فصل 18

joana

I lit a match to sterilize the scalpel and began talking. The doctor in Insterburg taught me that talking to patients often calmed them. “When Stalin occupied Lithuania, my family fled,” I said. “My mother had German heritage, so Hitler allowed us to repatriate and come to Germany. I only got as far as Insterburg.”

“Insterburg is East Prussia,” he said. “So Hitler, he’s your savior?”

He didn’t say more, but his sarcastic snort spoke for him. He was either critical of the Nazi Party, critical of me for repatriating, or both. I didn’t need his criticism. I carried enough guilt on my own. I had done everything wrong. I had the highest marks in school but couldn’t master common sense.

“I know it’s cold, but let’s remove your coat entirely and have you lie on your stomach,” I told him.

As I pulled off the sleeve, his pale green identity card peeked out from his interior jacket pocket. Perfect. If he wouldn’t tell me his name, I’d take a look for myself.

“I’m going to press the surrounding area of the wound to see how far the infection has spread.” He didn’t respond. “Tell me when it hurts.” I gently pressed around the perimeter of his wound with one hand, making note of tender areas. With my other hand, I tried to wriggle the papers from his coat pocket.

“Stop.” The ferocity of his command made me jump. “Hand me my papers.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now.”

He reached back and I placed the identity card in his hand.

“And the folded paper. It’s also in the pocket,” he said.

I pulled out the cream sheet of paper, trying to get a look at it. I couldn’t see through the fold. He snatched it and slid both under his chest.

Emilia returned, carrying a stick, white flakes glistening atop her pink hat.

“It’s snowing again?” I asked. She nodded. That would inhibit our progress tomorrow.

“Let’s get this over with,” said the patient.

His tolerance for pain exceeded anything I had seen. He bit the stick, not out of necessity, but in defiance.

Emilia was an attentive assistant, anticipating both my needs and his. But she appeared fatigued so I sent her back to her corner to rest. She didn’t sleep. She watched my every move.

The final piece of shrapnel was lodged deep. My knuckles disappeared as I reached inside the wound for it. I was concerned about gangrene but didn’t mention it. The pain was enough for him to contend with. I leaned down and whispered, “I think I got it all. It was deep and the wound is wide. I’m going to wake the shoemaker and have him sew it up. He’s probably got a tighter stitch.”

He spit out the stick. “No, you do it.” He paused. “Please.”

I looked at the open wound. Poet sewed a lot of leather and would seam it cleaner than I could, but if blood and flesh bothered the old man, it would only make things worse.

I sewed and dressed the wound. “So I didn’t see your papers, but I did spy cigarettes in your pocket,” I told him, wiping my hands.

“You didn’t tell me there was a fee.”

He looked up at me, eyes flickering like gas lamps. His face spoke of pain—physical pain like I had seen in the hospital but also emotional pain, like I had seen in my parents. He stared at me, his eyes slowly traveling over my face.

“There are matches in the same pocket,” he finally said.

I pulled out a cigarette and ran it through my fingers, trying to straighten it. I lit the end and sucked a grateful drag. The hot smoke warmed my cold chest. I leaned toward him and gently put the cigarette to his lips, allowing him to inhale. The glow of the tip illuminated his face. There were hints of handsome beneath the bruises and dirt.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Save the rest. They’re hard to come by,” he said, exhaling.

I stubbed the cigarette out against my shoe and returned it to his pocket. “Do you want to see the shrapnel I removed? This big piece is nearly the size of a bottle cap.” I reached over to show it to him. He grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t ever try to steal from me,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?” I said, trying to pull away.

His grip tightened. “You saw my papers.”

“No, I didn’t. Stop, you’re hurting me.”

“You know something about me, this wound.” His voice was weak but carried concern. Or was it delirium? He mumbled for a while and then said, “Tell me something about you.” He released his grip slightly.

“You want to know something about me?” I asked.

I stared at his tired face. He waited, eyelids beginning to droop. They fluttered closed and his fingers softly released my wrist. I watched him breathe for a while, his identity papers still tucked under his torso. He wanted to know something about me. I leaned over and put my mouth to his ear. It was barely a whisper.

“I’m a murderer.”