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November 11, 1944

Armistice Day, but a mockery a now. There was heavy fog which cleared suddenly and revealed glorious blue sky with soft clouds, golden sun, air as heady as wine, the mountains unmoved by all the beating of elements—etched sharp and clear in blue line against the sky, terraces washed clean showing green sprouts still growing, the ridges lovely in gray and purple shadow contrast, clouds drifting lazily in a middle strata. There is a roar like the sea from the river far down in the valley with all the draining brooks pouring into it. We hear the children outdoors again, twittering like birds rejoicing in the passing storm. People stream out all over camp, meeting as though separated lor two weeks, with broad smiles, ready to face hunger,
shortage, anything, after the terrors and darkness of nature. We walk about to see the damage, chiefly at Baby House where the rafters are lashed down with heavy rope, the center beam broken like a match box. The laundry shed next to Baby House lies in a pile of twisted tin and broken beams, far from its moorings.

The storm is over, and the luxuriousness of stillness, the joy of quiet, the beauty of peace permeates us. We comprehend Yamato’s yearning for Serenity! Mattresses, bed quilts, thick down-puffs, clothes of all sorts hang dripping from wire and bamboo lines.

If I have learned nothing else, | have learned to stand alone in here as well as to stand in a multitude. Now more than ever, it seems to me not individuals who are at fault but Society, the training and attitude in which the whole population is reared.

Jerry came down in the evening and we had a quiet talk, nearer than for some days because he did not try to conceal anything or treat me as ill.