‘He looks so small, Frau Susanna,’ said Edith, who had hurried in on the way home from the hospital to cancel her fitting. And almost no hair. I hadn’t realized how much hair he’d lost. It’s a terrible place, that hospital. Nothing prepares you.’
No, nothing. And certainly not Laura Sultzer or Beowulf.
‘What do they say about his chances?’
She shook her head. ‘They don’t say much — but they don’t expect him to recover, I know.’
‘Is he in a public ward?’
‘No, he’s in a room on the second floor overlooking a dark courtyard. Oh God, it is an awful place to die, that hospital!’
I let her cry, patted her shoulder, but my mind was fixed on one thing only: how to help Alice.
For all of yesterday, all of today, Alice has sat on a wooden bench in the hospital waiting room, waiting for the moment when she could rise with the other visitors, summoned by the bell, and go to bid her love goodbye.
It never came, this moment, nor would it. Two visitors per person is the iron rule in that barrack and in case of serious illness, only relatives. Alice knew this as well as anyone, she expected no miracles, but it was impossible for her to leave the building in which he lay.
‘Does he seem at peace, your father?’
Edith frowned. ‘I don’t know… it’s so difficult for him to breathe. He said something to my mother… something about not having been worthy of her. But he didn’t finish it properly… he seemed to lose interest as he said it… as though it was too difficult, or not important. Then once or twice I thought he was looking for someone. Not my mother or me. Someone else. Perhaps I was imagining it.’ She picked up a pincushion and began to denude it of pins. ‘No, I wasn’t imagining it.’
I waited, afraid even to move.
Edith gulped and went on quickly. ‘I saw a woman in the waiting room in the hospital. She was sitting there in a white dress with a flowery hat. I thought I’d seen her before once, when Father had pneumonia. She was standing down below in the street and it was raining. She just stood there — she’d forgotten her umbrella and the rain completely ruined her hat. I remembered it because it was a pretty hat, like… ’ She broke off, flushing, and turned away.
I made up my mind.
‘Fraulein Edith, you love your father, I think?’
‘Yes. When I was little we used to do a lot of things together, but my mother felt that… I mean, my father was not very spiritual,’ said Edith, her voice trailing away.
‘Well, listen; you have a chance to do something for your father. It’s not something any young girl could do, but you have been brought up to be broad-minded and aware of… ’ Here I faltered, unable to imagine that Edith had been brought up to be aware of anything as simple as the relationship which existed between Alice and her father. ‘I think that the person your father was looking for is the woman you mentioned. She is someone he has known a long time and been fond of, and I think he’d like to say goodbye to her.’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t! I couldn’t bring… how could I? My mother would never —’
‘This has nothing to do with your mother. Nor with you, really, Edith. You only have to mention to the doctor or the ward sister that your father has a relative who lives in the country and would like to say goodbye. It would all be over in a few moments.’
‘No, I can’t do that. I can’t. My mother…’
‘Very well.’
I rose and opened the door for her.
‘You do understand?’ The Bluestocking turned to me, mottled but obstinate.
‘Yes, yes.’
I had already forgotten Edith.
It took me an hour to walk round the hospital, question the porter, get my bearings. Then I went to the waiting room.
Alice was still sitting upright on the wooden bench, shivering in her pretty dress.
‘Sanna! Oh God, Sanna. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m going to take you to Rudi.’
‘You can’t,’ she said wearily. ‘No one is allowed in except relatives. And they always come, both of them. It’s only right; they’re family. Only… ’ Her lips began to tremble. ‘I thought if I could see him just once more. Just to… thank him… that then I could bear it.’
‘Well, you’re going to see him. I told you. Now. Get up,’ I said firmly, as if to a child.
She rose, shaking her head, and picked up the bunch of cornflowers that lay beside her. ‘I brought them because when we first met… ’But this did not seem to be a sentence that one finished.
I led her through an archway into the main corridor, green-painted and deserted but for an orderly pushing a patient on a trolley. Beneath the grey blanket shrouding the figure, one foot protruded. Now to the left, up the first flight of stairs; I’d done my homework; there was no need to ask the way.
Another long corridor, past doors open to sights I prefer not to remember. The smell of chloroform, of lysol… Alice, I think, was aware of nothing, her only terror that we would be stopped before she reached her love.
‘Excuse me, but visitors are not allowed at this hour.’ A starched sister, all bristles and authority.
I smiled. ‘We’re not visiting a patient, sister. We’re visiting Professor Mittelheimer.’
My smile, that of a third-class houri in the red-light district of a minor provincial town, was an accident brought on by nerves, but it disconcerted the Sister so much that she let us pass. With the reputation of the poor Professor (whose name I had got off a notice board) in ruins, we went up a second flight of stairs.
We had reached the private room. (Please God let it work! Let her see him just once more.)
‘I’m sorry, but nobody is allowed past —’
Beside me, Alice faltered, missed her step. It was too cruel when we were almost at Rudi’s door.
And then a second nurse, senior to the first, coming out of her office. ‘Unless one of you is Herr Doktor Sultzer’s sister from Prague?’
I gestured to Alice.
‘That’s all right then. The Herr Doktor’s daughter telephoned us to expect you. Only a few minutes though. He is very ill.’
(Oh Edith, how I wronged you. I will be your friend for life.)
She led us to the room where Rudi lay. I stepped aside and Alice went forward to the bed. When she bent over him and saw the unmistakable signs of death, the colour drained from her face and I moved towards her, afraid that she would faint.
Then somehow — I don’t know how she did this — she reassembled from the terrified stricken woman she had become, her charm, her beauty. Alice put up her hand to flick back the wisp of veiling on her hat. She laid the cornflowers on the counterpane. She smiled. Properly, I mean. Naturally. Then she said: ‘Rudi?’
Not in a desperate way; not calling him back from limbo. She said it as you say it when someone you love lies beside you on the pillow and it amuses you to say his name.
So he came back. For lamentations and guilt he had not returned, nor had the ministrations of the doctors brought him back, but Alice called him lightly, cheerfully, and he came. Not at once… slowly. His eyes opened… focused. And when he realized that she was there, really in the flesh and not a mirage, and looked at her, she must have had all the reward that women like us can ever hope to have.
So far we could still have been watching a man taking leave of a beloved sister. The smile on the dying man’s face could have been the tender smile of a fond older brother remembering childhood games. The silly pet name he now spoke softly into Alice’s ear as she bent over him might have belonged to their nursery games, though it would have been an unusual nursery. But now Rudi Sultzer very slightly turned his head and as Alice brought her mouth towards him and kissed him gently on the lips, the Herr Doktor’s hand moved up from the coverlet… sought something… found it.