by Tara Haigh
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Tara Haigh
Translation copyright © 2019 by Jozef van der Voort
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Das weiße Blut der Erde by Tinte & Feder, Amazon Media E.U. S.à.r.l. in Luxembourg in 2017. Translated from German by Jozef van der Voort. First published in English by Lake Union Publishing in collaboration with Amazon Crossing in 2019.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, in collaboration with Amazon Crossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Lake Union Publishing and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542019736
ISBN-10: 1542019737
Cover design by Charlotte Abrams-Simpson
First edition
CONTENTS
Strait of Malacca, 21 May 1877
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Strait of Malacca, 21 May 1877
In a few hours, we will reach the Indian Ocean. A long journey lies ahead of us. If it weren’t for my beloved diary, I don’t know how I would pass the time after the end of my shift. I can’t understand why I am the only sailor on board who sets his recollections down in writing instead of washing them away with rum. After all, one learns a great deal when travelling – especially in the port cities, even when stopping only briefly to take on fresh victuals. Naturally, my habits make me the object of laughter and ridicule – a gruff, manly sing-song disgorged from throats well-oiled with cheap rotgut. The voices emanating from the crew quarters below deck ring as loudly as in a church, and even drown out the whip-cracks of the waves against the ship’s wooden hull. Since we left Singapore, the sea has been so rough that it makes one dizzy to write by the flickering light of a paraffin lamp, and I am finding it hard to hold my pen steady. I can only hope I will still be able to decipher my shaky hand in years to come.
‘Maybe he’s writing love letters,’ growls Mate Johansson. ‘A girl in every port,’ roars another. Laughter breaks out once more. Small wonder, since until this morning they believed me to be steadfast in my constancy. I can hardly hold it against them, in light of yesterday’s events. Even Captain von Stetten let slip a similar remark – although only as a joke, as he understands the true situation and knows that I would never betray my wife.
If only I hadn’t joined the others on shore yesterday and dozed off in that harbourfront alehouse! Yet one needs to feel solid ground beneath one’s feet from time to time; to find some space and surround oneself with fresh faces. English beer is far too strong. A curse on Singapore!
Those heartrending cries still echo in my ears. The ship’s enormous hull must have muffled them on the landward side, and anyway, the crew were still loading her up until deep into the night. Did that mean I was the only one who heard that voice? Fate apparently singled me out to follow those cries, leading me to that shadowy creature. They say that everything in life happens for a reason.
He must have believed that he could simply steal away from the scene – yet the moon was too bright, and at that hour there wouldn’t normally be any carriages left at the harbour, so he should have expected to attract some curious glances. Perhaps he didn’t care. A man travelling in such an elegant coach must wield a great deal of influence, and I expect he has nothing and nobody to fear around these parts – aside from the misfortune that ultimately befell him. I still shudder to recall his piercing eyes. They looked the part on such a heartless human being. He was the devil incarnate. And I struck a pact with him, just so I could bring an end to that wretched wailing . . .
CHAPTER 1
Hamburg, 1898
Ordinarily, Ella was happy to undertake the forty-minute walk to work from her home on leafy Harvestehuder Weg – especially when she had the early morning shift. The fresh air did her good, and the stiff breeze that so often blew through Hamburg could put a spring in even the weariest step. But when the weather was very bad, walking was out of the question – and today, the rain was lashing down in buckets. Mother had telephoned for a cab immediately after breakfast. That came with rather awkward consequences, since a twenty-one-year-old daughter of a humble sailor and a schoolteacher who could afford to be driven to work in a carriage represented an object of curiosity to onlookers, to put it mildly. This morning, to avoid further inflaming the smouldering resentment of the doctors – and especially the attendants – Ella once again instructed the driver not to drop her off in front of the main entrance to the Neues Allgemeines Krankenhaus – the New General Hospital. As a rule, she dismounted on the other side of the road or down one of the side streets as Father had advised her to do after one of Ella’s colleagues had recently been unable to resist asking her how she could afford a carriage ride from the two hundred marks that a young female hospital attendant earned each month.
‘I can’t really afford it, but I would have arrived late otherwise.’ This was not an excuse that Ella could use very often, of course. Other excuses had followed, until the constant need to come up with a new story on the way to work every time it rained had become a source of distress to her. Rumours were already circulating among the doctors about her place of residence, as well as the fact that her family had a telephone. It was unheard of for people of humble origins to live in an exclusive quarter on the banks of the Alster, surrounded by wealthy businesspeople and industrialists. That was a privilege not even the hospital directors could afford. Once again, it was her father who had advised her to say that her family was living with relatives in an apartment building. Nobody had made any further enquiries since then, thank heavens.
The fifteen-minute cab ride along the Alster and across the city wasn’t long enough to come to a decision. Should she continue to exercise discretion and be soaked to the skin? Or should she risk being dropped off directly in front of the entrance to the hospital?
The portico of the enormous red-brick building was already in view. Through the rain-spattered window, Ella could just about make out one of the other attendants entering the building. She was a little early today – most of her colleagues usually arrived later. She decided to take a chance and revise her previous instructions to the coachman.
‘Please stop here, by the entrance,’ she called to him.
He slowed down.
Ella instantly regretted her decision, for at that precise moment, a woman approached holding an umbrella that was whipping back and forth in the wind. At this time in the morning, she was sure to be a colleague. Unfortunately, everybody knew everybody else at the hospital, even though there were 160 nurses working here across several separate pavilions. Ella hoped the attendant would be too busy trying to hold
her umbrella up against the wind to even notice the carriage, or to examine the person getting out of it.
She had already counted out her money before she dismounted, and after handing it to the coachman, she lowered her umbrella to conceal her face and danced around the puddles that lay between her and the steps leading up to the entrance. With any luck, her colleague would already be inside – but it was not to be. She had just mounted the top step and was within reach of the door handle, when two spindly legs clad in woollen stockings and sturdy brown men’s shoes came into view beneath her umbrella. Ella exhaled. She knew only one attendant who dressed so practically yet unflatteringly.
‘Good morning, Ella.’ The greeting came from the familiar voice of her colleague Mathilde – the longest-serving attendant, who had worked here since the pavilion opened nine years ago. She knew about Ella’s family situation, and was as quiet as a grave. Mathilde was in her mid-thirties, had a very agreeable temperament, and always wore a smile on her lips. One might even say she was a friend – although right now, she more closely resembled a drowned rat. The poor thing was soaked to the skin and was looking wistfully at the departing carriage.
‘I wish I had your luck,’ she added, but with a benevolent smile that Ella answered with a sigh and an innocent shrug.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Mathilde urged, understandably enough, although they had by now found shelter from the rain under the portico.
Mathilde would no doubt want to chat before their shift started. She knew everybody, and was always well informed about both doctors and patients alike. Right now, however, they needed to hurry, for the night-shift attendants would want to clock off on time.
‘Are you going to the Baltic coast again this summer?’ asked Mathilde on the way down to the changing rooms in the basement, with their countless lockers.
‘I’ve already put my name down on the list,’ answered Ella, reflecting that scarcely anyone would choose to forgo a vacation funded by the hospital managers, given their meagre wages. ‘What about you?’ Ella asked.
‘The hospital directors have encouraged those of us who haven’t yet signed up to miss out on the trip this year, in return for extra pay. We’re understaffed. They intend to compensate us if we stay here and work, and I could do with a little extra money right now.’
‘Then they should hire more staff,’ said Ella indignantly.
‘People like you don’t grow on trees. English nurses don’t speak a word of German, and the Swiss ones prefer to stay at home. They can earn a good deal more there.’ Mathilde’s explanations cut straight to the heart of the matter.
‘I’ve heard that the hospital will start training its own nurses from next year. We’ll have more workers then,’ remarked Ella.
‘Not before time. Germany leads the world in so many different ways – I mean, we’re lucky that we’ve even been able to get health insurance for the last few years, for example – but when it comes to nursing . . . At any rate, if it weren’t for the cholera outbreak six years ago then nothing would have changed. We had to learn some difficult lessons before we managed to beat the disease. It’s hard to imagine now. At the end of next year, we’ll be entering a new century,’ said Mathilde fervently as she took her uniform out of her locker and draped it over a chair. Then she fell silent and looked over at Ella somewhat wistfully.
‘How often I’ve envied you your time in London,’ said Mathilde.
Ella nodded sympathetically, although her training over there had by no means been easy. But that was a sacrifice one made willingly, since St Thomas’s Hospital was considered one of the best training establishments in the world, and Ella was also able to perfect her schoolgirl English while she was there.
‘By the way, I’ve finished that book you lent me,’ added Mathilde, once she had removed her outdoor shoes.
Ella wondered which book Mathilde was talking about, since she had lent her quite a few. She looked quizzically at her colleague.
‘You know – Florence Nightingale, Notes on Nursing. Though it wasn’t an easy read, what with my English. To think what that woman set in motion, all by herself. It’s extremely impressive,’ gushed Mathilde.
‘If it weren’t for Nightingale, there still wouldn’t be any trained nurses to this day,’ Ella agreed.
‘I’m quite certain that your Miss Nightingale knows more than any of the doctors here,’ Mathilde speculated.
‘You may be right there.’ Ella grinned.
‘I still think you would have made an excellent doctor,’ remarked Mathilde – not for the first time.
‘But then I would have had to study in Switzerland. I preferred to go to St Thomas’s.’ As if to emphasise her point, Ella pulled on her nurse’s cap. She wore her hair coiled into a heavy bun that tugged painfully at her scalp – one of the few things she couldn’t stand about her profession. Women doctors didn’t have to wear caps. But at least the attendants’ uniforms were comfortable, and they were free to tie their aprons as loose or tight as they liked.
‘They’ve already started calling you the herb witch, at any rate,’ said Mathilde mischievously as she fastened her own cap on with hairpins.
‘If only Gutenberg knew that I took it as a compliment – though if anything, he should really have called me an apothecary. It just goes to show how little he knows about the healing arts.’
‘But how would he know about them? He was only trained to carve people up and stitch them back together again.’ Mathilde shrugged.
‘There are plenty of books he could read,’ answered Ella as she examined herself in the small mirror inside the locker, adjusted her uniform, and tucked an unruly lock of brown hair underneath her cap.
‘Believe you me, in his view, Hahnemann is a heretic who should have been put on a bonfire,’ said Mathilde, who – like Ella – had made a careful study of Hahnemann’s teachings on homoeopathy. This shared knowledge was one of the cornerstones of their friendship.
‘We’ll end up there ourselves one of these days,’ answered Ella with a smile – although her apprehension about getting into trouble was not entirely unjustified. Still, it was so much more important to be able to look into the eyes of a grateful patient who had been restored to perfect health with the help of a little ‘witchcraft’, as Gutenberg would call it. That alone made all the risks worthwhile.
In fact, Ella had to admit that she rather enjoyed being a medical lone wolf. For one thing, she was convinced that she was doing the patients good; yet there was also a certain frisson involved. After all, what she was doing was against the rules. Even in England, it was deemed inappropriate for nurses to treat patients under their own initiative – and for attendants, it was completely out of the question. But Mathilde paid no heed to the rules either, and when they were both on duty there was little reason to fear discovery, as one of them would watch to make sure nobody caught them in the act while the other added their homoeopathic medicines to the patients’ drinks. That was impossible in the patients’ areas, for obvious reasons. The only remaining option was the attendants’ room. Today it was Mathilde’s turn to keep look-out. Of course, it would look strange for an attendant to stand rooted to the spot in front of the nurses’ station and continuously scan her surroundings, but thankfully, there was a noticeboard hanging there that displayed the shift rosters. Examining these was a daily task on the ward. If anybody came by, all she had to do was clear her throat loudly, make an innocent remark such as, ‘I see you’re on holiday next week,’ or point out that the roster had been changed due to illness.
There was no need for any of those measures today. It took Ella no more than a minute to fill the glass jugs with the homoeopathic agent calendula, which she diluted in alcohol and water so that nobody would notice it. That was standard procedure on the surgical ward – or rather, their standard procedure – as calendula helped wounds to heal. The success of the treatment was ironically a source of significant pride to senior attendant Gertrude. It was she who earned all the praise, since
of course the doctors had noticed on their daily rounds that wounds healed unusually quickly on this ward. ‘Thanks to good care,’ was the official line. All in all, everybody benefitted from the new approach, and today once again, Ella and Mathilde successfully managed to supply the patients recovering from surgery in the first wards with medication along with their daily water ration – in other words, they encouraged them to drink before they tended their wounds and changed their bandages. A completely normal working day – or so it seemed, right up until Gertrude stormed determinedly into the patients’ area. To judge by her expression, she wasn’t best pleased.
‘Good morning, Miss Kaltenbach. Doctor Gutenberg would like to speak with you on an urgent matter.’
‘What about?’ asked Ella.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But the doctor does seem a little irritable, if I may say so.’ Gertrude seemed to relish every word. She couldn’t stand the fact that she had less knowledge and training than Ella, and that unlike her, she couldn’t officially call herself a nurse. They had been rivals from the very beginning.
This must be about the trip to the Baltic coast. Perhaps he wanted to persuade her to stay behind, like Mathilde. Ella decided to put that idea firmly out of the good doctor’s mind.
Although he wasn’t the director of the hospital, Ella knew that Gutenberg was just as influential – but also just as inflexible, and not only because of the white coat he wore buttoned all the way up to his chin. In his mid-fifties with a beard he kept neatly trimmed at all times and an upright posture, Gutenberg radiated a natural authority. As the head of surgery, he was responsible for nearly half of the hospital’s thirteen hundred beds. Surgery was one of the two main departments alongside internal medicine, with its epidemic ward. Gutenberg also oversaw a small special department for patients with eye disorders. One word from him, and the thirty or so doctors in the hospital would snap to attention – to say nothing of the humble service staff and attendants. All the same, for Ella to miss her well-earned holiday was out of the question – so she knocked resolutely on his door and immediately stepped into his office, without waiting to be asked.