that in this way I would be of more help to the fight against the epidemic. I did not come to work on the following day, not wanting to be an actor in a comedy that could cost many lives. On the third day, I found out that Dr. G. received a report from directors K. and B., criticising me for my disobedience and my sabotaging of the work. I am not trying to flaunt my virtue, but it was laughable that director B., who at work thought of little else than extorting and forcing as much money as possible from the tenement, writes a report on me, who was worried sick that the tenement and the city would be exposed to a tragedy. When I was questioned by Dr. D., I did not defend myself by explaining my intention to prevent the disaster, but I pointed to the fact that no professional misconduct on my part had taken place. It would be difficult for me to defend myself otherwise, because I would have to [11] accuse Dr. G., my supervisor, of spreading the plague across the city. And that I dared not do. This weakness of my character took a terrible toll on my life and probably the lives of others. I did not have the strength of the little boy from Andersen’s beautiful fairy tale “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” The emperor has new festive clothes made by tailors from a foreign country. The clever craftsmen work hard, they take measurements, they sew, they cut—but they make it all from thin air, without any fabric. They tell the dignitaries who come to see the imperial robes in the fraudulent tailors’ workshop that they are wonderful garments made of unique material, and the officials, although they see nothing but the craftsmen’s gestures, nod their heads and loudly praise their work. At last, when the emperor goes to the ceremony in his new “robes”, the entire populace follows the example of the dignitaries and swoons in delight. It’s only a little boy who, upon seeing the monarch, suddenly shouts out “The emperor is naked!” Finally, everyone’s eyes open and they see that the emperor is indeed naked.
I am reminded of this story quite often when I watch disinfection brigades at work. The bedding is taken down, chambers are sealed, disinfectants are sprayed, and gases set up—and yet, there is no one to shout “this is a farce!.” Not all of the bedding goes into chambers, nor is Lysol used; neither do people go take baths, nor is [12] gas set up in chambers.
Too sad, too tragic were the consequences of the brigades’ work to be proclaimed a farce.
In less than three weeks after setting up chambers in the tenement at Pawia 63 (I learned in the meantime that they had been degassed as usual),
