by Steven Conte
‘Tikhon Vassilyvich?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And the missing eye? Did she comment on that?’
‘Not while I was there.’
He supposed it was possible that Katerina assumed the young soldier had lost his eye in battle. If she asked about it he would set her right, he decided, but only then. She already had plenty of reasons to detest them.
He had feared a heavy day of surgery but fortunately there were only seven cases, allowing him to get used to his two new assistants. These were worthy men, he supposed, and competent enough, but he doubted he would warm to them as he had to Pflieger and Winkel, though if they went through enough together he supposed this might change. Demchak was still there, of course, taciturn and steady, as well as Hirsch, his nervousness as usual setting Bauer on edge.
All day he looked out for Katerina, his hard-won resignation at the idea of never seeing her again having deserted him utterly. True, Metz had told him to avoid her, but surely there would be ways around that. What bothered him more, though he didn’t like to admit it, was Metz’s charge that he had treated Katerina too gently. Not that he believed for an instant Metz’s boast to have tamed her; no, it wasn’t Metz with whom he was comparing himself but Katerina’s dead husband, the swashbuckling Viktor, since whatever his own merits were, Bauer knew he wasn’t dashing.
In the event it wasn’t Katerina but Daria Grigorievna he crossed paths with first – in the officers’ mess, the old drawing room, when he returned to the main house at the end of the day. It was dark outside but Daria was still at work, taking mugs and plates off the lid of the piano and wiping its ebony surface. Bauer paused in the doorway and Daria turned around. She looked startled, possibly frightened, her small eyes blinking in her florid, cushiony face. He bowed slightly. ‘Daria Grigorievna.’
‘Da?’ she said.
In halting Russian he remarked he hadn’t seen her for a while. ‘Since the death of Sepp Winkel,’ he clarified.
At this she half turned away, clutching her cleaning rag to her chin. Instinctively Bauer moved towards her but she waved him away. He stopped, tried to think of something consoling to say but couldn’t shape the words. ‘He loves you too,’ he blurted at last, botching the tense. Daria moaned and hunched her back to him, as if to a blast. Bauer hesitated, and when her posture didn’t change he drew back, softly apologised and left her alone.
NINETEEN
‘If you have a moment, sir,’ said Joachim Knoll, ‘there’s a patient in Ward Three I’d like you to look at.’
‘Why, is he in danger?’ Bauer asked. Knoll was Metz’s operating assistant, and today Bauer had no time to deal with anyone else’s patient.
‘Not exactly, sir, no.’
‘Then why . . . ?’ he began, only to notice the corporal’s pleading expression. ‘All right then, lead the way.’
They entered the ward and Knoll showed him to the bed of a patient who was propped up on a couple of pillows, awake and apparently alert. Knoll introduced him as Private Henninger, and Bauer consulted his field medical card, one wing of which was missing. His record stated that a bullet had pierced his right lung and exited his back, all without so much as breaking a rib. Bauer examined the entry and exit wounds, which were healing well. He asked the patient how he was feeling.
‘Not too bad, doc,’ Henninger replied, noticeably wheezing. ‘Suppose I shouldn’t . . . be alive. A bloody idiot . . . pardon me, sir. No sniper . . . we thought. Won’t make that . . . mistake again.’
‘Well, you’re still with us, that’s the main thing,’ Bauer said. He returned the man’s card to its sleeve, met Knoll’s eye and understood from his expression he wanted to speak with him in private. Bauer wished the patient well. ‘When you’re fit to travel you’ll be transferred home. Until then you need to rest.’
In the corridor Knoll thanked him and said, ‘Perhaps I should have been clearer, sir. It’s about the man’s surgery.’
‘Yes?’
‘The lieutenant colonel . . .’ he said, pausing as a pair of corpsmen hurried by. ‘The lieutenant colonel began the operation as normal,’ he went on, ‘explored the entry and exit wounds . . .’
‘And?’
‘Seemed not to finish, sir. I’m no doctor – I mean, what would I know? – but I’ve watched the lieutenant colonel do that operation dozens of times and this one was different. He repaired the pleura as normal, and as you saw he dealt with the external wounds. But that’s all.’
‘No internal repair?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Did he explain?’
‘No, sir. But he never does.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘There’s one more thing, sir,’ Knoll said. He looked miserable, his reddish eyebrows expressive against almost lily-white skin.
‘Corporal, you’re doing the right thing in raising this. Our first duty is to the patients.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But if it helps to put your mind at ease, I can leave you out of it if I take this up with Lieutenant Colonel Metz.’
‘But, sir, how? You’re getting it from me.’
‘I’ll think of something, you have my word on that. “One more thing”, you were saying?’
Knoll sighed. ‘The lieutenant colonel’s hands were shaking, sir. It’s something I’ve noticed a few times before, but this was worse. We all saw it.’
‘I’ve noticed it myself a little. You think that’s why he opted not to debride the lung?’
‘It crossed my mind, sir, yes.’
‘And you all saw it, you said. Including Captain Molineux?’
‘I’m not sure. I doubt he could have missed it. But I didn’t discuss it with him, no.’
‘No matter. Thank you, Knoll. As I said, whatever I do I’ll leave your name out of it.’
‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.’
He passed a busy day in surgery, most of it spent amputating blackened fingers and toes, but however absorbing the procedure in front of him, a part of his mind was working on Metz’s tremor or, more pressingly, on the state of Private Henninger’s lung. After finishing surgery he went looking for Metz upstairs and from the duty clerk learned he was in his office with Drexel. Bauer went to wait by a window with a view over the roof of the northern wing, heaving grey treetops around it like waves. In the middle distance there was a snow squall bearing down, so that the building seemed to be battling through heavy seas, a ship steaming into a storm.
Behind him the door to Metz’s office opened. Bauer turned around and in the doorway saw Metz giving Drexel a hearty double handshake. The two men noticed him at the same time. ‘Bauer!’ Metz cried. ‘You’re here to see me, I take it? Come in, come in. Fabian is just leaving.’
Drexel acknowledged Bauer with a nod, dabbed a handkerchief to his mouth and then headed for the stairs. Half concealed on the opposite side of his body was the little wooden box with the decorated lid. Bauer went forward and Metz ushered him into the office. ‘Come in, come in,’ he repeated, then offered him a seat and sat down not behind but next to his desk, so that their knees were almost touching. His breath smelled bad. Imperceptibly Bauer leaned away. ‘So what brings you here on this fine snowy day?’
‘I’ve come to discuss one of your patients, sir.’
‘One of my patients?’
‘Yes, sir. A Private Henninger. Gunshot wound to his lung. He’s having difficulty breathing.’
‘Understandably, wouldn’t you say?’
‘More difficulty than might be expected,’ Bauer said. ‘After surgery. I was concerned and took the liberty of checking your operating notes. You don’t seem to have debrided the lung.’
‘That’s true, I didn’t.’
‘I don’t understand why not.’
‘It was an unnecessary risk. The patient was in a bad way on the table.’
Knoll had mentioned no such difficulty. ‘Was that Molineux’s assessment, sir?’
‘Bauer, as I’m sure yo
u realise, you coming to me about this is a gross impertinence. But since you ask, I formed my own assessment of the man’s condition and adjusted my approach accordingly.’
‘And what about his condition now? We have no way of knowing what’s inside the lung. There are bound to be blood clots. They could even be purulent.’
‘That’s speculation, Captain.’
‘Which is exactly my point: we can’t know. Sir, you were the one who taught me that excessive caution in a case can itself be dangerous.’
‘Not always,’ Metz said.
‘The conservative approach was old-fashioned, you said. It risks leaving the patient a pulmonary cripple.’
‘You recollect wrongly, or misunderstood me in the first place,’ Metz replied. So far he didn’t seem especially annoyed, possibly on account of his visit from Drexel. Even so, Bauer thought, he would have to proceed carefully.
‘Sir, would you object if I were to perform a follow-up surgery? Just to make sure?’
Metz smiled. ‘Good lord, Bauer, what a butcher you’ve become.’
Even knowing the accusation had no substance, it stung. ‘Sir, obviously I wouldn’t advocate putting a patient through surgery twice unless I believed it was absolutely necessary. And, of course, I’m conscious that in doing so I’m implicitly criticising your work. For this I apologise. I can only point out that none of us is perfect, and that the next time I make a mistake, as I certainly will, I hope you’ll point it out to me. For the patient’s sake. In fact in France I remember several occasions when you did just that.’
‘France was different. You were new to war surgery.’
‘I’d like to think we could continue to share our expertise.’
‘All right, all right,’ Metz said, holding up both hands. ‘Go ahead if you must. I won’t stand in your way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, and really meant it. This was a concession. In fact something close to an admission.
‘Is that all? I have reports to write, you know.’
‘No, sir, it’s not.’
‘Oh God, what now?’
‘Another impertinence. Sorry.’
Metz sighed. ‘All right. What is it? Go ahead.’
‘Your hands. I’ve noticed them shaking at times.’
‘Oh?’
‘You must have noticed it yourself.’
‘A little. On occasion. Fatigue. Generally it disappears when I’m underway.’
‘That’s not what I’ve observed.’
‘Look,’ he said, and held out his right hand. ‘Steady as a rock.’
‘I’m not saying you’re always affected.’
‘What are you saying, then? That I have some dread disease?’
‘No, sir, I’m saying —’
‘Your wife died of disseminated sclerosis, did she not?’
Bauer paused, momentarily lost for words, surprised not only at the change of subject but also by a spasm of grief. ‘That’s true, sir, she did. What of it?’
‘I’m guessing it’s made you over-vigilant. My hands are a mite unsteady and instantly you’re fitting me out for a coffin.’
‘Sir, it’s not illness I’m concerned about but the drugs Drexel is giving you.’
Metz scoffed. ‘That again.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Drexel’s supplements steady my nerves, not disturb them.’
‘In the short-term, maybe. But now you have this tremor, don’t you.’
‘More speculation. And anyway, as I’ve pointed out before, none of this is any of your business.’
‘There you’re wrong, sir. What about Henninger?’
Metz frowned. ‘What are you implying? That I would allow a personal infirmity – an imaginary one, I hasten to add – to influence the kind of surgery I perform?’
‘Well, didn’t you?’
Metz inhaled sharply but his answer was measured. ‘No, I did not.’ In an injured tone he added, ‘I have to say that I’m surprised and saddened that you could have formed such a low opinion of me, Bauer. But I see your mind’s made up about this. We will have to disagree.’
Encouraged, Bauer said, ‘Sir, whatever it is that’s affecting you – even, as you said, just a case of fatigue – might it be time to consider requesting some leave from active service?’
Metz looked scornful. ‘Bauer, that’s absurd and you know it. The next offensive —’
‘It wouldn’t have to be immediately. As you say, that would be impossible. Arrangements would have to be made. But as winter draws on I simply cannot believe that combat will continue at the same intensity. Most of my cases this week have been frostbite. January or February, then, might be a suitable time to go on furlough.’
‘Bauer, are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘Just considering your welfare, sir. And, to be frank with you, the welfare of the patients. It’s no slight on you. No one can be expected to maintain indefinitely the standards you set yourself. And you’ve been in it from the beginning, haven’t you? Since Poland. Longer than me.’
‘Well, that’s true.’ For a moment Bauer thought he might be about to relent, then suddenly his tone became unyielding again. ‘But of course it’s out of the question. I can’t abandon my post. Not now.’
‘As I said, sir, it wouldn’t have to be immediately.’
‘Who would stand up to, you know . . . ?’
‘The enemy?’
Metz shook his head. ‘To Tolstoy.’
* * *
On balance the meeting had gone better than expected; Metz had remained fairly calm, and soon afterwards Bauer was able to operate on Henninger, repairing the damage that Metz had neglected.
What surprised him was how sorry he felt for Metz. The tremor, his self-deception and delusions – however unpleasantly he behaved at times, he was, or had been, a first-rate surgeon, and while Bauer had enjoyed closer friendships with colleagues, there was no one who had taught him so much.
But something had to be done.
When Weidemann opened his door he looked disappointed. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
‘Yes, me,’ replied Bauer.
‘I thought you might be Ehrlich.’ For such a stately man he was looking startlingly informal, his tunic unbuttoned, revealing a white spray of chest hair over the collar of his undershirt. ‘Do you know anything about gramophones?’
‘No, sir, I don’t.’
‘Then can it wait until tomorrow? Whatever you’re here for, that is.’
‘It could, yes. But I don’t think it should.’
Weidemann gave a little upwards nod of resignation and motioned him to enter. Compared with the other bedrooms this one was enormous; in Tolstoy’s day it had been the marital bedroom, Bauer recalled. Weidemann’s camp bed looked small in it. A collapsible writing table. A chair. A glass-fronted sideboard, in which most of Weidemann’s belongings were arrayed and on top of which stood Bertha the gramophone. Following his gaze Weidemann said, ‘Would you take a look anyway? For the life of me I can’t work out what the problem is.’
‘I could try.’
‘I’d be most grateful to you,’ said Weidemann, and sat down on the solitary chair.
Bauer tried switching the device on and off, and when this failed examined all its visible parts. ‘Maybe it’s the wiring?’ he said after a decent interval. ‘Sorry, sir, not my area of expertise.’
‘If only it bled, eh?’
‘That’s right. I might then know what to do.’
‘Thank you anyway for trying. You know who could’ve helped? Sepp Winkel.’
‘That’s true.’
‘A terrible business, that. I can’t get over the fact he’s not here.’
For such a reticent man this was strikingly personal. Bauer nodded. ‘I feel the same.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll put one of the radio operators onto it. In the meantime, how can I help you?’
‘It’s about Metz,’ he replied.
‘Again?’
‘I’m
afraid so,’ Bauer said, glancing around and realising that apart from Weidemann’s bed there was nowhere to sit.
‘What’s bothering you? The ghost? Corporal Ehrlich tells me Metz is in hot pursuit.’
‘Ehrlich told you that?’
‘And he’s worried. Mind you, I don’t think it’s the ghost-hunting that bothers him so much as the involvement of Frau Kälter. He doesn’t trust her, he says. Probably he’s right to be suspicious – we shouldn’t forget she’s the enemy – but in Ehrlich’s case I suspect jealousy is a factor. He wants Metz to himself. Anyway, he thought I ought to know. And now you’re here.’
Bauer hesitated, a little irked to be paired with Ehrlich. ‘Well, the ghost thing does remain a problem,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s got worse. But that’s not what’s brought me here.’
‘Worse how?’
‘Metz seems to believe he’s in some kind of battle with Tolstoy,’ Bauer said, and gave Weidemann a brief account of the seance with Katerina and Agrafena Viktorovna.
‘Metz has always indulged in that sort of thing,’ Weidemann said.
‘Yes, but now it’s more than an indulgence. As far as I can tell, he’s attributing cosmic significance to his fight against Tolstoy. Nothing less than the war itself depends on it.’
‘How curious.’
‘Yes, but as I said, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because Metz’s drug habit is almost certainly beginning to hamper him in surgery. He’s developed a tremor.’ Here he outlined the case of Private Henninger, leaving out how he had come to hear of it from Knoll. ‘I’ve confronted him about it and he denies there’s a problem, though when I suggested he take leave I got the impression he was tempted.’
‘But not convinced?’
‘Duty prevents it. He has to stay and win the war.’
‘That sounds like that, then,’ Weidemann said.
‘I was wondering if you could raise it with a more senior officer.’
‘As I believe I mentioned last time, resorting to drugs hardly makes him unusual. Likewise his belief in the supernatural.’
‘And his problems in the operating room? Surely that counts for something?’
‘He’d have to be killing patients by the dozen for a superior officer to take notice. They have more serious concerns. No, Bauer, I’m afraid I can’t help you with this.’