One day she brought with her a perfectly magnificent spring bouquet.
“This time you must not thank me. The floral greetings are from a good friend.”
“From Claude Lejeune?” Inger nodded.
She opened the note attached to the bouquet and read: “Each flower of my bouquet is a greeting to Lili.”
For a long time the flowers concealed the invalid’s eyes, and even Inger could not see that his eyes were weeping scalding tears.
“Will Claude ever find her again?” “Who?”
“Lili.”
Saying which, the sorry invalid handed Inger a card, on which he had scribbled a few lines.
“Did you write this?” she asked. “Yes, Inger.”
“But then she is there already, Claude’s Lili, just look.” He gazed at the card and failed to recognize his writing. It was a woman’s script.
Inger hurried out and met the assistant doctor, who was standing in the corridor. She showed him the card: “What do you think of this, Doctor. No man could have written it?”
“No,” said the astonished doctor; “no, you are quite right. One thing after another is pushing out.”
“One thing after another.”
Andreas distinctly heard the words.
And the doctor answered: “Haven’t you noticed the voice is completely altered? It has changed from a tenor into a clear soprano.”
When Andreas was again alone, he spoke softly to himself. He wanted to listen to his own voice. But drowsiness overcame him and he fell asleep once more.
He woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. A terrible shriek startled him. At first he thought that he had himself screamed. He clenched his teeth. But the screams were heard again and again. No, he had not screamed. It was like the shriek of a tortured animal. He could not stand it any longer. “Someone is being murdered! Help, help!” he cried, and reaching out his hand, pressed the bell. The door was flung open, the light switched on. A nurse stood in front of him. “What is the matter with you?”
“With me?” Once more the screams rang out. “I was so terrified, Nurse. Is somebody dying?”
The nurse closed the door and drew the heavy felt curtains along. “A young woman has given birth to a child, a sweet little girl. I suppose you never realized what a difficult thing childbirth is?”
The next morning Inger arrived early.
“Who do you think is coming in a day or two?” she cried as she entered the room.
“Grete?”
“Yes, here is her letter.”
He had to extract the letter from a huge bouquet, and was still reading it when Professor Gebhard, accompanied by the assistant doctor, came into the room.
“Tell me, please, Doctor,” exclaimed Andreas, “when shall I be able to get up?”
“Why the haste? You are doing very well here in bed amid flowers and soft hands.”
“But there is a hurry, Doctor. In three days my wife will arrive.”
“Your wife?” The Professor was taken aback. “All right, then, but have a little patience. Madame will certainly find you somewhat changed.”
Then he hurriedly left the room with his companion. “Did I do or say anything absurd, Inger? The Professor looked at me with such an amused expression.”
“Stupid Lili!” was the only answer that Inger could think of.
X
Three days later, just as her letter had said, Grete arrived early in the morning.
The nurse on duty knew at once who she was. A few moments later she was in the sick-room.
Grete stood in the middle of the room with outstretched arms, and could not stir. She was struggling with her tears. She wanted to throw him a cheerful greeting, but sank down sobbing by the side of the bed.
Late in the evening, when she was alone with the turmoil of thoughts and sensations that assailed her, Grete wrote the following letter to their friend in Paris, Claude Lejeune:
“I can only hint at what I have been through today. I thought I should find Andreas. Andreas is dead, for I could not see him. I found a pale being, Lili, and yet not Lili as we had known her in Paris. It was another. New in voice and expression, new in the pressure of her hand, unspeakably changed. Or was it a being who is in process of finding herself? No doubt the latter is the case. So womanly and untouched by life. No, womanly is not the right word. Maidenly, I ought to say. Perhaps childish, fumbling with a thousand questions in the dark.
“A ‘nova vita’. I cannot find words to express my meaning. I have been shaken to my depths. What a fate, Claude! A fit of uncanny shuddering grips me whenever I reflect upon it. It is a mercy that Lili herself is too weak now to look backwards or forwards. She is hardly able to realize the condition she is in at the moment. I spoke to the doctors.
“The first operation, which only represents a beginning, has been successful beyond all expectations. Andreas had ceased to exist, they said. His germ glands – oh, mystic words – have been removed. What has still to happen will take place in Dresden under the hands of Professor Kreutz. The doctors talked about hormones; I behaved as if I knew what they meant. Now I have looked up this word in the dictionary and find that it refers to the secretions of internal organs which are important for vital processes. But I am no wiser than I was before. Must one equip oneself, then, with wisdom and knowledge in order to understand a miracle? I accept the miracle like a credulous person.
“What I found here in the nursing-home I would call the unravelling of the beloved being whose life and torments those of us who have shared with him all these many difficult years, have felt to be an insoluble riddle. Unravelling … that is what it is. But the unravelling is not yet finished. I know it, and Lili suspects it. She is not yet allowed to see her lacerated body. It is bound up, and to herself and probably also to the doctors is still a secret which only Kreutz can unveil entirely.
“Everybody here, the doctors, the nurses, our friends Niels and Inger, have candidly expressed to me their astonishment at the almost miraculous outward change in ‘our patient’ – for they do not rightly know whether they ought to address this being as a man or a woman. What is their astonishment compared with mine? They have been seeing the invalid every day. But I, who had been parted from him only two weeks, should have scarcely recognized my beloved husband. And as it has fared with me, so it will one day fare with you and Elena and Ernesto, to whom you must show this letter.
“More than this I cannot write now, except to say that Lili, this sweet new Lili, lay in my arms like – oh, I must say it, because it is the truth – like a little sister, weeping many, many tears, and all at once said to me with a gentle sob in her voice: ‘Are you not angry with me – looking at me with so perplexed an expression – because Andreas has robbed you of your best years?’ Claude, I was too shocked to utter a word, and when at length I could have said what I felt, I dared not do so. Not me, I thought, has Andreas robbed, not me, but you, Lili, my sweet pale Lili, of all your girlish years. You and I, Claude, and all of us, must help to compensate Lili for the fraud which Andreas has practised on her.”
Many months later Lili read this letter. Claude gave it to her.
The next morning – Grete had spent the night alone in an hotel – the head nurse proposed to put another bed in the sick-room, so that Grete could be near the patient until the departure for Dresden, which was appointed to take place within a few days.
“Splendid!” whispered Grete, delighted, and taking the nurse by the hand she led her into an adjoining room, which stood empty. Swiftly she fetched a trunk which she had left in the corridor, opened it cautiously, and drew out a silk négligée.
“How becoming you will look in it, madam!”
‘I? No, Nurse; it is a present from our Parisian friend for our … patient inside. But say not a word, please, until tomorrow morning!”
And when morning came it found Lili sitting in the most charming Parisian négligée, still very pale and limp, but nevertheless quite happy, in the white sick-b
ed. And the assistant doctor could hardly believe his eyes. “Famous! Congratulations, miss! And if you promise to be very good and careful you may get up today for two hours and show yourself to your astonished friends. More than this we cannot permit for the time being.”
One nurse after another rustled in. Their astonishment was unbounded.
Such was the reception accorded in the Berlin nursing-home to the miracle performed upon this still very fatigued human being, a reception unmingled with curiosity or excessive inquiry; and when Professor Gebhard paid a visit in the evening, he kissed the patient’s trembling hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Good day, mademoiselle,” he said; “I congratulate you. You are on the right road.”
Then he noticed Grete for the first time. “Ah, madam, welcome.”
For a moment the Professor and Grete confronted each other mutely, not without suppressed emotions.
Then Lili broke the silence. “Yes, Professor, this is Madame Grete, who …”
The Professor gave a good-humoured laugh. “I know; who was married to Monsieur Andreas Sparre, who has slipped away from us in such a miraculous manner. Men are deceivers ever, madame.” And with this happy expression the tension of a difficult situation was relieved.
Lili surrendered herself to all this as if unconcerned, during her first Berlin days. Observers could detect in her scarcely any trace of excitement, but rather a kind of relaxation. Moreover, she avoided replying to any look of astonishment on the faces of others by a word or even a gesture.
“We must leave her in peace,” Grete would then say to them in confidence. “She is resting. She is in a kind of transition. She is now getting ready to soar into freedom.” During these days Grete began to keep a diary. Every evening she recorded therein her observations, and the experiences which crowded thickly upon her in the company of the new Lili, in simple, almost fumbling sentences, seeking the way of her friend – this difficult, wonderful way upon which Lili had scarcely ventured to take the first step.
Here is a leaf from the diary that she started:
“Lili bears everything she suffers with incredible patience. True, she whimpers every morning, and especially when her bandages are changed, when fasteners must be undone and done up, and when the still fresh scars are painted.
“‘This is all for my good,’ she says with a patience which I have never seen her display before. She has only one wish, to go to Dresden soon, to her Professor. She always calls him her Professor, or else her miracle-man. About the past she does not say a single word. It often seems to me as if she were without any past at all, as if she did not yet really believe in a present, as if she had been waiting for Kreutz, her miracle-man, in order to bring her to proper life.”
Here is another entry:
“Today Inger and I did some shopping without Lili knowing what we were about. We must make some preparations for the journey to Dresden. In the afternoon we returned to Lili, bringing with us a big cardboard box. ‘Guess what we have brought you,’ I said gaily. Lili regarded us calmly, without a smile. ‘I don’t know.’ That was her only answer. Then Inger opened the box. ‘Lili …’ said Inger, spreading out the coat in front of Lili, and showing her the silk lining. Lili looked at the coat, and said: ‘But Professor Kreutz will send me away if I appear before him in this attire. He won’t recognize me at all.’ And her eyes looked so sad. Really, they are always sad, even when she smiles. Andreas had quite different eyes. So had Lili in Paris. I think the eyes of the Lili today are not yet quite awake. She does not yet believe … or is it that she will not yet show that she believes?”
On this day Lili wrote her first letter, to her brother-in-law in Copenhagen.
“14th March, 1930.
“Berlin,
“Dear Christian,
“It is now Lili who is writing to you. I am sitting up in my bed in a silk nightdress with lace trimming, curled, powdered, with bangle, necklace, and rings. Even my solemn Professor calls me Lili, and everybody compliments me upon my appearance; but I am still feeling tired after the operation and the terrible nights that followed it. Grete has arrived, and has gone out to buy me a warm coat, so that I can travel to Dresden next week. The operation which has been performed here enables me to enter the clinic for women (exclusively for women). And now I feel I have courage for the major operation. A thousand thanks for the cheque. When we leave for Dresden all letters will be forwarded. Now I can say with a light heart: ‘It matters not what pains await me, as I am so happy, and in a few months I shall be quite well, a blooming maiden.” Your Lili.”
“P.S. – I write this letter in great secrecy. Mention the matter to no one.”
It was wintry weather in Berlin when some days later Lili, muffled up in her new fur coat, was allowed to leave the nursing-home for a few hours for the first time. The Professor had “prescribed” for her an automobile drive. You must prepare every day now for the long journey to Dresden,” he explained. “Get some fresh air, mix with people, gather new strength.”
Mix with people … At these words Lili listened attentively. A secret fear assailed her. She did not, however, betray her feelings. Niels and Inger came to fetch her away with Grete, who did not stir from her side.
When Lili was outside the nursing-home, firmly supported by Niels’ arm, she was again overcome with fear. She looked as apprehensive as a prisoner breathing fresh air for the first time after a long spell of captivity. She glanced about her timidly, as if she feared that everything around her was a deception.
She hesitated to proceed.
“Come now, child,” said Grete softly to her.
“She is so proud,” laughed Niels, “and, of course, wants to go alone.”
“No, no,” protested Lili in a frightened voice, “don’t let me stand alone. Just a moment more. I must just taste this air once more. This air …”
When Lili was sitting in the car, huddled close to Grete, she closed her eyes. “Don’t bother about me. I must first get accustomed to all this.” And thus she drove through the roaring life of the Kurfurstendamm, a somnambulist, silent and self-absorbed.
The drive lasted two hours, and then Grete put the tired invalid to bed again. She was scarcely able to peck at the food that was brought her before she fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until the following morning.
About noon Niels called for them both. Lili was in much better spirits. “I promise not bore you today, nor myself. I am really anxious to see people.”
“Aren’t we such?” inquired Niels, amused.
“But I mean strangers – yes, I want to see people I don’t know again.”
“A brilliant suggestion,” declared Niels, who resolved that they should dine with him, in order to celebrate the occasion. He stopped the car mysteriously outside a telephone box and descended. He wanted to inform Inger of his intention. And wearing a still more mysterious expression he returned.
In a quarter of an hour they reached their destination. Inger was waiting for the party on the doorstep. She pressed a big bunch of roses into Lili’s arms. “Be brave, Lili. Now you will find what you are longing for.” And then they divulged to her that in the flat was a young lady from Copenhagen, who knew neither Lili nor Grete, nor Andreas, and to whom they had announced the visit of “a Frenchwoman imported direct from Paris.”
“For heaven’s sake!” cried Lili, almost beside herself. “No contradiction. You must now play the imported Parisienne,” declared Inger. “My friend has been told that you understand neither German nor Danish. And she does not understand a word of French. I have told her that you have just had a serious illness, and are still a long way from recovery. You understand neither German nor Danish.” Niels had already taken the reluctant Lili by the arm: “Go right in, my dear,” he ordered, and before she could recover her equilibrium, Lili was sitting in the deep armchair of his study, the same armchair in which Andreas Sparre a few weeks before had confessed the story of his life during the greater part of a night.
Then the door opened and Karen Wardal, a young Copenhagen actress, whom Grete and Andreas had known for many years, stood in front of Lili. Lili thought that her heart would burst. Her pale cheeks blushed crimson. Yet nobody observed any trace of excitement in her.
“May I introduce,” began Inger with a smile, Fräulein Karen Wardal – Mademoiselle Julie Stuart.” And then, turning to Grete: “You both know each other already.”
“Of course we do!” cried Karen Wardal with enthusiasm. “How is your husband Andreas?”
And Grete explained that Andreas was very well indeed, but, owing to pressure of work, had been unable to leave Paris. Lili sat still, listened unconcerned at the conversation conducted in Danish, and answered every question which Karen asked in Danish, and which was rapidly translated by Grete or Inger into the most elegant French.
The maid announced dinner. Lili was escorted by Niels into the dining-room. The conversation flowed from one language into another, and Lili behaved like a perfect Parisienne, as if she had never heard a Danish word in her life. She accepted as a matter of course Karen’s many compliments upon her “extremely chic Parisian costume.” This time Niels played the interpreter, and in her delight at this extravagant praise of her attire Lili forgot that her hastily improvised wardrobe was not of Parisian origin at all, but had come from a Berlin costumier.
She did not betray herself by even a look. True, she was obliged to bite her tongue many times, when she was on the point of suddenly joining in the conversation conducted in Danish. This comedy lasted nearly two hours.
There was a good deal of joking in Danish, and Lili did not laugh until the point of the “Danish joke” had been translated to her in French.
Then she could keep it up no longer. She was tired to death and begged Grete to take her to her hotel.
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