Khortiza, November 5, 1919

A new pitiless enemy has arrived. We all are lost. The “Black Death” is about. No pity where he takes hold.

At first the Anarchists were taken ill. They were lying in the houses, and the inhabitants of our town took care of them. Now the contagion has spread to us: Spotted fever! I questioned doctor H. He confirmed the report that in most of the cases it had been the spotted fever, in some others it was the so-called intermittent fever. I never had heard of that. This illness, after about two weeks, leaves its victims for a few days. The fever is gone, the sick believe it is past and begin to eat. But that is the worst thing to do. Soon after, the fever returns with redoubled vigor. It seems almost like a cat playing with a mouse. When the mouse seems to be set free and is just about to escape, the cruel tormentor jumps up again and strangles the helpless animal.

There is no way to escape, for even the doctors, under the prevailing circumstances, know of no means of protection. Isolation of the sick would be the only possible measure, but it is not at all feasible. The Anarchists do not allow the sick ones to be gathered at special houses. It has been tried; now of course, it is too late. There are too many patients already.

One of the two doctors at our place has become sick, too. In the pharmacy there are no more drugs.

Painful is the thought that we all are going toward the same destiny. Sooner or later each one has to face it.

The day before yesterday one of my colleagues died, and one of my students, an eighteen-year-old girl. Very few people were following the two coffins to the cemetery. As we were filling up the graves with earth we became aware of how weak we already are. We nearly failed to finish our task.

Great sorrow and distress is now in every house. Each of the six thousand inhabitants of our town, in one way or another, has to take care of sick people.

In our house, besides the Anarchists, the little daughter of my friends has fallen sick and also the grandmother. They lie there unconscious, the poor victims, in high fever, and we are unable to do the least thing for them. We cannot even call the physician to their assistance. The only doctor who is still about goes from house to house and from bed to bed and is unable to finish the round. He is already so exhausted that doubtless every moment he must expect to be taken ill, too. This malady spares nobody.