Khortiza, December 13, 1919

It is a sunny day with frost. We heard the thunder of the guns and cannons and pricked up our ears; is a decision near? Is the ice on the river strong enough to bear traffic? Our telephone men were in excitement, calling all the time.

But after a while the cannons ceased to shoot and only the rattling of the rifles was heard.

When in the afternoon our patients seemed to quiet themselves, I decided to make a little round through our neighboring houses. I hoped to find a little encouragement for myself, for I feel the stupor and the heaviness of our sorrows and sufferings. It is almost unbearable.

All faces presently became fixed in a stony expression—let anything come, they seem to say! It is true, the eyelids twitch in pain, and grief engraves its mark around the mouth, but there is no hope. Men die at this time, like flies after poisoned potion. First, all those men succumb who have suffered most mentally. First go the parents. The last ones are children and also strong young men. Those with weak hearts are sure candidates for death.

I never shall forget the picture I saw in the house of M.

I enter the house. Nobody moves. Even the usual group of Anarchists is absent. I go through empty, deserted, cold, and unfriendly rooms. For a moment I stop; to think what a proud and rich farm it was a short time ago—and now?

And as I open another door I grasp the tragedy of the situation. There they lie all together, the farmer, his wife, and their seven children. They lie on straw and the covers evidently are insufficient. Nobody has heated the stove. That is most likely the reason why the Anarchists left the house.

I look over the rows of these ill creatures. Then I go near to the youngest one. I take the little hand in mine. It is cold. I stroke the little head; ice-cold is his face. I comprehend: dead. Very likely, being unconscious, the child rolled off the straw onto the cold floor, and thus the frost gave the coup de grace to the sick, innocent being. In a low voice I notify the patents.’ Oppressed with fear, the mother tries with* all her might to sit up and to see her dead child. She cannot do it. I give her my support. Her face is distressed and she begins to rave in delirium while I place her again on her straw bed.

I went out, and deep in my heart I felt an unspeakable sadness. But I had no time to brood over it. I had to bring help to those who, still alive, seemed predestined to die. After a while I found in another house two young girl orphans, who were nursing the sick in several houses, going from one place to another. They promised to look after the M. family too.

People who passed by the cemetery reported that there are no empty lots left.

And yet the number of deaths is growing daily. People are dying, dying …