10 July 1945, 19:00
The work goes on, slowly and monotonously. Each day is incredibly long. We can barely wait for noon, then evening. Our strength is also running out, as the bread — about 30 decagrams — that we receive alongside the morning soup very often fails to appear and is never made up for afterwards. Yesterday there was a solar eclipse, very fine to watch. Our Hungarian military uniforms have also been exchanged for Russian ones — "we look splendid." My good boots were taken too and I was given canvas shoes with wooden soles. They are very difficult to walk in and cause terrible pain. The wild rumours are starting to fly again — it seems something is afoot. They say the newspaper wrote that by the 28th all prisoner-of-war camps must be cleared. Dear God, how wonderful that would be. Supper was had — a ladle of soup, as it always tends to be. One is permanently hungry. But thank God, I have no ailments. There is much one could write about, on many subjects, but I have no inclination — I have forced even this out of myself. Oh! Last night I dreamt I was at home and my dear Mother was crying very hard, asking why I wasn't coming home, and I told her I would be home in a month.
29 July 1945, 16:00
The 28th has come and gone and still nothing. Even the rumours have stopped. I don't believe my dream will come true. I think about home a great deal — what can be happening there, and what about the children? Is my dear Mother well? What about the vineyard — can they spray it and will there be any crop? How did the harvest go? Dear God, when will this captivity end? From today, letter writing has also begun — I don't know if they will reach home. We may write one per month through the Red Cross, while we may receive more in return. Thank God I have no ailments, only I am always hungry. Today is Sunday, we are not working. There was bathing at dawn and a change of underclothes, as well as a great looting session. There is nothing good they can take from me as I have nothing to take. My only entertainment is looking through my photographs and then for a few moments I believe I am at home.
8 August 1945, 14:00
Today I am on the sick list and stayed home. The trouble I had in Kolozsvár has returned — muscle rheumatism. I can't walk properly; in a word, I am incapable of work. My appetite is good, thank God — if only there were something to eat. From today the working hours have been extended from 8 to 10 hours, but the food is just as poor as before. I don't know what will become of us — we are falling apart completely. Of going home there is no talk. I am alone in the room now, writing these lines at a small table. No one is disturbing me; I leaf through my little prayer book that I have had for a long time, look through the photographs — the afternoon won't be so tedious then.