All Russians Love Birch Trees (2 page)

Elias looked offended, so I went over to him and he placed his hands on my hips. On his chin hung a single dark-blond hair. I removed it. He rested his head on my shoulder, I kissed his neck and pushed my knee
between his legs and unbuttoned my summer dress a little. But Elias shook his head and whispered: “I’m running late.”

I slammed my palm onto the counter. Elias shot me an accusing glance and said: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“My grandma once said always have a pair of fresh panties on you.”

“Why?”

“In case something happens.”

“You’re crazy. And I have to go.”

I accompanied Elias to the door and watched him run down the stairs. He always took two steps at once, sometimes three. He never walked, he leaped and ran. I made myself a coffee and started studying.

2

The information desk was manned by a nurse who was wearing a long pullover, despite the heat. She was pale, which accentuated her flaming red hair, pulled tightly into a bun. She smiled sweet-and-sourly and told me not to worry needlessly and to refrain from further inquiries. I had run all the way to the hospital and was now standing in front of her, drenched in sweat, red-faced and completely out of breath. Elias was in surgery.

I sat down in the waiting room. A radio was on in the background. I translated the news simultaneously into English, the ads into French. In Kabul there had been an explosion, in Gaza shots were fired, and in Portugal the forests were burning. The chancellor was
on a state visit. I flipped through an old issue of
Vogue
and waited in fashion. Handbags. Jewelry. Eye shadow. Whatever. I read about last November’s trends: fur and floral prints. I tore out the first page, folded it, and put it into my bag. Then I tore page three out, folded it, and put it into my bag. Page five got torn out as well, folded and put into my bag. By page 107 my bag was full.

A doctor approached, smiling. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Hair brushed back neatly. As a greeting he folded my hand into his and held it just a bit too long. His eyes were brown and very alert. The smell of disinfectant, decay, and old people engulfed me. I gasped for air. The doctor put his hand on my arm and I was surprised by the intrusiveness of the gesture. He said something, but I didn’t hear him and had to ask again.

“Do you speak German?” he asked slowly, over-enunciating each word.

“Of course,” I answered.

“My name is Weiss. Resident Physician Weiss. Are you a family member of Elias Angermann?”

“I’m his girlfriend.”

“Then I guess I’m not really supposed to speak with you.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

He reflected for a moment. The decision seemed not to come easily. Finally he nodded and said, “Oh well. What is your name?”

“Maria Kogan.”

He regarded me from head to toe. “I’m not sure I would pronounce your last name correctly. Can I call you Maria?”

“No.”

He shrugged. His voice growing louder with each syllable, he explained that a nail had been inserted into Elias’s femur. An intramedullary fixation. That they had nailed metal plates to the thighbone and that Elias had lost a lot of blood. I noticed splatters of blood on his lab coat and wondered whether they had come from Elias or a patient before. I nodded and opened the door of the anesthetic recovery room. The recovery would be a long one, the doctor’s voice reverberated behind me. The room was empty, save a bed that was fenced in by monitors, tubes, and a single chair. The curtains were closed. I opened them just a little, so that a sliver of light sliced across the floor. I lay my hand on the bedrails. Elias’s face was wan, as if every last drop of blood had drained from his body. A thin white crust caked his lips. He murmured my name and looked past me. A surgical drain emerged from his thigh.

I bent down and the smell of cold sweat reached my nose. I kissed his forehead and stroked his hair. He moaned. I extended my hand to touch his, but then I saw the IV drip in the back of his hand, hesitated, and withdrew.

“I’m not doing so well,” Elias said so quietly that he couldn’t possibly have meant for me to hear it, and suddenly a memory came back to mind, of him remarking that there are only two schools: old school and the Frankfurt School.

I stayed until late. Feverish Elias hoisted his head from side to side. At times an “Are you still there?” punctured his restless sleep.

That evening I made myself an instant soup and called his parents. Nobody picked up. I thought about calling Elke on her cellphone, but I already heard myself leaving a voicemail. “Hi, it’s Masha. Hey.” I paused and bit my lip. “Elias slipped while playing soccer. He broke his thighbone. He’s in the hospital.” The sentences came out labored. It had been a decade since I’d struggled so much to speak German. Elke called back in the middle of the night. Was it bad? No, I assured her. She said she couldn’t leave the restaurant. Every night it’s busy. I told her that I’m here. Elke said she’d try to come as soon as possible. I told her not to worry, I’m here.

I packed a bag for Elias. I folded his underwear, T-shirts, and the sole pair of pajamas in his possession. Then I added his overnight bag, his camera, a sketchbook, and charcoal pencils.

His roommates were watching afternoon talk shows. TV sounds blended in with snippets of conversation and laughter, the rustling of candy wrappers and magazines, the squeaking of shoes, and the wheels of food trolleys in the hallway.

Elias was lying in the middle, his bed flanked by two other beds. Beside every bed was a little nightstand. His neighbors’ tables were piled high with chocolate bars, open packs of cookies, bags of gummi bears, Sudoku books, cigarettes, and magazines. I said hello to everyone in the room, but nobody paid attention to me.

Elias lay pale and dull-eyed in his hospital bed. I put on a smile and approached him. I sat the bag down next to his table and listed out what I had brought. Like Christmas, Elias joked, exhausted.

Elias spent most of the time sleeping, dazed by medication. Only breathing in and out. I sat next to his bed, peeled sour apples, pears, and a mango. The mango juice stuck to my fingers. I drank coffee and disappeared into the bathroom, where I splashed cold water onto my face to fend off tears and a headache. The morning and the afternoon passed. The sun set excruciatingly slowly. Outside the shadows got longer and Elias’s hand rested in mine.

By the next morning, he was already taking photos of the room, of his wound, and of me, who wasn’t able
to look at his wound. The roommates also wanted to get some camera time. They were done playing cards and now forced us into conversation. He wouldn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to get his picture taken by a professional, Heinz said, when he learned that Elias studied photography.

Heinz had served in World War II and Rainer was a locksmith. There were some things they would do differently today. Though not much, of course, not much. The person in the bed to the left of Elias cleared his throat and said he had to pay me a compliment. That my German is better than that of any Russian Germans he’s met at the social services office. I had hardly said anything yet. Heinz started talking about his time as a prisoner of war—until Elias asked him to please be quiet. Then Elias asked me to be quiet as well.

It was hot and humid. The asphalt reflected the heat and even at night the streets didn’t cool. I got off my bike in front of the hospital and wiped the sweat off my forehead. The bicycle rack was filled to capacity, so I pushed my bike a bit. Then I spotted a free rack after all and squeezed it in. The green bike on the left fell and I laboriously brought it back to an upright position.

The hospital was an elongated low-rise with a stone facade that stood in the middle of a residential
area—an edifice completely devoid of architectural ambition and solely intended to best serve its medical purpose. The resident physician who had removed Elias’s surgical drain the day before sat in front of the entrance to the orthopedic ward and smoked. He had dark circles under his eyes and unkempt hair. I had seen him yesterday afternoon in the hospital and he looked as if he had worked through the night. He nodded toward me and I slowed until I waveringly stopped right in front of him. He held out his cigarette pack, light blue with Arabic letters. I offered him a croissant. He breathed out smoke and reached into my bag. The skin of his hand was cragged, his nails had yellowed from the tobacco.

“Did you switch to filtered cigarettes recently?”

“Not really. Those are from a patient.” He looked down at the pack, turning it over a couple of times and running his thumb over the Arabic letters as if he’d just noticed them for the first time.

“I can’t read it,” he said.

I translated the text for him.

He sighed, never taking his eyes off the pack.

“The patient died yesterday afternoon. We’re finishing off his last cigarettes.”

I choked on the smoke and had to cough.

He turned the pack over a couple of times more, then put it back into his pocket. He took a bite of the
croissant, crumbs falling onto his lab coat like dandruff. He alternated between looking at me and the croissant. “You’re with Mr. Angermann, right?”

I nodded.

“He had a spot this morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“A spot.”

“On his lung?”

“What makes you think that?” The doctor laughed out loud. “No, around his surgical scar. A little spot, not uncommon. Don’t worry.”

He gave me a friendly pat on the back and disappeared into the building.

In the evening, Elias’s scar was weeping. The pus gave off a sweet, biting odor that reminded me of the Soviet perfume Warszawinka and triggered a gag reflex. Elias’s camera was lying on the nightstand. He was facing the wall, feverish. We had rung for the nurse, but she took her time and then appeared in the room so suddenly that at first I thought she was a ghost. Wearing a short lab coat, the nurse exposed her teeth. Her yellowish incisor was decorated with a blue rhinestone. Not to be taken seriously. She stood there with her hands on her hips and her head thrown back. Her eyes had a fundamentalist glow to them. In a quick, deep voice she
said that Elias should get up now. I didn’t think that was a good idea. But when she loudly pointed out that I didn’t know what I was talking about, I had to agree. Although I kept that bit to myself.

The nurse jockeyed Elias out of the bed: “Come on, young man. Get up!”

Elias bit his lip and stood. I saw the pain in his face and yelled at the nurse. My words sounded shrill.

“It’s for his own good!” she yelled back.

When Elias took a step forward he moaned with pain, but remained standing. He stood and suffered and the nurse nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, go ahead.”

Elias took another step, this time no sound escaped him. His face was white as a sheet.

“Can’t you see that he’s in pain?”

“Pain is a part of life. Believe me, I’ve been working here twenty years!”

“Twenty years too long!”

“Masha, it’s OK!” Elias’s forehead shone with little pearls of sweat, his breathing fast and irregular. He took a wavering step toward the bed, looking for something to hold on to, and with an audible gasp he clasped the bedpost with both hands. I pushed him onto the bed. Elias gave in to my movements and allowed me to sit him up. I laid my hand on his cheek, which was rough and hot. His eyes were filled with tears. As were mine.

I stood in front of Elias, ready for anything. But Elias pulled me down toward him onto the bed and feebly told the nurse: “Please leave.”

“That’s a first.” The woman stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Elias put his head on my shoulder and I helped him to lie down. He got into a fetal position and turned to face the wall. Shortly after, his whole body started shivering. I stroked his hair, but he didn’t react. I ran into the hallway and dragged the next nurse who passed by into the room. She removed the dressing from Elias’s wound and quickly closed the curtains that separated his bed from the others, even though the other beds were empty. The wound looked bad.

Elias was sent to the radiology ward. When he was brought back, he was convulsing with pain. The doctors were waiting for the lab results. Finally, the senior physician came in, a short bald guy with a paunch. He was followed by a dozen medical students, because this turned out to be a teaching hospital. The senior physician examined the wound, furrowing his brow. Afterward the students hunkered over Elias. Some assumed a disgusted expression, others pushed their colleagues aside to get a better look. I stood in the corner and refused to look at both Elias and the wound. I could smell it.