7 December.

Dear Herr Stiefel,

Moritz, it's been about a month since your abrupt and untimely passing. My mother is making me write these letters to you because she believes that it will help me lament your loss in a more effective manner. I happen to disagree, but as usual, I do not want to be more of a disappointment to her than I am, already. She and father have been at it again over what to do with me: do they send me back to the reformatory or allow me to remain at home with my books for a while before sending me to school, once more? We have not yet reached a consensus on the matter and I hope it will not be reached for a long time yet. I do not know if I can face our classmates after what happened five weeks and four days, previous. They could, for all I know, shun me or overwhelm me with questions, and I do not know which one would make me feel worse. Am I ready to handle their interrogatives about my personal livelihood? No, not even close. But I shall have to persevere, shall I not? Please wish me luck with my endeavors from beyond the grave. I hope you rest well.

Regards,
Melchior Gabor