September 17, 2006
by Pete Phillips
This is a work of fiction.
After two days of intermittent April rain, the wind turned, bearing Arctic cold and heavy wet snow; it rapidly covered the patchwork of fields that stretched from the barn to the line of pines along the river— his horizon since the day he had gone into hiding. From his tiny unglazed window, the view brought back memories of family winter vacations in Berchtesgaden and Kitzbühel. By the time he entered high school, Blumenfeld was already a first-rate Alpine skier, with dreams of a berth on the German Olympic team. Now snow, even at its most pristine, held no appeal; instead, it only added to his isolation. But for the wretched condition of his shoes, he would have attempted a short walk under cover of the approaching darkness. Maybe the weather will keep the RAF home so I can get a full night’s sleep, he thought. Unless the pain again kept him awake.
Punctual as always, Frau Zapf’s head appeared above the trapdoor as the church bell in the village tolled five o’clock. What would it be tonight? Mashed turnips or cabbage soup and bread? It hardly mattered. Everything tasted the same. Nothing stilled his gnawing hunger. Soon he would have to punch another hole in his belt to keep his pants from falling. Good thing he had no mirror to corroborate the apparition he imagined.
“Guten Abend, Herr Blumenfeld.” After nearly two years, they still addressed one another formally. “What a miserable night.” She blew one end of her scarf away from her face, a face that reminded Blumenfeld of a yellow, overripe apple.
He nodded, distracted by the savory aroma of something unfamiliar.
“I’ve brought you a special treat.” She set two kettles on the floor, one with his supper, the other the hot water he’d asked for.
“May I ask what it is?”
“May I ask what it is?”
“Is it a surprise?”
She nodded and gave him a rare smile. “I am so proud of my husband, that a man in his condition can still hunt.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Are you feeling any better, Herr Blumenfeld?”
It had been a week since he first asked for hot water. Reluctant to be an even greater burden, he had not revealed its purpose; neither had Frau Zapf or her husband asked. “Unfortunately not,” he said. Lately, in fact, the pain had become more intense, and earlier that day he had noticed an ugly discharge. Quickly changing the subject, he asked if there were any new developments.
“Goebbels is claiming another major victory in the east.”
He grimaced. “Anything else?”
“Rations of certain foodstuffs are being reduced again.” She looked away as she said this
“We can only hope Goebbels is lying again.” He paused, not certain whether to go on. “Surely another cut in rations is not a good sign.”
“Somehow we will manage,” Frau Zapf said, turning to face him again. She took a deep breath. “You needn’t be concerned.”
“How can I ever repay you and your husband for what you are doing? And at such risk to yourselves.”
“You know it makes me uncomfortable when you say such things.” She had seated herself on the milking stool, the only piece of furniture in the loft. “We are not…” She pulled a handkerchief from her apron. “We are God-fearing Christians. More than that I cannot say.”
Blumenfeld thought about his wife. Ever defiant, Bianca had refused to go into hiding. Instead she had opted to risk living out the war in Berlin by posing as their landlady’s gentile aunt. Unable to communicate, neither knew whether the other was still alive. He had mentioned Bianca to the Zapfs only once, the day they agreed to shelter him. But then, fearing arrest and interrogation, he had destroyed the one snapshot of his wife that he used to carry in his billfold.
“Perhaps we should get our doctor,” Frau Zapf was saying. “I can see that you are in great pain.”
He lifted himself to a sitting position and waved the suggestion aside. “No, no. You cannot take the risk. Besides, I feel confident that after I eat some of your wonderful surprise I will feel much better.”
The compliment made no impression. “I assure you Doktor Klammer is a good man, someone we can trust.” She got up and approached the ladder. “I will talk to my husband.” Before he could reply, Frau Zapf had already reached the bottom of the ladder.
As soon as the outer door slammed shut, Blumenfeld pulled down his pants and applied hot compresses to his groin. For a time the pain and throbbing abated. Supper could wait; it didn’t matter if it got cold. Only when the water became tepid did he dig into Frau Zapf’s rabbit fricassee, finishing every last morsel. Then he lit the half-smoked cigarette he’d been saving.
About nine o’clock he was awakened by the first wave of bombers droning above the clouds—music to his ears after all. Moments later came the din of distant flak. In the morning he would ask Herr Zapf what had been targeted and how much damage the Allies had inflicted this time.
The next few days hung heavily. The snow continued unabated. For some reason he could not explain, he sank into an ever deeper gloom each time he looked outside. He was running a temperature. The oozing lesion made him queasy. The hot compresses gave him only minimal relief. At times the pain seemed unbearable and he covered his mouth to keep from crying out. The Zapfs lived alone, but the nearest house was only 30 meters distant and they had warned him about the neighbors’ four teenage sons.
A day or two later when Herr Zapf brought him the customary thermos of soup that was both breakfast and lunch, Blumenfeld was asleep, his pants around his ankles. Herr Zapf waited a few moments and cleared his throat.
Blumenfeld awoke with a start. “Thank God it’s you and not your wife,” he said, tugging at his pants.
Herr Zapf peered down at him with pursed lips. “My dear Blumenfeld, I’m afraid we have to call Doktor Klammer.”
“It’s nothing. It will heal by itself.”
“You can’t afford to wait any longer. I assure you Doktor Klammer is a fine man, a man from the old school. He has been our family doctor for many years.”
“I am afraid of what will happen if…” Racked by a stab of pain, Blumenfeld fell back on his straw pallet.
“I understand your apprehension, but you need medical attention urgently.” Blumenfeld opened his mouth to speak but emitted only a groan.
Herr Zapf winced. “My father survived the last war a hero, winner of the Iron Cross, only to die from a carbuncle like yours. In his case it was on his upper lip.” He moved a step forward and took a closer look at Blumenfeld. “Take my word. That looks serious.”
Herr Zapf winced. “My father survived the last war a hero, winner of the Iron Cross, only to die from a carbuncle like yours. In his case it was on his upper lip.” He moved a step forward and took a closer look at Blumenfeld. “Take my word. That looks serious.”
“I will die either way.”
“You mustn’t give up hope, Herr Blumenfeld. One day this madness will be over. It cannot go on much longer.”
Blumenfeld shook his head. “The news you bring me every day is not encouraging.”
“There’s no telling what to believe.” Herr Zapf unscrewed Blumenfeld’s lantern and peered inside. “One day soon the British and Americans will invade and bring Hitler to his knees.”
“With God’s help and a cup of chamomile tea, as my mother used to say.”
Herr Zapf gave him a mirthless smile. “Now, to get back to your…your condition. Believe me when I tell you that Doktor Klammer is a decent human being, a small man with a big heart.” He used his good left hand to indicate that the doctor came only up to his shoulders. “You will be in good hands.”
Blumenfeld made no answer.
“Would you like some soup now?”
Again he said nothing and turned his face to the wall. Herr Zapf covered his shivering body with the heavy horse-blanket and started down the ladder. “I will come back later when I’ve refilled your lantern. Try to rest.”
Blumenfeld had no idea how long he had been dozing when he heard voices. One was Herr Zapf ’s, who was standing over him holding the lantern. The other belonged to a bald man with dark, hornrimmed glasses who was bending over him and unbuttoning his shirt. Thinking at first he was in a dream, he tried to close his eyes again until he felt something cold move along his chest. A stethoscope.
“I am Doktor Klammer. I have come to examine you at the request of Herr Zapf.” In his mind’s eye, Blumenfeld saw himself throw off the blanket, scurry down the ladder, and head for the line of trees along the river.
“Where does it hurt?”
Blumenthal sat upright like a marionette and pointed.
“Can you lower your pants, or do you need help?”
The doctor stuffed the stethoscope into a worn leather bag.
Blumenfeld clutched for the blanket and tried to pull it over his head.
“Very well, then. I will help you.”
He tried with the little strength he could summon to hold on to his pants by the belt, but to no avail.
“I see,” said the doctor in a matter-of-fact tone, crouching lower. Blumenfeld tried to roll over on his side.
“You have nothing to fear,” said the doctor. “To me you are just another patient. Your secret is safe.”
“What will you do?” Blumenfeld heard himself ask in a quavering voice. He suddenly felt faint.
The doctor straightened and seated himself on the stool. He explained that he would make a small incision to drain the lesion. “I promise you will not feel any pain other than the jab of the hypodermic needle. After that you must continue to apply hot compresses. Just as you have been. In two weeks you will have recovered.”
Blumenfeld for the first time looked the doctor fully in the face. “I am quite unable to pay you,” he said, fighting back tears.
The doctor accepted Blumenfeld’s outstretched hand and held it in both of his. “Pay?” he said. “I can hardly send a bill to someone of whose existence I am completely ignorant.”
Blumenfeld started to say something but the doctor motioned him to be still. In a tone that brooked no further discussion, he told Blumenfeld to get dressed. “Time is of the essence.” He picked up his bag and turned to leave. “Herr Zapf and I will go ahead and get everything ready. I will meet you in the kitchen in five minutes.”
Herr Zapf, silent until now, said, “Please be careful. It’s very slippery outside,” and followed the doctor down the ladder.
Alone again, Blumenfeld felt as though his spindly bare legs had become detached. He looked around for the thermos, then realized Herr Zapf had come without it. After a while he drew on his clothes and draped the blanket around his shoulders. A trickle of cold perspiration ran down his back. He imagined Bianca urging him to hurry, to do as the doctor had directed. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he remembered her last words to him: “Although we will be separated, we are in this together.” Using one hand to hold the lantern and the other to support himself, he slowly made his way down the ladder, each step more painful than the last.
At last he stepped over the threshold, his breathing heavy. The scent of pine hung in the air. He leaned shakily against the side of the barn and estimated the distance to the house. It seemed longer than the last time he had ventured outdoors. Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked, followed soon by the forlorn howling of another. A lantern had been left burning by the side door. The only other light came from the kitchen. He took one step, then another, each time sinking ankle-deep into snow. Only after he had gone the first few yards did he realize that the snow had stopped. The wind, now only a light breeze, had changed direction.
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