A knock at the door. A shower attendant comes in. Downstairs in the showers are approximately 70 people, mostly children. They are so hungry that he is afraid to let them have a shower. As there is some cream of wheat left, two ladies go into the kitchen to cook it and take it to the children.
A man in rags slips into the room and says he is hungry. He asks us to go to his family to ask them to send him some money. He mentions a very well-known Warsaw surname (Wiślicki). He asks for a slice of bread. We have none, but there are two tiny pieces of bread on the table. I spread them thick with marmalade and hand them to him. He walks out.
We sit and wait.
The street is silent. The corridor is silent. We talk.
[48] Suddenly, there is some commotion in the corridor. Many voices, more and more, are coming in from the first floor.
And a shout. A horrifying shout. And voices. I open the office door and look out. I see a male nurse. I ask what is going on.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Something’s happening, but I don’t know what.” And he smiles faintly.
“A woman has gone mad,” he adds. “No wonder. Out of hunger.”
I return into the office. A man walks in almost immediately after me. He often comes here to ask us for something. He has a baby. He asks us to sell him two slices of bread. Not free of charge. He wants to pay. His wife is nursing and she has to eat. Unfortunately, we have to turn him down too. [49] We know that bread will be distributed among those in isolation but we have to wait for somebody with authority to make the final decision.
We have 40 loaves, each weighing 1 kg. There are 520 people. Finally somebody comes over. We slice the bread and spread it with marmalade. Unfortunately, it was not enough for everybody.
Afternoon shift.
2 p.m.
We walk to the quarantine again. There is a horrible snowstorm. It is cold, windy, and snowy.
