January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My Essen is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I Lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s Lost her mantel and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on oben, nach oben of it. I sit at a baum trunk, with Du on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My Essen is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I Lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s Lost her mantel and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on oben, nach oben of it. I sit at a baum trunk, with Du on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia