by Jeanne Moran
I wondered if he’d correct the mistake he’d made, using the traditional Bavarian greeting “God’s greeting” instead of “Heil Hitler.” But he just sat there smiling, waiting, so I responded in kind.
The others introduced themselves – Fritz, a grinning six-year-old, Marla, a quiet pale girl maybe eleven or twelve years old with shoulder length brown hair, and a pretty blonde teen named Elisabeth.
Anna placed a breakfast tray in front of me. At the hospital, I’d been spoon fed every meal as if I were a baby. I’d been as weak as one. Here in rehabilitation, I’d learn to do more for myself.
I reached for the spoon, but my fingers couldn’t close around the handle. Anna’s hand clasped over mine and she helped me scoop a bit of yoghurt and raise it to my mouth.
Eating demanded my full concentration so I didn’t hear much of the conversation at the table. After a dozen spoonfuls, my arm shook with fatigue. Anna and I excused ourselves.
The pea green rehabilitation ward room was as large and open as the hospital ward with tall windows and a high ceiling. A console radio stood in a corner with a few chairs clustered around it. The eighteen or twenty beds on the ward looked just like the ones in the hospital, the white metal frames, crisp sheets, and gray wool blankets. But here, a few beds were spread with multi-colored knit afghans or puffy quilts, personal touches which made me smile.
Anna pushed me to a bed, lifted me in, and tucked the sheet around me. “Rest a bit.” She started to leave.
I called after her. “Why are the other beds empty?”
She turned. “The patients are at breakfast or in therapy. The ward’s pretty quiet during the day.”
“When can I get my own things from home?”
“Your mother brought clothes a few days ago, a large bundle. You can open it after you rest.”
Things were looking up. “When can I get a real bath and wash my hair?”
Anna crossed her arms, probably trying to look stern. “In an hour or so. Now, Sophie, you got tired eating breakfast. You need some rest.”
But I wasn’t done yet. “When do visitors come?”
“Saturday afternoons.” She softened. “Your mother and your stepbrother are eager to see you. A few friends, also. Even the Scharführer has been asking for you.”
I let my head sink into the pillow and smiled. People wanted to visit me. My eyes grew heavy, and I drifted into that pleasant, relaxed state that comes before sleep.
My eyes popped open. Werner wanted to visit?
Anna brought me to the physiotherapy room later that day. It was also a long rectangle, with the same tall windows and pea green walls as the ward. But instead of beds, it held a half-dozen padded tables. On one, a boy lifted his leg in the air and lowered it. On another, a woman on her hands and knees alternately arched her back and let it sag. Across the room, children and adults pedaled stationary bicycles or tugged arm pulleys. Three women in white uniforms moved through it all, adjusting a sandbag here, helping someone sit there. Since one was Gisela, the other two must be physiotherapists too – physios they were called.
Gisela pushed me to an empty mat table and in moments, I was out of the wheelchair and on my back on the table. She took measurements and jotted notes. “Ready?” I nodded even though I didn’t know what to expect. “Slide your legs out and in ten times. Then rest. Then another ten, and rest.”
How many times she came and went, changing exercises or adding weights, I don’t know. Maybe six, maybe a dozen. All I know is exercise made every muscle ache and quiver, and sweat drenched me.
After three quarters of an hour, Gisela said, “Good session. You’re scheduled daily right after breakfast and then again mid-afternoon, two hours each.”
“Two hours?”
“You’ll learn to pace yourself. How do you feel?”
“Everything hurts. My legs and my back especially.”
Gisela smiled. “That’s normal, Sophie. Muscles hurt when they work. I’ll stretch them out and your student nurse can give you a good massage later.”
Slowly, with steady gentle pressure, Gisela lifted my arm. Pain tore at it as if fingernails raked and ripped at skin and muscles. Her expression was sympathetic and her voice soft, but I cried out a number of times anyway. When she was done I did feel better. But I was still trembling and sweaty.
Back at the ward, Anna spread a little talcum on her hands and rubbed my back. I was asleep in minutes.
That evening, she pushed me to the cafeteria and helped me with supper. She faced me, her expression stiff. “Well Sophie, I’ve given you all I could this week. I pushed you around, bathed you, fed you, and exhausted myself giving you backrubs. Time for me to go home.” She turned on her heel and left.
Same old Anna.
Herr Franken watched her leave, a single eyebrow raised. He turned to me. “Evenings here are free time. Do whatever you like.”
I’d like to play checkers with Papa, sing radio songs with Klaus, and have Mutti show me a new knitting pattern. But I couldn’t. I was in a wheelchair, in the hospital with strangers.
Marla must have seen my uncertainty. “Last night was my first night over here. I went to the ward to listen to the radio.”
“The radio has too many speeches,” little Fritz said, scrunching up his face. Herr Franken tousled Fritz’s head.
Marla looked down at her lap. “The speeches might be important.”
Elisabeth flipped her long blonde braids over her shoulders. “Some people stay in the cafeteria to play cards. There are board games,” she gestured to boxes on shelves behind me, “chess and Mensch Ärgere Dich Nicht.”
“That sounds fun,” I said.
“And there are good books in the hospital library,” Herr Franken chimed in.
“I like to read,” I said. “I was reading books about photography before I got sick.”
Fritz’s blue eyes shone. “Do you have a camera?”
“What do you take pictures of?” Elisabeth sounded interested.
“I took pictures of a Youth activity a couple of weeks ago.” A lifetime ago.
“What was it, a race?” Marla wanted to know.
“No.” The memory of how I broke my promise to Papa that day gnawed at me.
“Well, the library’s across from the physio room,” Herr Franken said, “so come on down if you’re interested. You too, Marla.” He grabbed his wooden crutches and stood, slowly and with grunts, tucking the crutches into his armpits. He plodded across the cafeteria stiffly, his metal- and leather-bound legs improbable toothpicks under his adult body.
Marla pushed away alone. For only her second day in rehabilitation, she was getting around pretty well. Elisabeth stood with a single metal crutch, clamped it around her left forearm, and waddled off, blonde braids whipping from side to side like wipers on a windshield. She wore only one brace, a short one on her right leg. Fritz sat in his wheelchair watching me, then spun and pushed himself out of the cafeteria.
My muscles already ached from the day’s therapy. I hadn’t pushed the wheelchair myself and I didn’t want to try. The only other person in the cafeteria was an elderly man holding a mop. He nodded at me and started his work.
It took me ten minutes to push from the cafeteria to the ward. But I did it.
The Führer’s voice boomed from the ward radio and I pushed toward it, drawn by its magnetism, a familiar something amid the strangeness of the past days. I was barely inside the ward room when the broadcast was over, but several patients and two staff members still clustered near the radio, talking excitedly. Marla sat at the edge of the group, half-listening to them and half-watching my approach.
I pulled up next to her. “What did I miss?” I asked, out of breath. “Something important?”
Her eyes widened. “Well, of course it was important,” she whispered, leaning close to me. “It was the Führer.”
Chapter Five
Lighting
6 May, Friday
I studied the reflection at the end
of the parallel bars – me in my wheelchair looking terrified, Gisela squatted beside me holding a roll of tan wrap and a flattened metal bar. “Are you sure that will hold me?” I asked.
“Not by itself, Sophie.” She laid the bar across her lap, placed my limp leg on top of it, and with smooth V’s from ankle to mid-thigh, wrapped them together. “This temporary brace, we call it a temp, will keep your right knee from buckling when you stand. Your arms and your other leg will do most of the work.”
“But I pushed to the cafeteria this morning, then all the way here.” I heard myself whine. “My arms are tired.”
“I’ll hold you. You won’t fall, I promise.”
Anna had been standing nearby, and now she placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll stay close too.”
What else could I do? In. Out. In. Out.
With grunts and tugs and a lot of help I stood upright, gripping the bars. Gisela used her shoe to push the wrapped leg back so it propped under me like a tripod under a camera. I peered past Gisela and caught a glimpse of my grimace. My image blurred.
“I’m going to slide your right leg forward,” Gisela said, hooking her foot around my heel. “Let yourself down, easy now.” I plopped in the wheelchair, exhausted and light-headed.
“Thirty seconds!” Anna sounded pleased.
“It had to be longer than that.” I dropped my head to bring the blood back. If standing was this hard, how would I ever walk?
A few hours later I pulled up beside Elisabeth at a long black table in a place that was new to me, Occupational Therapy. Elisabeth dug at a piece of wood with a sharp tool. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Carving a tree.” She smiled at it admiringly. It looked like a gouged out hunk of wood to me.
Marla sat nearby, scowling at the lumpy blue web draped between her knitting needles. Fritz hollered a greeting as a blob of scarlet paint dripped from the brush in his hand. All through the room, patients hammered, cut paper, and folded towels. Not an exercise mat or a pulley in sight.
A stout, middle-aged woman bustled over. “I’m Frau Berkheimer, the Occupational Therapist. You must be Sophie Adler.”
I nodded. “This therapy of yours looks different than physio.”
Her smile was broad and proud. “It is. Here in OT, we strengthen your hands and keep your mind busy. What do you enjoy?”
“Taking pictures. Can you get me strong enough to work my camera?”
She stepped away and returned with her answer – a damp ball of clay, a rolling pin, and a butter knife. “Flatten it, then cut long strips. Weave the strips together.”
“Like a pie crust?” I pictured our bakery’s pies with fruit bursting between woven bits of top crust. She nodded.
I flattened the ball a bit by pressing with my palms and flipping it over. Then I tried the rolling pin. I had to lean my forearms on it and rock back and forth to make enough pressure. In no time, my shoulders ached. I cut, lifted, wove, grasped, pinched, and tugged until my hands ached too.
Frau Berkheimer inspected my work. “Good. Now squash it back into a ball and do it again.” I started to object but she raised a finger. I swallowed my complaint.
When I showed her my second woven creation, she took in the sweat on my forehead. “You’re done. See you tomorrow.”
No doubt about it. OT was just as hard as physio. The hard part was just better disguised.
An envelope addressed in unfamiliar handwriting waited on my bed.
Dear Sophie,
I hear you’ve been sick. Klaus has kept me up to date and I’m glad to hear you’re stronger now.
I had hoped to visit on Saturday, but I’ll be away. My family is going to Kempten for my grandmother’s birthday celebration. I’ll plan to come another time.
Erich
P.S. When I visit, I’ll bring a special surprise.
I reread the note a dozen times, relishing the warm fluttery feelings it brought. I tucked it under my pillow and smiled the rest of the day.
7 May, Saturday
The ward doors swung open at 15 Uhr. A dozen visitors entered, their happy voices calling out to loved ones. Everyone walked right past me. I tugged my blanket to hide my scrawny legs.
A small boy climbed on Fritz’s lap and begged, “Take me for a ride.” The two of them zigzagged across the room, imaginary motor running and brakes squealing. A short couple stood nearby, beaming at them.
I moved to the windows to watch the adjacent parking lot for arrivals. Herr Franken joined me, clean-shaven and neatly groomed. Shortly, a young woman in a stylish dress and heels strode up the walk. “Ah, here’s my Gabriele,” he said, his voice a tender whisper. He lifted a hand from a crutch to wave. A huge smile lit the woman’s face as she hurried into the building.
Herr Franken bowed to me and began his plodding steps. Gabriele never took her eyes from her husband’s face as they walked toward each other, her arms outstretched in greeting, his hands grasping crutches to support his weight on withered legs. They walked slowly toward the outdoor patio, their faces shining.
Maybe I’d be loved that way. Someday.
A square woman in a calico housedress stepped off a streetcar. “Mutti!” I called, waving as she entered the ward. I was surprised how much I’d missed her.
She froze in the doorway. She looked me up and down and up again, then gazed around the ward, taking in the beds, the wheelchairs, the people. A sharp breath and then, “Which bed is yours?”
I pointed. She strode to it, plopped a paper-wrapped bundle and a couple of shopping bags beside it and turned, hands on hips, staring at everything and everyone.
Not the warm greeting I wanted. I gestured to a nearby chair. “Please sit so we can visit.”
But she stood stock still and lifted her chin. “All these people have polio?”
“Yes.”
My answer made wrinkles between her brows. She said, “Hmpf,” then turned and went to work unpacking the parcel. In minutes, my dirty clothing was ready to go home and fresh blouses, camisoles, socks, and underwear were smoothed, refolded, and tucked in neat piles in my drawers.
I thanked her and peeked in one of the shopping bags. “My quilt!” Its tiny pink, blue, and yellow rosebuds spoke of home, of my real life. A wave of homesickness swept over me.
She pulled the quilt from the bag and smoothed it across my bed. That done, she perched on the arm of the chair, probably deciding whether to stay or run out the door. She pursed her lips. “Are you getting stronger?”
“Yes, I am. It’s really hard, but…”
“Then work harder. The harder you work, the stronger you’ll be.”
“I am working hard,” I sputtered. “I’m doing the best I can with…” I scrunched my eyes shut and didn’t open them until I could hold back tears.
“When will you be better?”
My voice grew hard. “I am better. Much better. I nearly went into the iron lung.”
“I know. The nurse told me when I phoned.”
I stared at her. “You phoned?” We had a telephone in the bakery, but it was for business use. My parents never used it for private calls.
“Of course. I wasn’t allowed to visit.”
I smiled. Maybe she really did care about me.
She shifted on her little perch. “I got word to your father about your illness.”
“I’ll write him once I can hold a pencil.”
As that sank in, her eyes widened briefly. She reached into a shopping bag. “He asked me to bring this.” She pulled out a familiar black leather case.
My eager hands grabbed for my camera. I cradled it awkwardly and stroked its grainy surface.
She continued. “He sent a letter too,” waving an envelope she’d pulled from a pocket.
“Open it for me, bitte, and hand me the note.” Again, she seemed surprised, but she did as I asked.
The envelope’s seal had already been broken.
My dear Sophiela,
I hear you are sick and in hospital.
I am most distressed by this. I want to see you with my own eyes and know that you are healing, but I cannot. All I can do is pray that, by the time you get this letter, you are on your way to recovery.
As we march, I take photos of the beautiful people and places of Austria, sometimes one or two rolls in a day. I want to show you places I have seen and tell you stories behind the photos.
I have asked your mother to bring your camera and some film to the hospital. Please take photos of things you do and people who help you. I hope to get a pass to come home at Christmas. We can share our photos then and tell each other all we’ve missed.
Since you will not have a flash or a tripod, do not worry about lighting or background. The truth of what happens around you is enough.
Your loving Papa
As I reread the note, I could almost hear my father’s voice. I pictured him stepping away from a line of grimy soldiers to photograph a fabulous Alpine landscape, some grazing goats, a handful of waving villagers. What a great adventure. I turned to my mother. “Papa mentioned film.”
Her eyes darted around the room. “I was, um…” She fidgeted. “I was unable to get any.”
My bossy, always-in-control mother was nervous. Was it this place? Was it me?
“Can you bring some next week?” I gestured around me. “I can’t exactly buy it here.”
A squeal at the ward door interrupted us. Rennie ran to me, arms flung wide, then stooped to squeeze my neck in a crushing embrace. “You’re choking me,” I said, laughing. I was unbelievably glad to see her.
“Oh, Sophie.” She pulled away to look at my face. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
Uta and Marie hung back in the doorway, sizing up the situation before they came over. They greeted my mother, and gave me brief sideways hugs and feather light pecks on the cheek. “How are you feeling?” Uta asked in an overly polite sort of way. She scanned me up and down, probably seeing just how crippled I was.
I was anxious to distract her. “You’ll never guess who my student nurse is.”