Soon the war is there [in Paris] like a train on time. My American embassy says go home. The telegram from my father says go to Stockholm to Uncle Hugo. In order to do this there is only the (disrupted) train service-across Belgium, across Germany, with queer stops and queerer changes of trains, my steamer trunk that had planned to stay somehow keeping up, not quite missing connections….
It was now goodbye France, hello Sweden…. Dry leaves were falling, skidding across the frosty grass. Winter was racing toward Stockholm; Nazi mines were planted in the North Sea.
"Stay, stay," begged my cousins. But all I wanted now was to get home, if the war would let me. From Gothenburg, on the Gripsholm, it took ten days. Mines in the Atlantic Ocean, fatalism among the valiant crew of the Gripsholm, who could only drown their daring in aquavit; giddy optimism among certain youthful passengers in second class, reading Waugh's Vile Bodies, and laughing off their fears.
–from Between Lives: An Artist and Her World. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2001, pp. 51-53.