"Two liters?"
"Yes. The thing we worry about most with loss of blood is that the patient will then go into shock. This didn't happen here. Ms. York was disoriented and her color was bad when she came in, but we caught it in time. Now let's see what the gynecologist says."
He took out a pack of unfiltered cigarettes and, lighting up, took a deep, happy drag. I smiled and he smiled back. "Don't say anything. I have to live with a wife who's a jogger. I compromise by taking a five-mile walk every day." He paused. "Every day that the weather is nice."
They wouldn't let me see her that night, although they assured me she was better and it would be all right if I went home. I assured them I was quite comfortable in my awful chair in the waiting room. But after two hours of hospital walls and silence, I fell into a deep sleep.
It took days for the train to cross Europe, but I was in no hurry. There was an exhaustion so deep in my bones that all I seemed to do the whole trip was sleep, wake for a few minutes, then fall asleep again. Once, I slept right through a fistfight that happened two feet away from me when a German soldier from Konstanz tried to steal a pack of American cigarettes from my friend Gьnter.
The only interesting part of the train ride was when we crossed into Switzerland. The rest of the European countryside looked like any place that's gone through years of war, but not Switzerland. Crossing the border was like entering a fairyland, or at least the land you dreamed of returning home to after living in a trench and dirty underpants for three years. It was so clean! Nothing was ruined, nothing destroyed or broken. The cows were brown and wore gold bells in green meadows of grass. There was perfectly white snow on the mountains, white sails on the boats in the lakes. How could anything stay white while a war was going on? In the Zurich station, where we had to lay over while other, 'more important,' trains passed ours, vendors sold chocolate wrapped in silver paper, cigarettes in yellow and red boxes, apples and tomatoes as big as your hand.
The Swiss are horrible people, but they're smart. They take no sides and have no friends, but what do they care? They make it through wars untouched, with their banks full of money and their fat stomachs full. In France we heard they turned away Jews from their borders even when they knew what would happen by sending them back. Sometimes I thought about the French Jews we'd put on trucks. Sometimes, no, a lot of the time I thought about those French children who . . . flew out of that schoolhouse.
They wouldn't let us off the train in Zurich but that didn't matter. All we wanted from them was their food, and between us we had just enough money to buy it. When I ate a chocolate bar for the first time there, I almost got sick to my stomach from the pure beautiful sweetness of it. They had coffee with real milk and sandwiches on dark bread so fresh and warm it kissed the inside of your mouth. There's a funny contradiction here: You dream about food like that when you can't have it, especially when you can't have it for years, but at the same time you completely forget what it tastes like until you put it in your mouth and bite down after a thousand days. When I told Gьnter that, he said, "Yeah, just like pussy." When I saw the glint in his eye, good man that he is, I felt sorry for the first woman he slept with when he got home to Bregenz.
Naturally that made me think of Elisabeth. Would she be at the station to meet me? I'd written from France, but who knew what happened to letters sent from another country during a war? I kept thinking the post office there took prisoners' letters and threw them away first chance they got. But every once in a while I'd heard from her or my father. His letters were always the same: boring – how great things were going to be when I got back, the newest deal he'd pulled off and how much profit he'd made . . . But her letters were killers. They never talked about the weather or how hard the war was on them in Vienna. They talked only about sex. They talked about what kind of dreams she was having, what she thought about when she masturbated, what sort of things she wanted to do when we could sleep together again. After one of those letters arrived it always kept me hard for a week. I never knew whether I was glad or not to get them. Stupid as it sounds, they also made me nervous and uncomfortable. I'd play with myself so many times I'd get dizzy. When I wrote her that, she wrote back and set a date way in the future when, at exactly the same time, we should both jerk off and think of the other doing it. She was good in bed, but these letters told me things about her I'd never known when we'd slept together before the war. I wondered if that's all they were – dreams on paper. When we finally got to touch again, would she go back to being cozy sweet Elisabeth who sometimes purred like a cat when she was really hot, and most nights fell asleep with one leg over mine?
Gьnter got off at Bregenz. As we hugged good-bye, both of us started crying like fools. We were home, for better or worse, and we were glad of it. The last I saw of him, he was standing on the platform with a scared look in his eye. There were people swarming all around, but none of them went up to him. I knew exactly how he felt, so I pushed the window down and yelled at him, "Come to Vienna if it's bad here. You know where I am. Kochgasse!"
He waved at me. "Okay, but I'll be all right. You take care, pal."
It was another two days before I got home. Across the whole country, foreign troops were everywhere. English, Russians, Americans in Jeeps and tanks, walking by the side of the road . . . A group of them even waved to the train as we went past. A year before we would have been shooting at each other.
From what we heard, Austria had been divided up among different countries. Each Bundesland was controlled by someone else. In the train we learned Vienna itself was split up like that, and wondered who would be in charge of the different districts, and what changes would have taken place. More bad things to think about.
The last stop we made before we got there was Linz, which, from the look of things, had been hit hard. What I remember most, though, were two freight cars off on a siding with large Jewish stars painted sloppily on their sides. Below the stars was the word "Mauthausen." In France, I didn't believe the stories until that day I saw the kids fly, the day our lieutenant told us to round them up and put them in the trucks. After that I believed every story I heard about the death camps. But what was I supposed to do? What could anyone do when one word against it would have meant the firing squad, or worse. The lieutenant had been right that day – our job was to get our asses home in one piece, no matter what the orders were.
That was one of the few things I wanted to talk to my father about. He was a survivor. If you were his size, you had to find a way to survive in this world. I wanted to hear what he had to say about what the Nazis had done and why. Much of my life he'd been able to make sense of things that had only confused me. Maybe there was a good reason for killing all those Jews but I just didn't know it.
When the train pulled into Vienna it took only a few minutes for me to make out both of them waiting side by side on the platform. When they saw me Elisabeth started to run, but my father grabbed her arm and held her there. Then he started alone toward me in that funny side-to-side walk he had when he was in a big hurry.
When we reached each other he pulled me down and kissed my cheeks. "My boy! Moritz! You're home. You're here."
He used the Papa language, the secret words he'd taught me when I was a boy but which I'd always disliked.
"Hello, Papa. Talk to me in German. I want to hear my own language now." I was crying again. I picked him up and hugged him, but over his shoulder I was looking at Elisabeth, so far down the way. Papa was Papa, but Elisabeth was home.