Fräulein went home to pack her things, as if for a journey. Nightdress, underwear. Something warm in which to lie with her arms outside the covers, as she had seen on a recent visit to the hospital. But what? A cardigan? None of them was suitable; they were all too dark, utilitarian. She rushed into town between lessons — telling her pupils she would be gone only temporarily — to buy a warm, yet feminine piece of clothing. But everything available was made of coarse material in loud colors. She was dropping with fatigue, running from shop to shop, until she finally found a liseuse, as she discovered it was called from the kindly proprietress of the Lady boutique, Mrs. Ekmedžić, to whom she confided everything. The liseuse was a light-mauve woolen bed jacket, thin, without buttons, and with wide sleeves, which were a little too short, so that when she tried it on at home they rode up to her elbows. Now she had everything she needed.
Evening found her, cold, in her tiny room. The piercing light from a naked bulb mercilessly exposed all these clothes thrown onto the bed, ready to be packed into a bag as if into a coffin: the pink nightdress, the slightly darker liseuse, the panties, pink and white, and the snow-white bra on which she had just reinforced a button that had been loose for some time. Everything went into the bag. If anyone should see her on the way to the sanatorium, they might think she was going shopping (perhaps to the market, which was on the way). And what about the diary? Her eyes went to the wardrobe, where she kept it in the shadow of hanging dresses and an abandoned spring coat. She opened the wardrobe door and moved the dresses aside. The little red book was there at the very bottom, and she bent to pick it up and add it, like an overlooked valuable, to the things she would take with her. But would she want, or even be able, to write anything in her diary under the eyes of the doctors and the good sisters? If she just kept it with her — under her pillow, say — someone might find it when she was distracted or on the operating table, and read it uninvited. She shuddered, as if someone had surprised her naked. And what if…? Trembling, she imagined herself dead and the diary left to the prying eyes of all. But if she left it at the bottom of the wardrobe, who might find it then? Mrs. Šimoković, with whom she intended to leave the key to her room, or her sister, urgently summoned by telegram? (She had written uncomplimentary things about her sister in it, too.) Whoever it was, it would be terrible. But inevitable, because she would no longer be able to protect or hide it. She saw herself lying dead, far from this room, very far, alone, lying still and colorless, knowing nothing, but her diary would still be there, her secret. The thought was so unbearable that she stooped down, clasped it to her chest, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing. For the first time, she fully realized that she might die, and what that meant: complete isolation, complete abandonment, complete oblivion, powerless to do anything for herself. She wept deep into the night, alone in her room, the small iron stove long since grown cold. She knew that crying was harmful to her, but she couldn’t help it. Finally, worn out, she crawled, still dressed, beneath the eiderdown and fell asleep, still shaken by sobs and sighs.
The next morning, she had to make the fire quickly, wash, dress, divide among her neighbors the duties she herself would no longer be performing, say good-bye to everyone, pack her things, and go. But the decision about the diary remained to be made. Should she burn it then and there, on the bright morning fire? She held back superstitiously from such an act, which seemed almost like extending an invitation to death: Here I am, I’ve nothing left, come for me. Then she thought of writing something in the notebook under that day’s date, a note about her departure, something businesslike to blunt the earlier effusions of tenderness, which revealed, perhaps, too much. But she was afraid of bursting into tears again, of not having the strength to leave the room (that might even be for the best), but since no time remained for hesitation, she walked out with the problem unresolved, turning back to bid farewell once again to Mrs. Šimoković, who, caught with a tub full of washing, wiped her hands quickly on her apron before responding.
Fräulein felt she was already forgotten, but that was not the case. In the poor quarter in which she lived, where people took little note of important happenings, the news of her departure spread like circles in a pool of water, soon reaching Slavica Božić, the mother of one of her pupils. Mrs. Božić continued to inquire around, eventually discovering that Fräulein had had her operation, performed by Dr. Boranović himself, and that she had regained consciousness at the proper time, which meant that the operation had been a success. The ambitious thought struck Slavica, who was normally at a disadvantage compared with the well-to-do parents of Fräulein’s pupils, that she should make a show, if not of position and wealth, then at least of concern. She took her son’s best suit from the wardrobe and brushed it, ironed his white shirt, picked out white socks, and thought of buying a large bouquet that would add the final touch to such a display — seasonal flowers. She had just seen them in the market — autumn roses. When asked for his approval, Milinko obediently agreed, as always. At school he took his friend Sredoje Lazukić into his confidence, and, at their evening rendezvous, his girlfriend, Vera Kroner. Sredoje and Vera spread the word to their own homes, and there, too, the step met with approval, and the projected bouquet increased threefold (autumn roses — all exactly alike).
Eventually, a whole delegation of pupils trooped along to see Fräulein in her white-walled hospital room on the first floor of the two-story sanatorium. She received them that day, Thursday, because she had neither the means nor the strength not to, although the night before, her wound had begun to pain her and now she felt the pain spreading through her whole body. Her cheeks burned, her chest felt heavy, she had no appetite, only thirst, but water gave no relief, her lips remaining dry and hard even after she drank some. Weak as she was, she was torn by a desire to leap from her bed and run away to a place that was cool and painless.
The children crowding around the bed made it harder still for her to breathe, and the good sister, instead of holding them back, was so delighted by the profusion of flowers that she rushed off to find a larger vase. The children were noisy as well, asking Fräulein to tell them how she felt, if she was in pain, how soon she would be allowed up. Fräulein was suddenly struck by how senseless it all was, how unreal — that she was going to die after all. She closed her eyes, and the whiteness of the room at once became a glimmer of red under a drawn-back curtain of hanging dresses — the very same sight she had seen not long before. Fräulein started, opened her eyes, and saw the good sister — whose return she had not noticed — frantically motioning the children to leave. She saw them looking at her in surprise from a great distance, and raised her hand in farewell. At the same moment she understood that she was parting with other human beings for the last time in her life, that this was her last opportunity to do something about her nightmare, and she called, or she thought she called, for her lips could only whisper: “Vera darling! Come here.” And to the girl who approached from the doorway, drawn not by the feeble whisper, which had been unintelligible, but by the intense, staring eyes, she said, “Come closer,” and whispered (now intentionally), “If I die, go to my room, take the little book from the bottom of my wardrobe, and burn it.” The effort of speech exhausted her. With no saliva to moisten them, she could barely move her lips, and more in an exhalation than a voice, she asked, “Will you?” Vera nodded. Fräulein closed her eyes and sank into a heavy fever, no longer aware of the nurses’ anxious bustling, no longer aware that they were stripping her, injecting her. She died that same night.