... caught three days now, most of the time I am in my cold, dark cell. The smell in here is putrid, everything in here I feel makes me think of my own dead body. The only light I get is through the small cracks in the walls and ceiling and every time it rains I feel the cold rain drops trickle down my back, and if I am not there I am working on the railway lines. My father always told me "it's better to be dead than to be a prisoner. Also the other day my best friend David Thomas died of dehydration working on the railway. So the Nazis threw him over the railway bridge we were building. All we could do was watch him gently fall to the river where his body penetrated the smooth clear water. It shouldn't be longer than a couple of months until ...

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