We went back regularly to the courthouse, where the officials clearly believed we were still being held in prison. Who is in charge here?, I wondered.

Diplomats gained access to us on our 35th day of captivity. After Turkey closed its embassy in Tripoli, Hungary had taken over as the de facto “protecting power” for U.S. and British citizens in Libya. We were tremendously relieved to meet the Hungarians and hear that they were pursuing all possible channels to secure our release. (A Spanish diplomat visited Manu.) The diplomats’ comments confirmed our own thoughts: generally speaking, those in power wanted to free us, but no one wanted the responsibility of signing off on the actual release.

After eight more days, Jim, Manu, Nigel, and I were granted a trial. A judge in a shiny green robe told us that we would each be fined 300 dinars—about $250—and released. Our euphoria wore off as we waited again: first for paperwork from the courthouse, then again when we were locked in the paddy wagon while our guard watched a feeble pro-Qaddafi protest. We were free, but we still had to get out.

The next day, we were told to pack, and we thought we were on our way to Tunisia. But after being taken to the Rixos Hotel—where we were offered the option to stay and report from Tripoli with government permission—we wound up with our respective diplomatic hosts: Manu at the Spanish residence; Jim, Nigel, and I with the Hungarians in what felt like a Soviet-­era bachelor pad.

Every inch toward freedom seemed designed to cause us maximum frustration. At the Tunisian border the next day, we had to wait three hours while someone decided how to process our passports for exit, given that we had no entrance stamps. After the Libyan officials finally let us cross the border, we were driven to Djerba, Tunisia, where we met diplomats from South Africa and Austria—Anton was a dual citizen—and told them the full story of Anton’s death. We asked the diplomats whether Anton’s wife, Penny, wanted to talk to us. An hour later, they returned with a phone: she did.

“Hi, Penny, this is Clare.” I heard sobs on the other end of the phone line.

“Just tell me what happened,” she said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

I told her the story. I spoke of Anton’s love for her and his family, and I felt my own tears coming. “What can I do for you, Penny? I want to do the right thing for him and for you guys.”

“You can tell his story, just tell everyone what happened. Tell his story, and tell your own.”

Jim and I spent the next weeks doing just that. But not before we got to hug our parents, when they met us, along with State Department representatives, on the jetway at Boston’s Logan airport.

A web site has been set up, www.friendsofanton.org, where prints can be purchased and donations made to benefit Anton Hammerl’s three children.

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