From there we walked on a great but dusty road, and after an hour we could see a bay. The road went along the shore, climbing so it reminded us of wild Albania. A milestone at the crossroads said "18 km to Marseille." It was very hot; we were fatigued. We branched off at the 6th kilometer and arrived at a prisoner camp in an hour. It was in a valley surrounded by bare hills. The old building was a forsaken monastery. Beautiful park and buildings. Cells for 14 people sat in a huge square. Some 500 steps farther there were 15 houses with German prisoners.
The Italians handed us over, lined us up, and brought us to cells. I fell asleep immediately. The camp was surrounded by guards with bayonets. We felt like we were in an animal farm. They don't take a single step without bayonets here. They go for water, to the canteen, for meals or bread—always lined up perfectly and with bayonets. The Germans look real good in their brown uniforms and wide straw hats. Their shirts and hats bear large, printed letters—"P.G."—plus a number. You can tell a prissonier de guerre—a war prisoner—from afar.
There are 3 big canteens where you can buy bread, anchovies, cheese, or lemonade—all adequately expensive. ¾ liter of lemonade is 60 cts., i.e. 1 lire. They deduct 25% from the Italian currency. It's a strange charge. What's worse, they give us Italian coins as change, thus stealing from us twice.
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