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One long broom-stick dominates all else and slants over her. It is the broom-stick riding the witch. 

November 4th. Our neighbours came to see us. They have had no news of their soldier son who is still a prisoner of war in Germany. We drank Asti to his health. 

Our neighbours are perturbed because an Italian family of six is to be lodged with them. To live with a noisy class of Italian "sfollati" will prove no pleasant experience to these quiet-living people who in order to be alone and to avoid war-time servants do their own household work and cooking. They talked much about the predicament and before leaving they had decided to apply for German officers as guests. It is obvious that everyone of whatever political opinion prefers the Germans as lodgers and this owing to their discipline and the protection they afford. 

November 5th. I make a doggerel to lessen the gloom: 

Dear Father Stalin, we're impressed by your care, 
Ugolino had only two sons for his fare, 
But you without hunger must eat l'univers.

November 6th. The Vatican City bombed! This war is the Devil's own World 's Fair. What more pompous Aunt Sally to pelt? What more effective target to aim at than the very Pope himself curled up under his big, snail-like dome of St. Peter's! Did the wildest Anti-Christian ever before dream of such a possibility? The destruction of cathedrals