"Now read, now pray, now work with fervor; so time will pass quickly and work will be easier."
On the first days I had some difficulty in fixing up a timetable; but now that I have been here for a week and know the order of things I have tried to follow a daily rule. It is difficult to do everything to time for, firstly, the ordinary things of the prison routine do not keep exactly to the clock and, secondly, it is not easy to know what time it is.
This was especially difficult in the first days because my watch, together with most things, had been taken away from me. Fortunately, I received it back last Wednesday night. I had to give a written answer to a question. I was allowed to smoke so I asked for my pipe, tobacco, etc., and at the same time for my watch. Of course it had stopped and I chose a time at random, more or less correct. There is no clock here and in things which are timed the hour is not reliable because one does not keep to it exactly. But my watch goes and so I have my own time, independent of Greenwich, Amsterdam or Berlin.
Between 6:30 and 7:00 o'clock in the morning the first sounds are heard. Then the wardens seem to awaken the young prisoners, who perform divers current jobs. About a quarter to seven a bell is rung, but very softly. Slowly further alarm is raised. Some time later people go around, the double locks seem to be opened, and the light is switched on. That is the time, at least for me, to rise. After all, it is about time to get up, having had such a long night's sleep. I make the Sign of the Cross, greet Our Lady of Mount Carmel on the shelf over my bed, and put on my stockings and slippers. Then I say three Hail Mary’s and a short prayer. Then I start stripping my bed. I shake the blankets and fold them neatly and do the same with the sheet. Then I put my water jar outside the open door. Still in my pajamas, the folded blankets lying on the mat, I kneel down and in my own manner and supplying what I do not know by heart, I say Mass, make a spiritual Communion and say the prayers of thanksgiving. It goes more quickly, in more ways than one. It is a good start to the day. At home there is meditation first and after that the Office but here I prefer to say Mass first, even though I am in night attire.
Soon the jar is brought back with fresh water. The door opens for a moment. We say good morning to each other and I begin to wash myself. I would very much like to shave but this luxury has been reduced to Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. On those days the doors open for ten minutes and we receive a safety razor, if necessary soap and shaving brush also, with which we have to manage very quickly. If the razor is not sharp we are allowed to ask for another one. When I am washing myself in the morning—about half past seven—a man comes with coffee. All of us have a nice tin cup with a handle, a plate and a spoon. At night the plate and spoon are put outside but in the morning we receive them back when the water is brought around. I crumble my bread on the plate and pour the coffee over it making quite a full plate. Then I finish dressing and leave the bread soaking. By eight o'clock I am a gentleman again—except for my beard—and dressed in black. I sit down on the stool at the table, say the Angelus, an Our Father and a Hail Mary, as in the convent, and partake of my breakfast with my spoon.
Oh, I used to do that in our Bavarian convents thirty five years ago. There, too, we crumbled the bread into the coffee and ate it with the spoon. Having cleaned the plate and spoon I commence my morning walk, enjoying my pipe as I do so, thinking of the past and the present, and repeating my Memento of Holy Mass more fully. I remember many who are remembering me and I try to live in the Communion of Saints. I do not walk far—six paces there and back, and then the same again. This walk starts at half past eight and ends by nine o'clock, by which time my pipe is empty. Then I say Matins and Lauds and Prime, often still walking. When I am tired I sit down quietly beside the table on my stool against the wall. By the time I have finished it is half past nine. Between nine o'clock and half past the light is switched off, sometimes so early that I have to stop saying my Office, although last Sunday it was kept on till ten o'clock. At half past nine I have my morning meditation, reading and meditating the life of Jesus by Cyril Verschaeve. I was able to take this book with me by permission of the officer who arrested me, and also the life of Saint Teresa in the Kwakman translation. At first they were not given to me but by later request I was permitted to have them in my cell.
At ten o'clock I start writing. During the first days I was occupied in writing an answer to the question Why do the Dutch people, especially the Catholics, resist the National Socialist Movement? I tried to give an answer in eight pages like this one. Now I am trying during my hours of writing, to fix my impressions of the time spent here; furthermore, I am writing the life of Saint Teresa, which I undertook for "The Spectrum." When I start writing I light a cigar. At half past eleven, walking again, I say Terce, Sext and None. My writing was interrupted on a few mornings by physical exercises. We have to do these every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. It is a comical affair. We are called for by loud shouts. The doors open and we stand erect at the other side of the corridor until all have left their cells, each one holding his numbered dust pail in his hand. We start moving, put our pails down at the end of the corridor, pass some corridors, and arrive at an open field behind the prison: a fairly long but narrow strip of ground surrounded by a high wall.
The gymnasium teacher stands in the center. We walk around him in a broad ellipse, now in ordinary step, now on the double, now taking high steps. Sometimes we have to stretch our arms forward or to the side in a certain rhythmical movement, at others we have to keep our hands on our hips.
I continue reading until four o'clock, now and then lighting my pipe. At four o'clock I kneel down for half an hour's meditation on the life of Jesus and on mine. About half past four bread is brought for supper, which also has to serve for next morning. Until Thursday it was the ordinary bread, a lump cut into four. On Thursday morning the doctor came to see me. I told him that my stomach was fairly delicate, that on four occasions I had had a serious hemorrhage of the stomach, and that I was suffering from a rather dangerous infection by Colibacilli. I told him briefly about the treatment by several doctors and pointed out to him that my abnormally light weight, added to my chronic disease, made extra food necessary, and that this had been allowed to me by the food office in Nijmegen. He said he would have me weighed and would see what he could do. I was weighed: one hundred and twenty-six pounds, from which four pounds were subtracted for clothes. As a result I now receive milk bread instead. I have not noticed very much difference, but I think there may be some milk in it. Furthermore, the slices are buttered. At supper I receive a large sized cup half filled with whole milk instead of a full cup of skim milk.
Nothing came of the other extra food allowance. As a consequence of the concession there is a card hanging on the door of my cell now marked "Milk" and another one marked "white bread." It seems more than it is, but I can do with it. As soon as the bread is brought I let it soak in the milk and eat that. One has not much time because cup and spoon must be given back very soon. Our supper is finished by quarter past five. Then it becomes very quiet. We do not receive anything, we do not have to give anything. After supper I say the Angelus and have adoration spiritually united with the convent. Then I light a cigar and have an evening walk up and down a stretch of twelve paces as in the morning. At six o'clock I start writing and continue until quarter to eight. Then I make my bed and say night prayers at the side of my bed. It does not matter to me much when the light is switched off. I continue praying for some time and then I tuck myself under the blankets till next morning.
Scheveningen, January 28, 1942
T.B.
