When a pathologist in the Dragisa Misovic Hospital wants to sterilize her instruments, she puts a pot on a kitchen range and waits for the water to boil while, beside her, a colleague plugs in a hair dryer to heat up tissue samples.
Behind them, the corridor walls leading to the basement pathology ward are stained by humidity, endangering precious medical items stored in large cartons piled high to the ceiling.
Upstairs, a nurse is taking a blood sample from an elderly patient who lies on a bed in the hallway, covered by a clean, but worn out, overcoat.
All of the four-bed rooms are overcrowded, sometimes with up to eight patients, some of them sleeping on emergency stretchers.
Many patients sit on shabby office chairs, catching the precious rays of a late November sun.
Welcome to one of the oldest Serbian hospitals, originally built after the First World War as the "jewel" of the health system.
The hospital's main complex, situated in the posh Belgrade residential district of Dedinje, seems out of place among the luxurious villas.
It was nearly driven into the ground by years of underfunding, and one of its clinics was severely damaged during the 1999 NATO bombing.
"We need absolutely everything, all conceivable aid is necessary," Dr. Ivan Radojkovic said.
Dr. Radojkovic is one of a five-member "crisis committee" set up by staff to run the hospital after last month's power shift in Yugoslavia, when an uprising forced Slobodan Milosevic to recognize his defeat by President Vojislav Kostunica.
Officially, the hospital staff doesn't work on Sundays. But this week Dr. Radojkovic, together with colleagues Sasa Bajec and Dragan Antic, were using their free time to raise cash to repair the hospital's only electrocardiograph, and lamenting the state of the hospital.
"We do not have a scanner, the laboratory is more than 30 years old and the little we have functions only because the employees generously use their connections with repairmen or providers," Dr. Radojkovic said.
The doctors, suddenly thrust into the role of managers, worry about winter, noting that the hospital needs 1,300 litres of heating oil every day. The Energy for Democracy program sponsored by the European Union provides for some of its needs, but not enough.
"Our patients have literally nothing to eat, we are feeding them with what we can get from city reserves," Dr. Radojkovic said.
Dr. Bajec listed what needed to be done just in coming weeks, aware that no great generosity could be expected from cash-strapped authorities.
Drugs, needles and surgical equipment are the items needed most, Dr. Bajec said.
"Since the hospital was rebuilt in the 1950s, nothing has been invested. There is no doubt that, after 30 or 50 years, everything would fall apart without any reconstruction."
There was one investment, in the administrative premises which, until recently, were the offices of the manager appointed under the Milosevic government.
The white two-storey house with marble floor -- a contrast to the dull grey wards -- is supposed to be turned into a gynecological ward.
Even though he bursts with fresh ideas how to realize a change that he has "dreamt of for 10 years," Dr. Radojkovic is frightened that his hopes will crumble, remembering the situation during Mr. Milosevic's rule.
"I was told that the hospital was built by prison inmates and German prisoners of war. I can't help fearing they have cursed these buildings," he said.