Chapter 30
Michaela had just returned from an exhausting day of home visits. She’d barely had time to put her aching feet up on a cushion before the doorbell rang.
“I’ll answer,” called Ilse.
“No, wait—” Michaela lived in constant fear of the SS knocking on the door to take her away. But it was too late, Ilse had already opened the door.
“Mutti, there’s a man with a message for you.”
Michaela sighed in relief. That didn’t sound like the SS. Sliding her feet into slippers, she shuffled to the door, where a young lad of no more than fifteen was standing. “Are you Frau Kronberg?”
“Yes, that’s me. What’s the matter?”
“Anton Seifert. He’s very ill. A bilious attack or something. Please, can you come? Frau Seifert says it’s urgent!”
Michaela’s heart missed a beat, though her face didn’t betray her shock.
“Yes, of course. Let me get my medical bag.” She turned to Eva, who’d come down from upstairs.
“I have to leave again. You’ll have to eat dinner by yourselves.
Warm up the casserole and don’t wait for me. I might not be back until late.”
“Alright.” Her daughter’s disappointed face was like a knife in Michaela’s heart. She truly wasn’t a good mother to them. During the day she worked in a weapons factory; in the evenings and on weekends she was out caring for patients. The two girls had been much better off with Carola.
They couldn’t have stayed with her, she reminded herself. It’ll get better once we’re in Switzerland. Then you’ll have more time for them. With a heavy heart, she grabbed her medical bag and followed the messenger outside.
She stiffened as she watched him walk over to a bicycle with an apologetic, “You’ll have to sit on the rack.”
Good Lord! What have we come to? The ban on using public transport had made everything so much more complicated.
Taking her life in her hands, she clambered onto the rack behind him and looked for something to hold on to but found nothing.
The boy rode at breakneck speed, with her struggling to keep upright, until he finally shouted over his shoulder, “You’ll have to wrap your arms around me, I can’t keep my balance like this. ”
Reluctantly, she clung to the boy. To her surprise, the ride became much smoother, and her heart no longer hammered with the fear of crashing at any moment. By the time their ride finally ended in a Berlin suburb, she had lost all feeling in her bottom and legs.
“We’ve arrived,” the boy announced.
But her legs failed to cooperate, and she was forced to murmur miserably, “I can’t get off, my legs have gone numb.”
“Wait, I’ll help you.”
She had no idea how he managed to swing his leg over the handlebars of the bicycle and get off, all while holding the bicycle steady. She was just grateful that he held out a hand and helped her down from the rack.
As soon as her feet stood on solid ground, a painful tingling swept through her legs as the circulation returned. She gently stamped on the ground several times, before she told the boy, “Thank you, you can let go now.”
“Sure?” he asked, grinning.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take you home.”
Michaela dreaded the thought of repeating the torture all the way home, regardless she smiled gratefully at him. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it.” And with that, he hopped back on and raced away.
She turned to the run-down little house where the Seiferts lived.
They’d obviously been waiting for her, because just as she raised her hand to ring the bell, the door was opened by a young girl.
“Frau Kronberg?” At Michaela’s nod, she said, “Please follow me. Herr Seifert is upstairs. The doctor has just left.”
Michaela couldn’t help wondering why she’d been fetched so urgently if another doctor had already seen him.
“There you are, Frau Kronberg,” Frau Seifert appeared, a deep wrinkle creasing her forehead. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Your messenger said it was urgent. What can I do?”
“I need a second opinion.”
Michaela had already suspected something along those lines. If her fears proved true, a difficult decision was needed. “Shall we talk first, and you can tell me the other doctor’s diagnosis?”
Frau Seifert nodded uncertainly. “Wouldn’t you rather examine my husband yourself?”
“I will, though I’d like to gather all the information first, so I know what to look for.”
“Very well, let’s go into the living room. Would you like a coffee?”
“Thank you. After the hellish ride here, I could use some refreshment.”
Frau Seifert turned to the young girl, “Claudia, would you please brew us coffee.” Turning to Michaela, she explained, “Claudia is a friend’s niece. She’s been living with us since her parents were deported a few weeks ago.”
Sitting down on the couch, Michaela asked, “What did the other doctor say?”
“Anton has suffered from gallstones for a long time.”
Michaela nodded. That explained Herr Seifert’s pale, greenish, pain-distorted face when she had seen him a few days ago.
“In the last few days, it’s been particularly bad. We didn’t think anything of it at first. I gave him chamomile tea to drink, as usual. But it got so bad that I called an Aryan doctor friend of ours. He has diagnosed acute gallbladder inflammation and has advised immediate surgery.”
Michaela bit her lip. She’d have suggested the same treatment. “Assuming the Jewish hospital has a bed available, and can operate on him immediately, he’d have to maintain strict bed rest afterward.”
“Exactly.” The wrinkle on Frau Seifert’s forehead deepened. “That’s what Dr. Nolte mentioned too. Anton would have to stay in the hospital for at least two weeks.”
Michaela thought that was very optimistic. Judging by Herr Seifert’s age and his recurring headaches from a gunshot wound sustained in the First World War, she suspected his recovery time would be closer to four or six weeks. She sucked her breath in audibly as the consequences sank in.
To buy time, she drank a few sips of coffee and placed the delicate white porcelain cup with its dark pink floral pattern back on the saucer.
“What do you want me to do?”
“A miracle cure would be my first choice,” replied Frau Seifert drily.
“Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of them.” How many times had Michaela wished she could do more for her patients than make herbal dressings or offer a massage.
Frau Seifert must have sensed the frustration Michaela felt at her helplessness.
She looked intently into the doctor’s eyes over the rim of her teacup.
“My dear Frau Kronberg, we both know how tightly your hands are tied. All I want is an informed opinion. Please examine my husband and advise me what I should do.”
“Certainly. Where can I wash my hands?”
“In the bathroom. Please follow me.”
Michaela always carried a bar of soap in her bag, just in case. However, it wasn’t needed today. Despite all the hardships, the Seiferts seemed to be doing relatively well. Beside the sink was a piece of genuine, perfumed soap.
Frau Seifert must have noticed Michaela’s surprise, or maybe she was simply used to the same reaction from other guests. “One of my husband’s clients before the war was a soap manufacturer. When he emigrated, he gave us two cases of soap. We had no idea at the time how valuable soap would become.”
Michaela washed her hands thoroughly and followed Frau Seifert upstairs into the bedroom. Here, too, it was clear that the family had once been well-off, although the fine linen sheets were now worn, and the fabric wallpaper was peeling.
Anton Seifert was lying in bed, as pale as a ghost. His lips were pressed firmly together, and he seemed not to notice them enter.
“Anton, Frau Kronberg is here.”
He turned his head to the side, groaning in agony.
“Lie still and don’t move,” Michaela ordered. She walked to the bed and set down her medical bag.
“Did Dr. Nolte give you an antispasmodic?”
Frau Seifert stepped in to answer, as her husband’s jaw clenched while another wave of pain washed over his body. “He left some pills – one every four hours, as needed.”
“May I?” Michaela asked, waiting for a nod before pulling back the covers and palpating Herr Seifert’s upper abdomen. Everything, including his reaction, indicated an acute gallbladder infection, and in any other circumstances she’d have recommended immediate surgery.
After the brief examination, Herr Seifert’s eyes fell closed with exhaustion.
Michaela usually preferred to discuss possible treatments in the presence of the patient.
She despised doctors who acted like arrogant demigods in white, smugly deciding on the best course of treatment without discussing it with either the patient or the family.
On this occasion however, she decided it would be better to let Herr Seifert sleep and discuss the situation with his wife. It wouldn’t be an enjoyable conversation. She picked up her medical bag and walked to the door, where she asked Frau Seifert, “Could we discuss it further in the living room?”
“Yes, naturally.” The woman was astonishingly composed – something Michaela observed in many of her Jewish patients. The constant blows of fate had deadened people’s emotions.
There was freshly brewed ersatz coffee on the coffee table, which Frau Seifert poured in two cups.
“Doctor Nolte was not mistaken. Surgery would indeed be the only correct treatment. However,” Michaela suddenly felt very tired, “after an operation of that nature, your husband couldn’t embark on the long journey for at least two months.”
“If he can’t travel, I’ll stay behind too,” said Frau Seifert.
Her reaction was foolish, yet understandable. Michaela would have done the same. She’d never have left her sick husband behind.
“There is a possible alternative treatment,” she said slowly and immediately raised her hands in warning as she noticed the hopeful glow in Frau Seifert’s eyes.
“Your husband must have surgery eventually. However, if we manage to stabilize his condition, the operation could be postponed until after our journey.”
Frau Seifert nodded. “What does that mean?”
“Strict bed rest. A bland diet. Lots of vegetables, but strictly no cabbage, cauliflower, pulses or cucumbers. No sauces. Strictly limited spices. No coffee.”
Frau Seifert gulped visibly. The only vegetable available to Jews these days was cabbage. “And then he’ll be all right?”
“No. Then there’s a chance the inflammation will reduce enough to make him fit to travel.
As soon as we’re in Switzerland, he must have the surgery.
” She looked at Frau Seifert. “However, there’s always the risk that acute sepsis will set in, and he’ll have to go straight to hospital.
We can’t completely rule that out. You can’t let him get distressed under any circumstances. ”
“That won’t be easy.”
“I know.” Michaela wished she could give a better prognosis. “But it’s his only chance. Your husband’s general condition is not the best.” That was putting it mildly. “It would take him at least six weeks after surgery to get back on his feet.”
“And by then the train to Switzerland will be long gone,” Frau Seifert completed her sentence.
“I’m afraid so. Give your husband thin soups without acid and a cup of chamomile tea every two to three hours during the day.
” She rummaged through her medical bag and pulled out a package of chamomile flowers, which she had received as a gift from a patient.
“It’ll relieve the cramps, and it has an anti-inflammatory effect. ”
“Thank you so much,” said Frau Seifert. “I’ll do exactly as you suggest. Neither Anton nor I want to stay in this country a minute longer than necessary.”
“Pray that the treatment works, and—” Michaela pressed the last remnant of her carefully guarded emergency supply of morphine into Frau Seifert’s hand. “If the pain gets worse, give him one or a maximum of two drops of this.”
“God bless you.” Frau Seifert gratefully accepted the painkiller.
Michaela said goodbye and climbed back onto the bicycle rack. Her conscience plagued her for the entire journey home. Medically, the treatment she had suggested was completely absurd. The man needed to go to hospital for immediate surgery.
She could only hope that his constitution was strong enough to survive the arduous journey to Switzerland.