July 27-30
Days pass in work. Digging vegetables such as beets, harvesting wheat, etc. Lots of work. I am always glad when the evening comes.
Food is good and abundant. Bread is great and there is plenty of it. Meals are various, such as I have never seen. Boiled green beans with butter, beans, green peas, and a salad twice a day. Sometimes even meat. We can't buy anything; the guards took our money. And then we cannot communicate—if we could, we would be much better off.
The French are not bad to us. In farming they are backward. Their kitchens look like Albanian ones—no ceilings, smoky beams, Serb fireplaces, chained kettles with fire underneath.
July 30
Sunday again. We look forward to these few moments of rest so much. I wash, stitch, and write home, including 4 cards to Ústí—to F.T., A.S., A.M., and Kohn & Kornfeld.
I long for home, for you, my dear parents! I am losing my hope ever to return. How happy I was two years ago, and now? A sad anniversary in recent days—2 years of war! When will that poor, damned war end? It is extraordinarily hot today.
August 8
Sunday again. Service in the local church. We are a beautiful sight: Lined up in pairs, a
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