and reconstruction aid.

That night, in Paris near Les Invalides, Robert Denoël, the publisher of Céline's Voyage au bout de la nuit, is assassinated while changing a tire on his car.

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Mooney W.T. R162227 
R.C.A.F. Station
Sea Island 
Vancouver, BC

Dec. 3rd 1945

My dear Helene,

How the hell do those marks above the e's in your name go? As your future husband, I believe I have the right to know.

I have just been reading up on the Atomic Bomb. It seems that one of the scientists at the try-out in New Mexico offered to bet his fellow workers (1-to-10 odds) that the explosion's reaction would flood the world and burn all living things to a crisp. No one would take him on! It also appears to be their combined opinion that science is on the threshold of attaining its greatest triumph: blowing us all to Hell or Heaven. They realise this but can’t stop fooling around with it – and us.

With such a prospect in view, I feel that we should get married next weekend. Delay may prove disastrous, and the belief that we would be reunited in the next life is something that, at this writing, I find unsatisfactory and, further, doubt. You in Heaven and me in Hell would be a situation much more irreparably worse than you in Halifax and me in Vancouver.

After writing you two (too) long letters in and out of an alcoholic haze, it was six days before I heard from you, and I had all but decided that I had gone too far with my large mouth and quick pen, and that when I did hear from you, it would be with a blast bordering on atomic. Therefore, I was very pleased your letter appeared and to learn that you enjoyed mine, though I was surprised that you should term it as a “masterpiece”, or was that sarcasm? Being so conceited, I never consider this a possibility. In any case, my dear young woman, I have never at any time in my life resorted to the use of “slush” in my writing or as a way to treat dry mouth. Nor have I ever been accused of doing so. Slush indeed!

Had beers, supper and a show with Elizabeth last Friday. She expects to be moving into her new apartment in January, and I think that’s all she’s living for. I get quite a kick out of her. I believe she feels that she knows me so well that she can discuss anything with me with perfect frankness – a thing she’s wanted to have with someone her entire life. All of a sudden, she’ll come out with questions that will make me howl with laughter. For example, she suddenly asked me what I thought of having “affairs”. After I choke...