A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel

by Suzanne Kelman

  As he continued to mop the young man’s brow, Michael rolled in and out of consciousness. Josef made a decision. He brought a chair into the attic to sleep by his friend’s side that night.

  Both men slept fitfully, and whenever Josef woke, he continued to nurse Michael, who was feverish and delirious. At about three o’clock, the fear and helplessness overpowered him. To relieve his tension, he paced the attic in circles, ending up finally at the cracked window looking out at the pale moon, somber in the night’s sky. A slight breeze moved through the pane and stirred him. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Tell me what I should do, Sarah, please.”

  But all he could see in his mind’s eye was her face, her green eyes shining as she giggled at him and shook loose her mane of copper curls. He wished he could talk to somebody, confide in anybody, but he had to keep Michael safe. He couldn’t allow anyone to know about his secret guest.

  Eventually, he moved back to his chair to read through more of the medical books he had brought home before he fell asleep, only to be woken an hour later by Michael’s wracking cough. Josef made him some hot water with lemon and brought it back up to the attic. Rechecking Michael’s temperature, he shook his head. It was still so very high. How long could a body go through such an ordeal? He could not lose him; he could not lose someone again.

  As the first dawn of light transformed the darkness to a royal blue, he reached over to his friend. “I must get you some medicine,” he whispered into his ear.

  Michael nodded.

  “I won’t be long.”

  The young man turned his head and opened his eyes. “I’ll be fine, Professor,” he said meekly, the sheer act of speaking exhausting him. He dissolved into a coughing fit that ended with him vomiting into the chamber pot beside the bed.

  Josef cleaned him up and laid his head carefully back on the pillow.

  “I’m going to the chemist as soon as it’s open. I’ll bring some medicine. It must be some kind of influenza. Please lie still and drink lots of water. That will help.”

  Michael nodded but appeared to be incoherent as he closed his eyes again.

  Josef made his way into the silent street, forgetting his scarf in his haste. He paced the icy sidewalk outside of the chemist until the door opened and almost knocked the man out of the way as he pushed himself inside.

  “I need something for my son. He has influenza. What do you recommend?”

  The chemist—a thin, stooped eagle of a man, obviously proud of his position in life—strode back to his counter and did not attempt to answer until he was behind it. “How old is your son?” he asked stiffly.

  “Twenty-six.”

  The chemist lifted his eyebrows. “I’m very short on supplies. I have to save medicine for the old people and the young.”

  Behind him, a doorbell tinkled and someone else entered the shop.

  Josef lowered his voice. “But he had a dreadful night.”

  “Well, he should see the doctor and get a prescription,” snapped the chemist. The chemist moved away from the counter dismissively and started to stack boxes of pills onto a shelf.

  Josef sucked in breath to calm himself. He wasn’t going to leave without something. “I will need something for the fever. Can you at least give me something for that?”

  The chemist sighed deeply. “You need a prescription.”

  “I’m not leaving,” challenged Josef, his resolve unwavering. “I know you have something you can give me. I cannot get a prescription. I need to get something for my son, now.”

  The chemist peered at Josef and, apparently sensing his customer’s defiance, turned from behind the counter, put a key into the lock of a drawer, and opened it. He pulled out one small bottle of pills, measured a few out, and placed them in a paper envelope. “You can give him those, but you must take him to the doctor.”

  Josef nodded, relieved to get anything. He put them in his pocket and paid for them.

  Arriving back at the attic he administered a couple of the aspirin to Michael, who forced them down with water. As Josef wiped sweat from Michael’s chest, he noticed that the rash that had appeared the day before was now a deep, angry purple.

  Michael’s eyes opened as he watched his friend. “Professor, thank you.”

  Josef nodded and stood to his feet, feeling some sense of hope that the aspirin might bring down Michael’s temperature. And it did, in fact, seem to help a little, as his friend settled.

  He sat beside Michael’s bed again. “It’s very odd. Why am I not sick, too?” He spoke more to himself than to Michael. “If it’s influenza, surely I would be sick as well. If I was sick, I could get you medicine. But they won’t let me have anything. We need to think of a way to get you to a doctor.”

  Michael’s eyes creased in concern. “Did you forget I was Jewish?” he said, barely above a whisper.

  “Maybe they won’t notice,” said Josef, trying to sound optimistic. “Your features aren’t so Jewish-looking,” he lied.

  Beside him, Michael’s dry lips attempted the hint of a smile. “Not look Jewish? I could play Moses,” he whispered. “Besides, there are other ways to know I am Jewish that are harder to disguise.” He lifted his eyebrows, showing a little of his usual humor. “I think, unless there was a miracle there, visiting a doctor is out of the question.”

  Chapter 35

  At 4 a.m., Josef dropped the third medical book that had confirmed the diagnosis. The rash, the cough, the temperature, and the bites—it could only be one thing, and that explained why Michael was not getting better.

  As soon as it was light, Josef rushed out without even having a drink. Going directly to the hospital, he walked up to the desk, swallowing down the panic sweeping over him. Through a dusty window, a dry-looking nurse peered up at him.

  “I need to see a doctor.”

  “Please take a seat. We have many patients today,” she stated, curtly.

  “You don’t understand; my son is very sick.”

  She screwed up her eyes and looked around the room. “Where is he?”

  “He is too sick to bring here, but I believe I know what he has. I need to see a doctor and get the medicine.”

  The nurse let out a long, slow sigh. “Sit down. We’ll get to you when we can.”

  After an anguished, two-hour wait, Josef’s name was finally called and he was ushered into one of the consulting rooms. A weary doctor writing on a chart didn’t even look up.

  “How may I help you?”

  “It’s not for me.” Josef couldn’t bring himself to sit, instead pacing the room and turning the brim of his hat in his hand nervously. “I need medicine. My son has murine typhus.”

  The doctor stopped writing, taken back, and then peered at Josef, apparently weighing him up as to whether he was medically trained or just a hypochondriac.

  “Who gave you that diagnosis?” he enquired gravely.

  Josef looked about him nervously. “I have books.”

  “Well, there’s a reason I have a degree in medicine,” the doctor rebuked stiffly. “Books can’t replace the right care or consultancy. Bring your son in for an appointment and I will check to see what he has.”

  The doctor turned his back as if to dismiss him.

  Josef did not back down. “But I need the medicine. I need to take the medicine home to him, today.”

  “You will have to bring your son in,” the doctor repeated sternly. “I can’t just give out medicine for something when I don’t know what it is. I have ethics. If he does indeed have typhus, then we will have to do the proper tests. Make an appointment with my nurse at the front desk.”

  Josef’s anger and frustration boiled. He could never bring Michael in; it was just too dangerous. He tried a different tactic. “Can you not just give me something to tide him over until I can bring him here?”

  The doctor looked exasperated. “I think I’ve been very clear, Mr. Held. You bring your son in. I will do the tests, and once we have the results, then I will treat him. That�
��s how these things work.”

  He then stood, marched to the consulting-room door, opened it, and ushered out the professor with a sweep of his hand.

  Josef shuffled from the room despondently, stopping in the doorway for one final appeal. “But he’s really sick.”

  “Then he needs to be in the hospital,” snapped the doctor.

  Held moved back out into the waiting room and wandered aimlessly through the hospital corridors, worrying. As he did, he observed doctors and nurses caring for patients and administering medicine. All at once, he had an idea, and finding the right door, he waited for his opportunity.

  Staff went in and out for about an hour before he got his chance. A nurse unlocked the supply closet and was pulling out a roll of bandages when a doctor called to her. She moved out into the corridor to speak to him and, behind her back, Josef crept stealthily to the closet. He grabbed a few hypodermic needles, shoved them into his pocket, and then slipped past the nurse, unnoticed.

  Arriving home, he went straight to the attic. His young friend was sleeping fitfully; his fever was even higher. Josef went outside, scooped a pile of snow into a large bowl, and, folding it into cloths, packed them around Michael to try to cool him down. Then, while his patient coughed and moaned, he settled to reread the chapter he had marked in one of the textbooks.

  Dantes sat on Josef’s lap looking over at Michael with concern.

  “Yes, Dantes, I know.”

  The professor closed the book and then stood. He knew what he had to do.

  Opening another of the textbooks to a different page, he read carefully the chapter on how to draw blood. Beads of sweat blurred his vision as he talked to himself. “I can do this. I can do this.”

  Michael rolled over and looked at him bleary-eyed. “You can do what, Professor?”

  Josef looked at his young friend and then at the needle in his hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I need to draw some of your blood.” Josef closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. “And I do have a confession I should probably tell you about.”

  Michael stared up at him.

  “I have always had a great fear of needles and… of blood.”

  Michael rolled back on his pillow, murmuring, “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “I just need a minute.”

  Josef paced the attic, breathing deeply. When that failed to calm his nerves, he walked briskly out of the room, descended the two flights of stairs, and strode out the kitchen door. Standing in the snow, he breathed deeply in the frigid air. As the cold assaulted his lungs, he found the courage he needed. This was his friend’s last hope. There was no other way.

  Back in the kitchen, he scrubbed his hands thoroughly and then collected a clean white linen cloth and a small porcelain bowl before returning to the attic. Then he practiced injecting with the needles he’d stolen by inserting one into a small leather ball. As he did, all the blood rushed from his face.

  Michael watched with concern.

  Josef took the used needle and dropped it into the bowl. His hands were now shaking. “I can do this, I can,” he reaffirmed.

  “Are you sure?” Michael swallowed. “You can’t even inject the ball.”

  Josef looked back at the medical chapter and reread it. He took a deep breath and tried again as Michael coughed violently. He turned to his patient, his hands still trembling.

  Josef tied a thin cord around Michael’s arm and then swabbed it with vodka. Michael turned his face away so as not to witness Josef’s attempt to plunge in the needle. On the first attempt, Josef missed the vein. Michael winced.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Can’t get much worse,” Michael responded, before starting another set of rattling coughs.

  Josef tried again and then again. Each time he missed the vein. He stood up, closed his eyes, and took a deep swig of the vodka. Removing his glasses, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve before replacing them and turning back to try again.

  This time, thick red blood filled the syringe.

  As he withdrew the amount he needed, Michael’s face was ashen. “Are you taking it to the hospital now?”

  “No, not exactly,” Josef responded, fighting the urge to vomit.

  Then, extending his own arm, he plunged the needle deep, injecting the infected blood into his own body. The last thing he heard before he passed out across Michael’s bed was, “Oh my God, Professor!”

  Chapter 36

  Josef took his temperature; it was normal. Staring at his face in the bathroom mirror, he rubbed his eyes. Wouldn’t he be showing symptoms by now? Surely he would be starting to feel ill, feverish, anything. A gnawing fear ground like broken glass deep in the pit of his stomach. What if his plan hadn’t worked? The situation felt hopeless.

  As if to remind him of the cost, Michael erupted into a coughing fit in the attic. It had gotten worse over the last day or so and was now presenting as dry and rasping. This new development concerned Josef not only with the progress of the illness, but a concern about keeping him hidden.

  He hurried to his bedroom to dress. It was Saturday, and he was due to go and see Ingrid. Every fiber of his being wanted to stay with Michael, but the reality was if he didn’t turn up, Ingrid may just stop by to check on him, and with Michael being so ill, he couldn’t risk having his Nazi niece at the house.

  Before leaving, he checked on his patient one more time, hovering over him with concern, watching him breathe in and out, his pallid skin a deep gray. Drawing closer, he whispered, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” From his close proximity, he could feel the heat radiating from his friend and hear the rasp in his lungs.

  Michael didn’t respond.

  Arriving at Ingrid’s apartment, he looked about him before he entered. He always felt wary. He was sure that when this war was over, Nazi sympathizers might not be treated too kindly, and he didn’t want to give anyone that impression of him.

  He knew it was a careful tightrope he was walking, but for Michael’s sake, he needed to keep everything on an even keel. Thinking of Ingrid, he fought to remember the little girl lost somewhere inside the woman who had become so harsh and callous over the years. He knew deep down that she was as unhappy as everybody else. Yes, she still believed she was living in a fairy tale, but from the Resistance Report on the wireless it appeared that the war wasn’t going well for the Germans, and he suspected, and indeed hoped, it wouldn’t be long before her fairy tale came to an end.

  She opened the door to him and gave him a sad smile.

  “Uncle, thank you for coming.” Her tone was despondent. She didn’t even kiss him on the cheek.

  She slunk up the hallway, and he followed her. Once in the front room, she didn’t settle but seemed preoccupied, staring out of the window as she addressed him.

  “I’m glad you could come,” she offered offhandedly, snatching at a packet on the table and lighting a cigarette.

  Josef nodded, noting she seemed worn, tired, with none of her usual brazen self-confidence. He didn’t have time to contemplate this because as he settled himself on the sofa, his head started to swim. Dare he hope that he was getting sick? It had been two days since he had injected himself with Michael’s blood.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and as Ingrid droned on about her life with Heinrich, he took stock of his symptoms. He was warm—not a roaring temperature but definitely warmer than usual. His throat was dry, and he was having trouble focusing. He mopped at his brow and pushed away a bowl of snacks Ingrid had waiting on the table as his stomach lurched.

  When he put his head in his hands, Ingrid finally noticed. “Uncle, are you all right?”

  “I’m not feeling well,” he announced, standing abruptly, then feeling as if he might faint, he quickly sat back down.

  Ingrid got him some water, and his hand shook as he took the glass and started to drink. At last, he would be able to help Michael.

  Ingrid sat back away fro
m him, eying him, warily. “We should get you home, Uncle.” She placed a handkerchief to her mouth. “I can’t have you here sick.”

  “No, I do not want to go home. I need to go to the hospital.”

  Ingrid looked alarmed. “Then my driver should take you in the car.”

  “I can make my own way there.”

  “Nonsense, my driver will take you.”

  Josef was uncomfortable, but he was also glad that he was ill: it was all part of his plan. The driver was away on an errand and didn’t arrive back for a while. When he did, Josef was sweating profusely.

  “We must be taken directly to the hospital,” Ingrid instructed the driver as he came to Josef’s side to help him.

  It was still cold outside, and Josef was glad there were not many people about. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him being driven in a Nazi car.

  At the hospital, Ingrid walked to the main desk and demanded to see a doctor. And even with all her protesting and threatening, they still had to wait a good hour before Josef was finally called. As he was helped into the consulting room, she sat outside, her handkerchief covering her mouth and nose.

  “Do not feel the need to stay,” he coughed as the door closed.

  “I need to make sure you are well, Uncle,” she shouted back through the closed door. “You nearly fainted in the car.”

  A different duty doctor walked into the examination room. “What seem to be your symptoms?” he asked dryly, looking down at a chart.

  “I need a test now.”

  “Mr. Held, I need to continue to ask you a few more questions before I consider that option.” The doctor scribbled something on the chart.

  Josef opened his shirt and revealed a rash starting to form. He was covered in it. “A rash, look!” he said jubilantly. “I have a rash!”