November 22, 1944

Another train left today, headed across the border towards that Hell men created. I should be proud, happy, or feel something that I saved some of those so damned. But I feel as though I am sweeping pebbles in the face of a landslide.

How can one feel anything in these times? Sure footing is not to be found, neither from my contacts at home nor the pestering Americans with their unending code words and pass phrases. If I feel anything at all it is lost, lost in a world I no longer understand.

Budapest does not suit me. This life and these acts of so called heroism do not suit me. I long for the shores and familiar climbs of Sweden. I wish Berber and I could be together, a quiet life of meetings and paperwork.

But we do not choose the times in which we live. We only choose what course we shall sail through those times. I pray I have chosen well. I pray that history will remember that in the face of evil, at least some men chose good, whether they know my name or not.