In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline

11 August 1917

              I went to the office as usual. I was still coughing, and took extra handkerchiefs. The Director asked if I had a cold, and I told him I wasn’t sure. That certainly was true – I wasn’t sure what I had. When I met Max in the afternoon, he was horrified when I told him what had happened to me. And angry with me – genuinely angry. He told me that I was stupid.

     I’m sure it’s a word he has never used in relation to me. Stupid.

     I was astounded, and my surprise was such that I started coughing again. This made Max propel me all the more rapidly to the doctor. I feel that doctors are never really to be trusted. But sometimes, they are necessary. There had been so much blood.

I suppose that is what woke me – the coughing – or else I might have choked on it. Or even drowned in my own blood.

     I had to sit on the edge of the bed and grope for the light cord, to find out what this wetness was on my face and hands. Even then, I was more surprised than startled. I was wondering more how to stop the mess, than anxious about its cause. Blood from my throat, pumping out of my mouth. I slipped off the pillowcase, and tried to use it as a gag, coughing and spitting into it while trying to wipe my face. This gushing stream from my mouth did not seem to be stopping however, so I warily made my way to the sink. Even the usually chattering maid was subdued this morning, as she tried to scour the porcelain and the walls.  “Herr Doktor,” she said. “You don’t have long for this world.”  But at the time, the minutes had certainly seemed long when I had been leaning over the sink, one hand steadying myself against the wall while my gasping and spitting seemed to turn everything red. It was a relief to finally get to sleep. I felt I had really earned it.  

     Of course, this afternoon the doctor took his time prodding and peering, asking the most obvious questions while Max fretted like a parent. And took the doctor seriously. The questions about the blood seemed to disturb him. And the doctor was full of questions – wanting to know about the pain, and the amount of blood, and its duration. Had anything like this happened before? Any incidents in my family? Had I received any recent blows to the face or neck? Had I tried to eat or drink since it happened? Was I dizzy, or short of breath? Did I have headaches? Actually, this was the only time he seemed to take an interest in my answers. I mentioned that after the incident had happened, a headache which I had for days finally disappeared. I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

     He then rattled off words like thoracic dual apices, hemorrhage, and catarrh, and gave me two bottles of medicine to take at alternate times of the day. And that was that. Examination over and we’re out in the street. Max also expressed some reservations about the diagnosis, and suggested I should see a specialist. As he walked me back to work at the Institute, I at least had reason for not taking an active part in the conversation. I noticed that one prominent word was prominently absent from all discussion.

     Tuberculosis.