In the Fall They Leave, page 6
“Are you saying that because you’re German?”
“Jacques!” Madame Hulbert cries.
Jacques throws his napkin at his plate and rushes from the dining room. As Marie-Thérèse follows him upstairs, that afternoon’s lecture on bullet wounds flies into her thoughts—the enfilade wound, the transverse, and so many others. He really has no idea, but then, how could he? “Jacques? May I come in?”
“You already are.”
He’s lying on the silk counterpane, knees raised, arms crossed, and his face set in a mold of antipathy. His collection of childhood books and model ships are still on display, the cutters and frigates flying the colors of Belgium.
She pulls his desk chair to the side of the bed and sits but doesn’t know how to begin. Jacques won’t look at her. “I know you want to help our country,” she says finally. “Father and Maman know that too. It’s honorable, Jacques.”
“They don’t want me to.”
“It’s not because Father is German, though. What you said hurt them very much.”
“What he said hurt me. I’m not a child! You will be going nowhere except with us.”
“Yes, he said that, but he didn’t mean that you are a child. He’s afraid for our family now. He wants all of us to be together. He needs to know that each of us is safe.”
“But you, you want to stay at your school…and he’ll probably let you.”
“I don’t know.”
“And if you stay, you’ll be helping wounded German soldiers while I want to kill them. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right. Little, now, makes sense.”
“I want to find our army…and the king. I am not a child.”
“No, you’re not. But from what I’ve been reading, our army has broken apart and is simply…running away. Would you like to hear what I think you can do to help?”
“Go with them.”
“Yes, but first help with the house here and then help them find a place in South Holland or wherever Papa decides will be best. Be a good older brother to Willy, who’s terrified now. I know he’s trying not to show it, Jacques, but he is. Our parents have so much to worry about, and if you leave, there’ll be that too. Do you see how important you can be to them? What real help you can give? Besides, our army can do little now until more forces join it. More British. More French. It has to reorganize, and that’s going to take time. Meanwhile, you can be helping our family on a…personal level.”
“While you help wounded Germans on a personal level. What a loyal Belgian you are. They’re Huns.”
“I see that I can’t talk to you now, dear brother. Will you do one thing for me, though?”
“No. What?”
“Just let me know before you go off on your own somewhere if and when you decide to do that.”
“So you can tell them.”
“So I can say au revoir and give you a great huge embrace.”
“You can do that now.”
She does. “Oh, my dear brother, I think that you’re sad and angry because you are, in part, German and Father is German and your sister and brother have German blood. Is that it? Is that why you’re so angry? And want to prove your loyalty to our country?” Jacques leans forward, linking arms around his knees, and lowers his head. She holds his shoulder while he sobs.
On the drive back to the clinic, Marie-Thérèse and her father pass boys and young men smashing store windows with shovels and lengths of pipe. “I think you should come with us,” he says. “It’s going to be extremely dangerous here even if the German command decides to spare Brussels. And perhaps, to please your maman, you might take up the piano again if only for your own enjoyment. You were a good pianist and might even improve. And then, one day, if we return, possibly you can resume your nursing studies.”
She senses that he must have planned those words. “When you were a medical student, Father, did your choice of profession offend anyone?”
“No one was offended. But it was different for me. I had no other talent or ability. Also, medicine…well, it’s considered an honorable profession for a man.”
“Maman is ashamed of me, isn’t she? She believes I threw away something valuable for something worthless.”
“Well, your maman…she believes that art can heal too, in its way.”
“Father, our matron has said that I’m quite good at nursing.”
“I’m sure you are. But as you can see, it’s getting bad here and will only become worse. I’m speaking of the citizenry. The German military may…may…treat us more civilly. If, that is, we subject ourselves to their orders.”
“I will do as you say.”
“I would like to think that it won’t make you very unhappy.”
Boys are standing around a bonfire at the center of an intersection, singing Belgium’s national anthem as flames leap up in the warm night. Monsieur Hulbert stops, puts the car into reverse, and turns into a secondary street.
“Such bravado.”
She’s thinking of the matron, of having to tell her, and only glanced at the boys who are just being boys. The aching sadness of her Académie days has set in, that debilitating awareness of how something urgently and deeply hoped for is not to be.
“They should be at home,” her father is saying, his voice unusually sharp. “Instead, there they are, treating it all as a national holiday. Idiots!”
In front of the nurses’ row house, he tells her he’ll telephone as soon as he settles matters and finds a buyer for the house. “Within the week, I hope. Meanwhile, speak to your matron and make arrangements, ma chère.”
“Oui, Papa.”
“I hope we won’t need travel documents. That might slow everything.”
It’s awful, she thinks, to find some small comfort in those words. Her hand aches with a dull continuous pain and she remembers the soldier’s crushing grip—and her mother’s comment at dinner. “What happened to your hand?”
When she looked down at it, she was surprised to see that the entire top of her hand from wrist to knuckles had turned blue-gray.
“Oh, nothing much, Maman. A small mishap.”
Rolls
Matron, my father wishes me to leave with the family. I can stay for only a few days longer. I’m terribly sorry.” They are in the matron’s office with the door closed.
“I’m sorry as well, mademoiselle.”
“But in the meantime, I will do whatever you ask. Extra ward duty, whatever you need.”
“Merci.”
The matron appears calm as always, but has her glance drifted to the side just a little before centering again? Marie-Thérèse thinks so. “Pardonnez-moi, Matrone. I did try.”
“I know you must have. Bien. Return to your work now. Do what you can.”
Walking back to her ward, Marie-Thérèse tells herself to be like that. Stoic. Accepting.
Later that morning word spreads through the clinic that Helene and two other student-nurses, both English girls, have left the night before. At an assembly in the lecture hall, the matron holds no folder of lecture notes.
“Today,” she begins, “our school and clinic will be under German supervision, as will all the hospitals in the city. In a few minutes we shall lower our Belgian flag and raise the flag of the International Red Cross. The occupiers will expect us to speak German or Flemish. Some may understand French. We will do what we can to surmount language differences. Our work, however, will not change. At least one German doctor will arrive here within the hour. It is imperative, my dear students and nurses, to treat this doctor with absolute respect. Allow me to repeat. We are to treat the German doctor, or doctors, with respect. If you cannot do this or if you have the least doubt, you must leave. Trains are still running. The mayor has constables walking about, cautioning everyone that if one person, just one, should fire a weapon, our city may be lost. And if even one person insults a German officer or infantryman or cavalry soldier, the consequences for all of us will be catastrophic. So you see, our situation is grave, and our comportment must be perfect.
“We are also expecting an influx of wounded German soldiers today. The afternoon lecture is canceled. Those of you who are still here should report to your assigned wards three hours earlier. We will keep our civilians separate and, as usual, our male and female patients. The wounded German soldiers will be placed in wards C and D, and also in the private and semi-private rooms on the third floor.
“I do not know which boulevards the German troops will be taking as they enter the city, nor do I know how many troops will remain here. I expect that a good number will stay; the others will pass through to France.
“We must, all of us, focus solely on our work as nurses, as healers. I am sorry to say that you will be overworked, but we may be able to acquire staffing help from some of the other hospitals, at least on a part-time basis. I will take no questions this morning except in private. Those who are staying, please spend some time, if possible, resting and composing yourselves for the work we have to do this afternoon and evening. I have great confidence in you, my dear students and sisters. I know that you will do your best. Now, may God bless us all and keep each of us, and our city, safe.”
For Marie-Thérèse, the words transmute themselves into pain. They are for others, those words. She no longer belongs. Worse, she won’t be able to help the matron now, just when she needs it most. She blinks back tears.
“Marie-Thérèse,” Rani whispers, as others are leaving the hall. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. But the concern in Rani’s voice makes it impossible to stop the flow, and she’s ashamed, on top of everything else. Liese is lingering behind, scrutinizing the two of them. “Is there anything I can do?”
Pull yourself together, Marie-Thérèse!
She clears her eyes and focuses on Liese. “Thank you. It’s just…nerves.”
“Do you want to come with some of us and watch them enter? Le Soir says it’s going to take hours. Imagine! We won’t stay long, but this is a historic day. And after all, they’re your people. Why not come along, both of you?”
“Non, merci,” Rani says. “We’re going to rest.”
In their room, Marie-Thérèse relates the conversation she had with her family. “I wanted to tell you last night, but you were on duty. And today I thought I should speak to Matron first. It hardly seems real. Leaving!”
“But isn’t it possible,” Rani says, “that your father might change his mind? After all, his patients are here and rely on him. You’ve told me how conscientious he is.”
“I know, but with him, family comes first. He’s so afraid for my brothers, especially Jacques. And he adores my mother and would die, literally die, if anything happened to her as a result of something he failed to do. I understand that. Still, it’s so hard to…have to give up everything and the matron…and you, Rani…our plans and hopes. I need you to know that. That it’s not my decision and I’m not…running away because I’m frightened. I’m not.”
“I know you aren’t. It might not be of much consolation, but I think I have to leave as well. This morning a small, stupid thing happened, yet it says so much. I couldn’t fall sleep last night after being in the wards. I was so tired, but there were too many thoughts. When it grew light, I quietly dressed and went down to the patisserie. I thought it might be closed, but no, it was just opening. Well, you know how my French is flavored with a German accent. An old woman was there, and we walked out together, and she…spat at me. It’s absurd to take it to heart, given everything else now, but she made a point of spitting in a way so that I would know what she was thinking: German. I suppose she might have spit at the rolls and ruined them, at least she didn’t do that, but it was deliberate. What do I care? Just an old woman! But what if she does that to a German officer? There must be hundreds of old women like her in this city. Or worse. I don’t see how anybody is going to be safe. And I’m so ashamed that they’re doing this. Why?”
“The old woman?”
“No. My people.”
“I’ve read that they just want more territory.” Marie-Thérèse is conscious of using the third-person pronoun, as Rani did at first.
“But why? We’re a large country. Why do we need more territory?”
“Maybe need isn’t the right word.”
“Oui! Want, more likely. You know, I was thinking about that when I couldn’t sleep. How they talked about it at school, saying we deserve more territory because…because why? I couldn’t remember because I always stopped paying attention. The teachers would go off topic and rant about it, and I’d use the time to think about more pleasant things. It was a patriotic idea, I recall. Sometimes other professors would come in to lecture about it. Had I paid attention, I might understand all this now. Well, I do understand! They just want more. Now I feel like such a…traitor for being so angry. And ashamed. And everything!”
Rani presses fingertips against her eyelids.
“You’re not a traitor. How can you think of yourself as a traitor if you stay and nurse wounded Germans? Besides, the clinic needs you more than ever now. So does Gauthier. She hardly speaks German. She’ll be able to rely on you.”
“And more old ladies will spit at me.”
“Let them. At least you won’t shoot them.”
“Maybe I’d like to, though.” Her face takes on its blotchy heated look.
“Rani, please. Stay for Matron’s sake. And really, your own as well. And maybe…I can come back in a few months and catch up somehow.”
Rani puts an arm around Marie-Thérèse and the two lean against each other, their heads touching. They sway from side to side a little until Marie-Thérèse says, “What about those rolls? Did you finish them off?”
“I only ate one.”
“Well, that’s something anyway.”
They’re honey colored and still crisp. Their scent reminds Marie-Thérèse of fields and sunlight.
“Can you get rolls such as these in Germany?”
“No.”
“Then maybe that’s the reason for this invasion. They want the patisseries.”
“It must be.”
“So, you see, Rani, you need to stay, if only for the rolls.”
Logic
Herr Doktor Manfred Kuhn introduces himself in German by stating his name, place of birth, and credentials. Study in Paris and Vienna; specializations in bacteriology, public health, and in diseases of the ear, nose, and throat; positions at premier hospitals throughout Europe. He recites it all as if telling the assembled sisters and students the weather that day. He’s moderately tall but slightly built, his goatee rust-red, his hair combed back from forehead and temples. There are pale bays to either side of the center peninsula of hair. Marie-Thérèse finds it hard to determine the hair’s color because it looks sopping wet. A dark brown, possibly. She observes a sheen of perspiration along the brow line, but then the lecture hall is quite warm. The man’s color is good, but his eyes behind the rimless eyeglasses appear reddened and the fleshy crescents underneath puffy and dark. Everything about him, from his voice to his detached manner, conveys disdain for his audience. Marie-Thérèse concludes that he must be displeased by his assignment. Such a lowly little hospital, given his exalted education, reputation, and experience.
The matron sits to the left of the lectern, her chin raised somewhat higher than usual. The table against the wall holds no welcoming flowers, in contrast to other times when visiting specialists give presentations. Marie-Thérèse glances at Sister Gauthier in the row ahead, her expression stony with incomprehension—and probably fear, given her weak German.
But surely, Marie-Thérèse thinks, this learned doctor deserves their respect. He’s here on orders, no doubt, not personal inclination. Who can say what he thinks of the invasion? Maybe he’s horrified. What man of medicine wouldn’t be? Her own father certainly is. She decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and be calm in his presence and say no more than necessary. And she will help Gauthier, who must be scared half out of her wits by now.
The doctor goes on, in his monotone, laying out his expectations. In a word—excellence. Perfect personal cleanliness, perfect sanitation in the wards, and perfect treatment of patients. Nothing less. “For any infraction, a meal will be withheld. Serious infractions will earn dismissal. Inspections will be frequent.”
A meal? They already understand the importance of perfection in the matron’s school and Doctor Depage’s clinic. Doktor Kuhn is beginning to sound like someone who enjoys making examples of people for the edification of others. Or, possibly for the pleasure of simply being able to do so. A chill raises gooseflesh on her arms.
“Tonight,” he states with more animation, “twenty wounded soldiers will be in wards C and D. Sisters are to attend them after my examinations. Kitchen staff, be ready to prepare meals for any patients who are able to eat. Orderlies, remain on duty until dismissed. Student-nurses, see to the patients in wards A and B. You will be assigned work in wards C and D in due time.”
While the matron restates his directives in French, the doctor closes his folder and unceremoniously, even rudely, leaves the lecture hall.
The sound of brass bands somewhere in the distance drifts into the ward, along with a fragrant breeze. Marie-Thérèse is sponging Janine’s arms with a warm cloth and observes, with satisfaction, that her own hand is steady. “And Jackie,” she continues, “found it necessary to roll in soil Monsieur the Gardener had just prepared for a new bed of lettuce. He rolled and rolled as if monsieur had been working all morning just for him. Oh, he had a fine time rolling about, and monsieur…” Marie-Thérèse pauses, sensing a presence just behind her. Angling her head minutely, she glimpses light gray trousers the color of lichens. “And monsieur, poor monsieur…”
