The ?

Our colonist patients, in their feverish ravings, talk much of New Zealand, the land of their longing.

Anyone who has preserved any kind of hope for the future thinks only of emigration. But, alas, most of them emigrate to the cemetery. Through the window I see every day coffins passing by. Coffins? No, there are no coffins any more. They bury the dead without coffins, either in troughs or in sleeping benches or even bare. And the burying has become a difficult thing; there are scarcely any men left who can dig graves. Those who still are able to do it, take advantage of it and demand high pay. That is the reason why many graves are not filled up.

Yesterday the old, much troubled, pensioned-off teacher died also. All persons remaining in that house are ill in bed, eight altogether. I was called by the young man who looks after the sick people to help him carry out the dead body.

The house is without protection now, there are only women and girls and they are all sick. Strangers nurse them and also take care of the rulers, the Anarchists.