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The death harvest is increasing so rapidly that we are alarmed in spite of our prevailing apathy.

For many days I could not find a single minute to write down a line in my diary. There is no rest either at daytime or at night. The condition of my friend is most critical. For several days he has remained unconscious.

It is cold and dark everywhere. Weather and season intensify the cheerlessness of the day. At three o’clock in the afternoon it is dark, and we have to wait for daylight until nine o’clock in the morning. Until a few days ago we had practically no light at night, no kerosene. The only substitute was a smoking lamp with sunflower oil, which we have to use very economically. But just now a colleague of mine brought us a few drops, one might say, of stone oil, which we are using very carefully. We have put this precious liquid into the smallest lamp we have, and have screwed down the minute wick so that the burning flame appears hardly anything but a faraway flickering Will-o’-the-Wisp. Without any light at all the children are very restless at night.

Now this poor lamp has become an object desired by the Anarchists. The Anarchists quartered with us are different ones now, because some, who became ill, have been taken away, and instead of them others have been sent. These newcomers are annoying us with their demands. They have discovered our lamp and want it now for themselves. Marguerite did not succeed in quieting them.

This time I became angry and with a vehement indignation I approached these unreasonable men. I stepped right before them, showing a decided attitude and rebuked them. They were really disconcerted, and when I noticed the effect of my words I turned their perplexity to our advantage. With quick and fitting words I so managed the attack that they could not even reply. They kept so quiet in the darkness that it almost seemed as if they had disappeared by some magic. And the light was ours.