فصل 15

florian

I watched as the nurse girl moved from person to person, treating each one with items she carried in a brown leather case. I had a fever and knew I had to get rid of it to continue. The wound extended too far beyond my side for me to see or reach. I didn’t need to trust her. I would never see her again. She looked my way and I nodded.

“Reconsidered?” she asked.

“When everyone’s asleep,” I whispered.

It didn’t take long. The cold barn was soon full of twitching muscles and nasal whinnies. The nurse girl cooked a potato over the fire and ate it. She ate slowly, neatly, placing small bites in her mouth, patient despite her hunger. She was highborn.

She then brought her bag over to me.

“Bullet wound?” she whispered.

I shook my head. I slowly pulled off the sleeve of my coat, biting back the wince. I lay on my side, my head turned away from her. She peeled my sticky shirt from the mass of congealed blood.

She didn’t gasp or cry like other girls did when they saw something gruesome. She didn’t make a sound. Maybe nurses were used to it. I looked over my shoulder to see if she was still there. Her face was an inch from the wound. She examined it intently and then leaned forward and whispered in my right ear.

“Shrapnel. About two days ago. You stopped the bleeding by applying pressure but that pushed the fragments deeper, causing more pain. It’s infected. You poured liquid on it at some point.”

“Vodka.”

Her voice resumed in my ear. “There are a couple of pieces. I want to take them out. I don’t have any anesthetic.”

“Do you have anything to drink?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’ll need the alcohol to clean the wound before I dress it.” I felt her hand on my shoulder. “I should do this now, before the infection becomes too advanced.”

Small boots appeared in front of my face. The Polish girl knelt in front of me with snow wrapped in a handkerchief. She swept my hair aside and pressed the cold compress to my forehead.

“Go away,” I told her.

“Wait.” The nurse looked to the Polish girl. “Could you please go outside and find a large stick?” The girl nodded and left. The nurse then sat down in front of me. I watched her mouth as she whispered.

“Her name is Emilia. She’s from southern Poland. Her father sent her away for safety . . . near Nemmersdorf.”

“Holy hell,” I breathed.

She nodded and opened her bag. “I’m Joana. I worked as a physician’s assistant for a few years. I’m not German. I’m Lithuanian. Is that a problem?”

“I don’t care what you are. Have you done this before?”

“I’ve done similar procedures. What’s your name?” she asked.

I paused. What should I tell her? “What’s the stick for?”

She ignored my question and returned to hers. “What’s your name?”

The fever burned, making me weak and dizzy. My name. I was named for a sixteenth-century painter my mother adored. No. I would not tell her. No conversations.

The nurse sighed. “You’ll need the stick to bite down on. This is going to hurt.”

I closed my eyes.

Florian, I wanted to say. I’m Florian.

And I’ll be dead soon.