the time—cabbage soup and mutton. I am writing my first postcard home. No work so far. The weather here is beautiful, like in May back home.
December 20
Diseases spread among us—typhus and dysentery. More and more people die every day. Bad food, foul water, and dirt are to blame. They forbid us to drink the water but there is nothing else. The soup is all pepper. The lice proliferate. We cannot wash clothes as there is nowhere to do so, to say nothing about drying. So, instead of picking the lice out, I brush them away. They're everywhere—in shirts, socks, blouses, coats, and hats. You can find them in your hair, your beard—simply everywhere. If you find 150 of them in your shirt, it's not so many! If you pick them all one day, you're full of them the next morning again.
We lie on the ground. There is no straw, and we must not lie on our backs but only on our sides as there is no room. It's worst at night—whoever goes out cannot get through and stomps on feet or heads. Batina[1] rules here. You get hit with a fist or stick for nothing, and if you can get away soon, good for you. The almighty master here is Captain Dogič, a true animal. "I am your God. I can kill you" is his favorite proverb. And our feldwebels, the Croats and the Bosnians, help him bravely, hitting everyone they meet.
- ↑ Bullying.
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