January 17, 1942

I rushed to the hospital kitchen at six every morning. If by some magic I could have obliterated myself into a tiny grease spot while I cooked our coffee and cereal, I would have done so. I. knew that my welcome was being stretched dangerously thin in the crowded kitchen, and I expected to be thrown out without any formal notice.

Catalino had already sent us a native stove, plus my old iron skillets, pots, pans, and other kitchen utensils, and wed have to put them in use just as soon as we found a place outside to set up housekeeping.

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