Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘Preposterous! Show me.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberstabsarzt, he has fever see, suffers cramps, the abdomen is tender, he makes multiple visits to the latrine.’

  ‘To shirk his duties. Send him to work!’

  ‘But, Herr Oberstabsarzt—’

  ‘Do as I order!’

  *

  After a second ward round and a pause to catch up on paperwork, there’s just time for lunch. Today as usual it’s watery cabbage soup and potatoes with more black bread. Erik and I also share a tin of fruit from our dwindling Red Cross stocks, followed by powdered coffee and a smoke of precious pipe tobacco.

  ‘We’re getting very low,’ he comments, checking the cupboard. With the RAF pounding Germany’s infrastructure to pieces, Red Cross parcels now get through only intermittently. But it’s no better for the civilians.

  ‘Maybe Fenton’s buck will come through again.’

  ‘Let us hope.’ He glances my way. ‘What happened with Vorst today?’

  ‘The usual. Hateful bastard.’

  ‘You allow him to enrage you, Dan. It’s a mistake.’

  ‘I know, but what can I do?’

  ‘Try flattery.’

  ‘God, must I?’

  ‘It works, believe me.’

  At 1 p.m. we leave the refuge of our bedsit and head down to the Gefreiter’s office. Prien issues us with our afternoon lists and money for the trams; then, bundled up in coats and scarves, we step out into the cold. After a brief conference: ‘I’m going west so will do the drop-in,’ we split up and go our separate ways.

  As always at this moment my spirits lift. Despite busy clinics to visit, insufficient time to visit them, and strict orders to return by dusk on pain of death, I am now gloriously alone and at large in an attractive city. As though in some small way I’m master of my own destiny again, which of course I’m not. Checking my list, I see I have three clinics, all on the eastern side of town, which is even better, so setting my beret at a jaunty angle, I strike out along the street.

  It’s two weeks since my summons to Lucie Rommel, and nearly a month since I arrived here. Little has changed in the intervening period. The war drags on, as does the winter, with no end in sight to either. Food, medicine, coal, good news are all in short supply, and as always it’s the needy who suffer the most. But the crushing depression I felt at Stalag XIB is receding, largely because I’ve regained a measure of control over my life. And purpose, and choice even. Soon after my arrival here, Erik told me about a secret drop-in centre he and Collinson set up in a poorer part of town. Once a week, one of us goes there to dispense whatever medical aid we can to the sick and destitute. Vorst would instantly shut it down if he knew, and probably send us to prison, but he doesn’t know, and that makes it all the better, for as well as providing succour to the needy, it’s another small gesture of defiance against the oppressor.

  The streets are still icy, pocked with slush-filled craters and mounds of snow-dusted rubble, and as I walk I pass many wrecked buildings. Ulm is not a prime target, I’ve learned, but still gets regularly bombed, supposedly because of its factories, although I have doubts about that. As usual I proceed via the minster, relieved to find its flying buttresses, parapets and towering spire undamaged, even though other buildings in Münsterplatz have been flattened. Work parties are out in force; one or two feature British POWs who whistle when they spot my beret. Further on I pass another party, slow-moving, silent, unmistakably Russian. Housed in squalor, fed scraps and clothed in rags, these pitiful wretches are appallingly treated, and with their stick-like limbs and hollow faces look barely human. Yet they are regarded with fear by the civilians. Which is the whole point, Erik says. ‘Support the struggle against the Bolshevik,’ the Nazis are telling their people. ‘Or end up like this.’

  At a crossroads I join a queue for the tram to Böfingen and the ball-bearing factory which is my first port of call. The queue is busy with civilians: women who talk in low voices, pensioners who stare, and a few curious children. No one in uniform today, thankfully. Sparks from the overhead cable herald an arriving tram, and I board the outside platform, which is where undesirables like POW doctors must ride. Wiping grime from the window I glimpse a female clippie inside checking tickets, but it’s not the one I’m hoping for. I check my watch. Despite bombings, power cuts, manpower shortages and the rest, Ulm trams run with amazing punctuality, helped no doubt by the track-clearing parties. So I must be early. The rather matronly clippie duly appears, sells me a ticket and departs, leaving me out in the cold. I don’t mind; it enhances the sensation of freedom, and saves me being gawped at by passengers. Leaning against the rail, I watch the battered city trundle by. After a while it begins to snow.

  Each factory has an infirmary, and twice weekly Erik and I must visit them all. The Böfingen plant is large and the list of patients long. The POWs here are mostly French, ordinary soldats too long in captivity, rather like McKenzie and the others at Stalag 357. Their attitude is resigned, institutionalized even, and they suffer a range of ailments attributable to poor diet, damp conditions, insufficient exercise and lack of fresh air. Chest complaints top the list, some of which are serious, but once again I’m dancing the tightrope two-step, juggling the seriously sick against the less so, with one eye always on the 10 per cent. Though Vorst rarely visits these outlying Lager, he ruthlessly checks the figures each week, and woe betide any fiddling of the quota. After an hour I’m at the limit and starting to turn away sick patients. A man down the queue doubles over with coughing, then shows me his handkerchief which is flecked with blood. His brow is burning and his lungs rattle like old machinery, but there’s nothing I can do. ‘Pardonnez-moi,’ I say helplessly, ‘try and hold on till next week.’

  I visit two more clinics, in thickening snow and growing haste as time is pressing. The last is for women farm labourers shipped in from Germany’s eastern conquests: Poles, Czechs, Romanians, Lithuanians; while their menfolk work in weapons factories on the Ruhr, these tough ladies toil on the land. Little food grows here in midwinter except a few stunted turnips; nevertheless they’re out in all weathers hacking at the frozen tilth ready for spring. And remarkably robust for it, although weakened by lack of proper nutrition or clothing. Chest complaints thrive as usual, although I also see back and limb strains, a broken finger and one case of incipient trench foot. Language is problematic. They have a female Sanitäter who translates into rough German; the rest we manage with nods and gestures. Sick parade is in a bare wooden hut; as anticipated the numbers are safely within quota and I’m soon packing up for the tram back to town.

  Then something unexpected happens. A younger girl, perhaps eighteen, slight, dark, somewhat hunched, is ushered forward by the other women. She says nothing, makes no sign or gesture, just stands there staring at the boards. ‘Ja, junge Dame?’ I offer, which yields only a shaking head. ‘Was ist los?’ I ask again, but still get nothing. Then the Sanitäter shuffles up, mutters the one word ‘schwanger’ and I know we’re in trouble.

  The girl is three months gone. She doesn’t speak, but the story from the women is that Dita, which is short for Ditunka, became separated from her Czech husband in the autumn. He was sent to a factory in Norway while she came to work in Ulm, and only when she got here did she realize she was pregnant. I’m not sure I believe this – the women recount it too earnestly – but any other explanation is unthinkable. A slave labourer falling pregnant to a German would have deadly implications for both.

  Obstetrics is not my field but I make a perfunctory examination, learning via the women that this is Dita’s first pregnancy, and apart from malnourishment and back pain she’s healthy. The big question, of course, is what’s to be done, and they soon make that clear. But I can’t, even if I could, or would. I don’t have the knowledge, skills, facilities – or the authority; and if Vorst learned of it we’d both be for the chop. There’s a hospital in town but largely for the military, and slave workers certainly have no access to it. Some sort of
‘backstreet’ arrangement might doubtless be procured, but quite how I have no idea, nor could I ever condone such a thing. All in all it’s a grim outlook for mother and child. East Europeans like Dita are the lowest of the low as far as the Nazis go; ‘Untermenschen’ or ‘sub-people’, they call them. There are Konzentrationslager camps in the region similar to the one Inge Brandt showed me in Bergen. Dita and her baby, if they survive the birth, will most likely end up in one, only to die there of disease and starvation.

  Suddenly it’s all too much. I need to get out, need air, and space to think.

  ‘I will consult with my colleague.’ I make to rise.

  ‘Hilf mir!’ She grabs my arm. ‘Hilf mir!’

  Her dark eyes are wide with fear. I pat her hand, and gently prise it loose. ‘I will try, I promise.’

  Outside the light is failing and the snow heavy, thick coils of it swirling through the streets in icy blasts. I’m late, and by the time I board my tram I’m also plastered white and shuddering with cold. Clutching the handrail, I watch curtains of snow spiralling from the black sky, dully despairing at the misery this endless war wreaks, when the door opens and a hand draws me inside.

  ‘Komm. Sit in here, no one will mind.’

  It is Trudi, the clippie I was hoping to see earlier. I know her name because we have spoken three times. I also know she is twenty-four, unmarried, and lives with her widowed mother.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘Of course. We are not inhuman, you know.’

  I take a seat in the warm, nodding warily at the few other passengers. To my surprise they nod back, and one or two even smile.

  ‘Englischer Doktor,’ Trudi explains, to more nods and smiles. An old man mutters something, pointing.

  ‘Your coat,’ she goes on. ‘He’s asking about it.’

  ‘Ah, well, it is French army. A friend gave it to me. A while ago.’

  ‘Das ist gut. Friends are very important these days.’

  She punches my ticket and turns away.

  *

  ‘If she has that baby, they’re both done for.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Erik.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No.’ I rub my neck, which aches damnably. It’s evening; we’re back in the bedsit, following the usual featureless supper and a final ward round. The windows are blacked out, the room dimly lit, I’m still feeling cold which has given me neuralgia, there’s the Dita business to contend with, Prien’s reporting me to Vorst for returning late, and now I’ve offended Erik. I glance at him: short and fair, with thin sandy hair and youthful eyes, he’s wearing an affronted frown. ‘No. I’m sorry, Erik, it’s not your fault. It’s been a long day. And now this...’

  ‘On top of everything.’

  ‘Exactly. Here.’ I pass him the tobacco tin. ‘Have a fill.’

  ‘Sure? It’s nearly empty.’

  ‘Finish it. And tell me your news. You’ve word of your brother, I hear.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Erik brightens. ‘Well, from our father, who has received a card.’

  ‘That’s marvellous. You must be relieved.’ Erik’s older brother, Pieter Henning, another doctor, is a prisoner of the Japanese, in Burma or thereabouts. But the family has heard nothing in years. ‘What does the card say?’

  ‘It’s printed with three boxes.’ Erik strikes a match to his pipe. ‘One says I am fit and well, another says I am working for pay, and a third says I have been ill but am recovered. Pieter ticked the first one.’

  ‘Nothing else – no other message?’

  ‘According to the Red Cross, POWs are forbidden to write anything else or their cards are torn up.’

  ‘But at least he’s alive and well.’

  ‘Yes.’ Erik puffs. ‘Although the card could be a year or more old, apparently. And the rumours of bad treatment by the Japanese... I can’t help worrying.’

  ‘Take comfort from the card, it’s proof Pieter’s alive.’

  ‘Or was, at least.’ He smiles. ‘Thanks, Dan.’

  ‘Sorry I snapped at you.’

  ‘It’s all right. How’s Trickey?’

  Making slow progress, is the answer. Sitting up, taking nourishment, walking a few wobbly steps, sleeping a lot, talking, sort of. Tonight I mentioned my clippie friend, something I haven’t told anyone. ‘Her name’s Trudi,’ I tell him, ‘short for Gertrud.’ ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘like his daughter.’ ‘Whose daughter?’ I ask, but he drops off to sleep.

  ‘A little stronger every day,’ I reply. ‘How was drop-in?’

  ‘Growing. At least thirty. We need more medicines.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  We fall into contemplative silence. Beyond the blackout curtains the snow has stopped, and the sky has cleared, which is good news for the street sweepers, but less good news in terms of air raids.

  ‘You’d be saving her life, Dan,’ he murmurs eventually.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Dilatation and curettage. It’s quick and safe.’

  ‘But I’ve never… the procedure, the instruments – I have no idea...’

  ‘We’ll read up on it. Prepare you, step by step. So you’re completely ready.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘I know.’

  A few minutes later the air-raid sirens sound and we all troop down to the cellar.

  *

  Next morning, halfway through sick parade, Vorst appears and immediately heads my way. I’m startled and nervous, but have my plan ready to forestall him. Hastily grabbing the patient waiting behind me, I come smartly to attention, even clicking my heels as he strides up.

  ‘Good morning, Herr Oberstabsarzt,’ I greet him, before he can speak. ‘I wonder, could I trouble you for your professional expertise?’

  ‘You were late back yesterday! You know the penalty for this?’

  ‘Yes, my apologies, Herr Oberstabsarzt, the tram broke down in the blizzard.’

  ‘That is no excuse!’ He glares angrily, his cheeks dotted with pink. But his eyes are darting to the patient. ‘What is this?’

  ‘An interesting case, Herr Oberstabsarzt, but I confess I am at a loss. The prisoner’s heart, you see. Knowing your expertise in this field, I wondered if you could honour me with an opinion.’

  Vorst’s eyes narrow behind his spectacles, but I can tell he’s intrigued. A hospital doctor by trade, his speciality is cardiology. ‘What is wrong with his heart?’

  Nothing. The prisoner’s heart is fine, except for a childhood murmur. I detected it down the stethoscope in seconds, a twanging sound called Still’s Murmur. Rarely found in adults, Still’s is completely harmless.

  ‘I cannot tell, Herr Oberstabsarzt,’ I say, offering him the stethoscope. ‘Perhaps you could advise me?’

  He stoops to listen, his bald brow furrowed in concentration. I glance at Erik, busy with another patient, and he winks. Eventually Vorst straightens.

  ‘My diagnosis is complete!’ he announces loudly, and the room falls to an attentive hush. ‘The patient has Still’s Murmur. Have you not heard of this, Captain Garland?’

  ‘Still’s... No, I… Goodness, Herr Oberstabsarzt. How marvellous. Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Not at all. It is a benign condition, the patient need have no fear.’

  The patient looks bemused. ‘But I came for my piles...’

  ‘… And can safely go out to work.’

  And there’s more good news when we return from lunch. Fenton and Pugh are waiting in the bedsit, hands behind backs.

  ‘What is it?’

  With a conjuror’s flourish each produces a dead rabbit. ‘Ta-da!’

  ‘Hurrah! Well done, Fenton!’

  ‘Stew tonight, anyone?’

  ‘And well done, Roger!’

  Roger is Fenton’s pet buck, his name aptly describing legendary prowess in the fatherhood department. Many townsfolk breed rabbits, as a cheap and flavours
ome source of much-needed protein. Roger is lent out to them as required; payment, a few weeks later, is in kind.

  ‘Outstanding work, chaps, very well done.’

  ‘And Pugh traded four bottles of beer with the Gefreiter!’

  That evening we feast like royalty on rabbit stew and Schwarzbier. And a restful night follows with no trips to the cellar. The next morning I descend to the Gefreiter’s office to find an envelope waiting. Prien hands it over without a glance. Inside is a second summons from Lucie Rommel.

  *

  We have to do Dita’s procedure in the hut. The women have roll call three times a day; she cannot miss even one. I arrive with the instruments in my bag, and lead in my heart. I step inside and the women are waiting, about twelve of them, with Dita in their midst. She’s wearing a short shift and nothing else. Her feet are bare, she’s shivering with cold, and in her terror she looks small and very young. Through the Sanitäter I explain what’s to be done, and how. But even before she translates, the others begin preparing, as if they already know. A rough table is dragged out, a piece of cloth smoothed over it, and a cushion for Dita’s head. There’s also a bowl of water and tiny sliver of soap for me. I scrub up, trying to hide that my hands are shaking. Dita climbs nervously on to the table. There are no stirrups, but two women step forward to support her legs in the lithotomic position. Two more are at her head, stroking her temples and hair, while the rest surround her in a protective ring. Now gloved, I apply a few drops of ether to the mask and bring it to her. As I do so, her eyes widen in fear. I bend to her, murmuring, ‘Nebojte se,’ which is the one Czech phrase I have learned. Don’t be afraid. She blinks tears, and nods bravely. I apply the mask, she struggles, but the women soothe her and she relaxes into unconsciousness.

  Then we begin. The winter light is poor, but I have a torch which one woman holds. I also have Lysol for disinfecting and am cleaning the perineal area when another woman gestures that she will do it. I nod and turn to the dish of instruments. Utter silence has descended. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Suddenly I’m on a train, surrounded by shocked onlookers as I force a hand drill into a man’s skull. Panic grips me. I can’t do this, shouldn’t even try, I’m not qualified, and not worthy. A distant humming sound is starting in my head, like an incantation. ‘Nebojte se,’ someone says, ‘Nebojte se, britský doktore,’ and a steadying hand touches my arm. I swallow, turn back to the dish, and pick up an instrument. I have no tenaculum, so must use ordinary forceps to steady the cervix, then insert the Hegar dilators Erik obtained. I turn to the task, but the table height is wrong and I can’t see. I stoop down, panic rising again, but squatting’s too low, and there’s no chair. The humming grows louder, like a spell being cast. ‘I’m sorry’ – I gesture helplessly – ‘this isn’t...’ But they understand, and the hand grips my arm again, another cushion appears and I’m lowered to my knees. ‘Good?’ someone murmurs in English. My eyeline is correct suddenly, my posture steady. ‘Yes, yes, good, thank you.’ And kneeling before my patient, I turn and pick up the curette. And as I do so the humming breaks into song. A soft melodic chant taken up by all the women. A lament for a lost child.