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quit, I don’t think that I could ever again feel as though I was half the man I ever considered myself.” Perhaps he feared that too many escapes would jeopardize all the men, or that Blackmon was too young and inexperienced to make it far beyond the wire. At any rate, Carano’s own escape never materialized. The guards made him, Josephson and Bang aware that they knew of their escape plans. Someone had informed on them. Again, the uncertainty: who might it have been? In prison, many soldiers searched for a goal, whether it was escape or something more tangible: long walks around the compound, boxing and playing other sports with the equipment sent by the YMCA, or washing out their dirty clothing. They made routines in their daily lives and found things to accomplish, something to remind them of hope and of their own power and worth. Each barrack, holding more than one hundred men, had its own stories to tell. Many POWs dug tunnels for escape routes, feverishly scooping out the earth with a firm destination in their minds. Looming beyond the camp to the north lay the cold German Alps, but to the west was Switzerland, with its promise of freedom . Other POWs whittled scavenged wood with pieces of tin cans they used as knives, forged crucifixes made of scrounged metal, or bartered instant coffee, cigarettes or D-bars with the guards. Some played in orchestras, with YMCA instruments, and others put on plays, including the authors of the play, Stalag 17. Some, like Carano, sketched or wrote in the pages of the blank journals supplied by the Red Cross and published by the YMCA. Steve Carano took his journal seriously, filling the pages with drawings of his friends’ faces, the barracks, common utensils, and recordings of the life around him. Like the best of soldiers, he shared it with his fellow prisoners , carefully copying down their experiences or allowing them to fill a page with sentiments about home or grief about a fallen comrade. Toward the end of his journal, he wrote his own poem about the stories he had recorded. Now where did I get these stories? That’s what I want to tell. They’re gathered from my buddies round me, in a German prison cell. Some with arms or legs shot off, some who cannot see. But every man here has done his part, to preserve Democracy. Their fighting days are over, and in my mind there’s no doubt If everyone would do as much, we’d soon have the Jerry out. 14 CARANO’S WARTIME LOG 1SLOAN_pages_i-104.qxd 8/20/08 10:49 AM Page 14 Carano filled his pages with the heroics of men like “Slim” Lassater, who nearly escaped from the Nazis in France before he was captured and sent to Stalag XVII, or the lessons taught by the prison chaplain, Captain Stephen W. Kane, who led services in a thick Irish brogue. For light, Carano had only what the men called a “butter burner,” a tin can with a wick designed to burn margarine, which acted like a long-burning candle. In the bitter, windy cold of the barrack, Carano often had to stop and warm his hands over the small flame to keep writing or drawing. Yet when one looks at the meticulous handwriting and the firm lines in the pages of his journal, his pen never seemed to falter as he filled sheet after sheet with beautifully scripted or drawn work. At times—as he contemplated and even planned escape—his patience wavered. The tough Brooklynite found another way of coping in the pages of his journal. It was his gift to history, to his comrades, and to his family. Always creative, he sewed a cover for the book from his brown uniform , carefully stitching the edges to secure it, making it easier to disguise and hide from intrusive guards or surprise searches from the SS, who seemed especially interested in confiscating log books and diaries. He constructed pockets in the front and back where he could slide other material he wanted to save, such as the German propaganda that the guards gave out and the programs from annual Christmas shows performed by the POWs, sometimes in drag. A couple of those shows were actually caught on camera by a daring Kriegie named Ben Phelper. Phelper, who must have been an ingenuous negotiator with the guards, had managed to trade Red Cross supplies...

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