Looking for 350: August 29, 2026
When I first discovered Anthony Acevedo in 2015, I thought I had found the man whose story I wanted to tell. More than ten years later, after writing his life into a play and now having the privilege of stepping onto a stage and living portions of that life with him, I understand something I didn't understand then. Anthony was never going to let this be only his story. I should have known that from the diary.
Even while starving, sick, frightened, and struggling to survive Berga himself, Anthony was watching the men around him. He was a medic without medicine, unable to give them the care he had been trained to give, and yet he found another way to care for them. He wrote down their names. He recorded their deaths. He carried that diary out of Berga and, eventually, into the historical record. I have come to believe that Anthony spent much of the rest of his life carrying those men with him.
I think that is one of the reasons I feel so close to him now. As the playwright, I have spent years trying to understand what those men meant to Anthony. As the actor, I feel their presence every time I step onto the stage with him. They are there when Anthony opens his diary. They are there when he remembers the men he could not save. They are there when sixty-seven dog tags fall from his hands near the middle of the play. And somewhere along this journey, I began carrying them too.
Approximately 350 American POWs were sent to Berga. Three hundred and fifty men. That's where the heart of this entry comes from.
As we prepare to bring Undesirable Secrets back to New York, I would like to find 350 people willing to help us carry their story forward—one person for each of the American POWs sent to Berga. I'm not talking about selling 350 tickets or finding 350 donors. I'm talking about something much more personal than that. Maybe you tell a friend about Anthony. Maybe you're a teacher who brings his story into a classroom, a veteran who shares it with another veteran, or someone in the Latino or Jewish community who helps introduce the Soldiers of Berga to people who have never heard of them. Maybe you attend one of our Zoom conversations or Sunday discussions and become part of the conversation yourself. Or maybe you simply remember one of their names.
What has already happened around this play makes me believe we can do it. Individuals and organizations have begun opening doors, sharing Anthony's story, agreeing to sit with us for conversations, and introducing the play to their own communities. I have been humbled by how many people have said, in one way or another, yes, this story matters to us too.
That “too” means a great deal to me. Because for years this journey was mostly Anthony and me. I researched him. I wrote about him. I met his family. I stood at his grave. I rehearsed him. Eventually, I walked onto a stage and became him. But Anthony keeps reminding me that there were other men standing beside him.
So maybe this next part of my journey as his playwright and actor is learning how to make room for others to stand beside us. Anthony had his diary. He used it to carry the men of Berga home. I have mine now. And I'm looking for 350 people to help me carry them a little farther.
When I first discovered Anthony Acevedo in 2015, I thought I had found the man whose story I wanted to tell. More than ten years later, after writing his life into a play and now having the privilege of stepping onto a stage and living portions of that life with him, I understand something I didn't understand then. Anthony was never going to let this be only his story. I should have known that from the diary.
Even while starving, sick, frightened, and struggling to survive Berga himself, Anthony was watching the men around him. He was a medic without medicine, unable to give them the care he had been trained to give, and yet he found another way to care for them. He wrote down their names. He recorded their deaths. He carried that diary out of Berga and, eventually, into the historical record. I have come to believe that Anthony spent much of the rest of his life carrying those men with him.
I think that is one of the reasons I feel so close to him now. As the playwright, I have spent years trying to understand what those men meant to Anthony. As the actor, I feel their presence every time I step onto the stage with him. They are there when Anthony opens his diary. They are there when he remembers the men he could not save. They are there when sixty-seven dog tags fall from his hands near the middle of the play. And somewhere along this journey, I began carrying them too.
Approximately 350 American POWs were sent to Berga. Three hundred and fifty men. That's where the heart of this entry comes from.
As we prepare to bring Undesirable Secrets back to New York, I would like to find 350 people willing to help us carry their story forward—one person for each of the American POWs sent to Berga. I'm not talking about selling 350 tickets or finding 350 donors. I'm talking about something much more personal than that. Maybe you tell a friend about Anthony. Maybe you're a teacher who brings his story into a classroom, a veteran who shares it with another veteran, or someone in the Latino or Jewish community who helps introduce the Soldiers of Berga to people who have never heard of them. Maybe you attend one of our Zoom conversations or Sunday discussions and become part of the conversation yourself. Or maybe you simply remember one of their names.
What has already happened around this play makes me believe we can do it. Individuals and organizations have begun opening doors, sharing Anthony's story, agreeing to sit with us for conversations, and introducing the play to their own communities. I have been humbled by how many people have said, in one way or another, yes, this story matters to us too.
That “too” means a great deal to me. Because for years this journey was mostly Anthony and me. I researched him. I wrote about him. I met his family. I stood at his grave. I rehearsed him. Eventually, I walked onto a stage and became him. But Anthony keeps reminding me that there were other men standing beside him.
So maybe this next part of my journey as his playwright and actor is learning how to make room for others to stand beside us. Anthony had his diary. He used it to carry the men of Berga home. I have mine now. And I'm looking for 350 people to help me carry them a little farther.