August 28, 1943

I've just finished curling my hair and putting on my lipstick. I'm trying to pass the time. Last night, Edwin received a message telling him to report to British military headquarters in Budapest to receive the answer to his letter of transit.

For the first time in many days, I'm excited. I don't want to leave my husband or my city, but I know that this is only a step toward the life my Jarvis and I will to have together. He says it won't be long once he's home, perhaps tonight or tomorrow, that I'll be given passage. I've already packed the few things I plan to take with me. Edwin has a sister in London, who will take me in until we can be reunited.

I turn my thoughts toward the streets of Budapest. I won't see them again for a long time, if ever. I remember the little alleys that take me to Mr. Jonas's shop and the busy thoroughfares that lead to the hotel. My mind lingers on the little synagogue, the place my father spent his life and for which he's probably given it.

I look out the window at the houses where the Fehers and the Solyms used to live. Mr. Bokori hasn't left the city yet. He still lives out his days in a shuttered little house at the end of the street, and I say a prayer that he will be safe until his daughter in America sends him enough money to travel to her.

I am writing now because I can't bear to sit idle, wondering exactly what my husband is doing and imagining the worst. This should be a happy day because I'm going to my new home. I'm not afraid to go; I have my father's courage.

I am lying in bed alone in my father's house. I'm writing now because otherwise, I'll scream at the walls. My husband isn't here. I waited four hours, then five, then seven. Finally, a short, red-faced man in a British uniform knocked on my door.

"Mrs. Jarvis," he said, loudly and without feeling, "your husband has been charged with treason against the English crown for the forging of his superior officer's signature. He will be taken immediately to England for discharge and trial."

"Let me see him," I answered, hardly able to breathe.

"You can't," he snapped. "Consider yourself fortunate that you're not being arrested. The English have no jurisdiction over Hungarian nationals, or you'd be charged as well."

He went off in his shiny black car, but I was determined. I walked to the first street where it's possible to find a taxi and hailed the first one I saw. I shoved a fistful of money, far more than the ride was worth, into the hands of the elderly cabdriver and told him to get to British army headquarters as if his life depended on his speed.

The memory makes me so angry I have trouble writing. No one would answer me. No one would acknowledge me. Even the Hungarian girl at the desk just stared at me like I was no one. I stayed three hours, until they finally sent a sergeant out to talk to me. He was the kindest of the lot, but he said there was nothing he could do.

I didn't cry until I got outside. I didn't want to show them my tears. They saw a woman in red lipstick with her head held high, who was proud of her husband and always will be.

Instead of getting a taxi, I walked home, miles and miles across the city. I know it's not safe any more; I didn't care. I guess I should thank the English. At least they told me my husband's fate. That's better than the police. Small comfort.

I'm alone in the house now. I have no father and no husband to comfort me. I pray to God, but I'm angry at Him. My father always said that was all right, that He could handle it. I hope that's true because I can't help it.

I share something new with my father now. I have known for many years what it was like to lose a mother, but now my mind turns to my father's loss, the loss of a wife. Edwin isn't truly gone, and I refuse to consider him so, but I feel the sharp, burning ache of having half of myself violently ripped away. I love my father more than ever when I think of how much he must have suffered and how kind he let it make him.

I'm not worried for myself. It's nearly impossible for Jews to travel across Europe now without official protection. Even if I could afford it, there's little chance I could travel safely. But I don't care very much any more.

In a moment, I'll stop writing so I can go back and read what I've written before and drink every single precious memory to the last drop. I won't let them take my husband away from me. I'll lock him away in my memory, safe and tight, where no one can ever find and hurt him. They may take the future and paint it black with ugly brushstrokes, but the past is a masterpiece—our masterpiece, the one Edwin and I painted for ourselves. Even the difficult moments are sacred now, because we were together in them.