April 20th 1945
I fear to write of what just happened but I feel I need to talk of it. The vile feelings that I have witnessed today are all consuming in their intensity. I should best start from the beginning. I was walking down Baker Street near dusk, with a bag of groceries that scraped above my bare necessities, when I saw the most abrupt atrocity I think has ever existed. A man who had seemed perfectly healthy, walking upright and proud, obviously not unfit for service, was walking down the opposite street. A woman brushed past him and deposited a feather in his lapel. He called out to her, rather impolitely, but not harshly or rudely. He then continued walking. As he was about to reach the corner of the almost deserted street he passed a dark alley from which suddenly 3 men in police uniforms burst from the darkness. With calls like “coward” “profligate” and “foolish vagrant” they drew nightsticks and began to assault him. As one man used his weapon to get the young man by the throat, pinning him against the cold brick wall. As the man started to call out, I saw a flash of light, reflecting from cold steel. Realising what was imminent, I ran away from the street, dropping all I held. I still could not escape the choked cry and gurgle as the man was so cruelly and violently murdered by men who’s livelihood is to protect us.
And yet my largest regret was dropping the groceries. A compassionate citizen I am no longer.