The Furies (20 page)

His body became a furnace as the rigors swept through him with renewed intensity. He knew this was the critical time and had witnessed it in the prison camp; patients appeared to improve over the first few days, only to die during their crisis a week later. The intense heat of the fever prevented his brain from functioning properly and he was only vaguely aware Sister Calthorpe was by his bedside. He felt a sharp stab in his buttock and heard her tell him that he had been given an injection of camphorated ether to lower the fever. Throughout the afternoon and early evening she was by his side, sponging sweat from his face and forcing him to drink the broth and water she brought him. The delirium worsened – bringing with it the bloody-clawed bears – and then Dr Wakefield appeared. Even in his confusion, he knew his life lay in the balance, but the ache in his muscles and joints and the terror of his delirium were so unbearable that a part of him gave himself permission to let go, to allow himself to slip away, to be free of the pain and torment.

He made an effort to banish these negative thoughts, to hold on and resist the urge to give up and sink into the blissful peace of oblivion. When Dr Wakefield went off duty, the Austrian night orderlies were by his bedside. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the monsters in his nightmares did not allow him to. But eventually even the monsters disappeared, leaving his mind a blank screen.

And he knew he could not hold on for much longer.

But somehow he did.

He endured.

And then, in the early pre-dawn hour and after a long night of drenching sweats and pain and nightmares, the fever finally broke.

***

It was quiet in the ward as he lay on his back, damp with perspiration, looking up at the ceiling. He was exhausted and it felt as if his body was a piece of rubber tubing that had been stretched out of shape. But the buzzing in his head had gone and he could think clearly for the first time in days. He swept his legs back and forth under the sheets, enjoying the simple pleasure of pain-free movement; then managed to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed.

The ward was softly illuminated by a hooded oil lamp on the wall at the far, and he lifted the damp surgical gown and peered at his abdomen: even in the dim light he could see that the rash had faded and lost its angry red look. He felt an urgent need to pass water and so he carefully stood – his legs trembling like those of a newly born foal – and took a few steps towards the end of the bed. But he felt dizzy and was grateful when one of the orderlies materialised by his side and helped him to the latrine. Back in bed he fell asleep again, but this time it was deep and dreamless; when he woke it was daylight and he had no fever, no pain, no headache. Utter bliss flooded him because he knew he had won his battle: he had survived.

He watched as the day shift of nurses arrived on the ward, saw them putting on their calico typhus uniforms before they began their rounds. He sought Sister Calthorpe's face amongst them and when he did find her, could see she was trying to suppress a smile. He could not help himself from grinning at her as she crossed towards him.

‘Good morning, Sister.'

‘Good morning, Captain Bayer,' she replied, pursing her lips, her face professionally neutral. ‘You're looking much better this morning. We were a little worried about you last night.' She picked up his observation chart, nodding her head as she studied the numbers, and finally allowed him a satisfied smile. ‘I was very pleased to hear from the night orderly that your crisis seems to have passed. Pulse down, temperature normal: I think you may be over the worst.'

‘Thank you, Sister. I feel so much better today. I'm very grateful for all you've done.'

‘You did it largely by yourself, Captain; we only provided the right conditions for your body to heal itself.'

‘I'm still grateful. I don't think I would have survived if I'd been in the prison camp.'

Her face became sombre. ‘I hear the mortality from typhus in your camp is almost seventy percent?'

He nodded again. ‘More than ninety percent amongst the medical staff.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' she said. And then – very matter-of-factly – added, ‘Our mortality is only sixteen percent.'

Gabriel looked surprised.

‘You don't believe me?'

‘No, I do,' he said quickly. ‘I've seen at first hand the good work you do here.'

‘Well,' she said, with a gleam in her eyes. ‘That's what's possible when women are allowed to take charge of a hospital.'

He smiled. ‘I have never before come upon the concept of an all-woman hospital before. But I am grateful for it, because it saved my life.'

‘Do you have any female doctors in Austria?'

He shook his head.

‘A pity,' she said. ‘They have much to offer.'

Gabriel considered her comment and was instantly intrigued. Why not women doctors? He'd seen the dexterity in the fingers of his mother and other women when doing needlework, preparing food, cleaning – he could think of no rational reason why they could not be trained as well as men to become surgeons. Maybe better than some men: after all it was Thomas Berger's lack of dexterity that made him take up anaesthesia instead of surgery…

Oh, sweet Jesus, he'd almost forgotten. Thomas was dead. Now he remembered the reason he'd left the camp: Schwann was unwell. Had he survived? The smile on his face vanished as he sat forward.

‘Sister, I have to get back to my camp as soon as possible—' But she was already wagging a finger in front of his face.

‘Now, I don't want any nonsense from you about discharging yourself. You've only just passed the crisis,' she said with a stern look. ‘It's far too early to even
think
about discharge yet.'

‘But, Sister—'

‘No buts. I've told you before, Captain: you're not allowed to argue with me.'

He sank down again, frustrated. ‘But when do you think I will be well enough to return to my camp?'

Her eyebrows came together as she considered his question. ‘Although you are over the worst, you'll continue to feel quite tired for several days yet. You've lost quite a bit of weight and you'll need at least a day or two of proper feeding. We'll review you tomorrow and if your temperature is still normal, we can talk about it then.'

He didn't fight her, but simply nodded his head and lay back into his pillow. Although a strong sense of duty to the men in his camp pricked his conscience, he still felt exhausted. So he was partly relieved – albeit guiltily – to hear her say he must stay another day to rebuild his strength.

She returned the chart to the end of his bed. ‘Now if you'll excuse me, Captain, I've other patients to attend to.'

***

In their bedroom in the villa that evening, shortly before lights-out, Sylvia, Vera and Elspeth prepared for bed.

‘Your Captain Bayer has done very well,' Sylvia said. She was sitting on her bed, filing her fingernails with an emery board while Elspeth sat at a table in one corner of the room, penning a letter to Dr Inglis. Vera, sitting on the bed beside Sylvia, was cleaning the electrodes on a dirty sparkplug with a toothbrush.

‘He's not
my
Captain Bayer,' replied Elspeth without looking up, as she continued to write.

‘Well, you know what I mean: it was you that had him sent up from the surgical hospital and told me to look out for him. Anyway, I really thought he wasn't going to make it yesterday evening; even Dr Wakefield was doubtful. But he pulled through during the night and this morning was even asking when he could be discharged.'

Elspeth looked up at Sylvia. ‘So he's made a full recovery?'

‘Mm,' said Sylvia, a faint rasping coming from the sandpaper on her nails. ‘He'll be well enough to be discharged tomorrow I should think.' She held her fingers up to the light and inspected the cuticles for a moment, then lowered them and carried on filing. ‘I suppose he'll be sent back to his camp,' she said, almost wistfully.

Elspeth continued to stare at Sylvia for several seconds. ‘That's the third time this week you've mentioned Captain Bayer,' she finally said. ‘I do believe, Sylvia Calthorpe, that you've developed a bit of a soft spot for him.'

Vera stopped brushing the sparkplug and looked across at Sylvia. ‘Oh no; don't tell me you've gone and fallen for a Hun?'

Sylvia smiled at her teasing, but carried on filing her nails.

‘No, of course not, Vee,' she said. ‘I'm a professional, he's my patient, and a good nurse doesn't do that sort of thing. Besides, he's not a Hun: the Austrians seem to dislike the Germans almost as much as we do.'

‘Hm,' Vera said, eyebrows raised, a sceptical look on her face as she resumed cleaning the plug.

Sylvia stopped her filing. ‘Look, I'm not romantically interested in Captain Bayer. It's just that I think he's a decent sort of chap.'

Vera made a face as if to say she didn't believe her, and Elspeth was intrigued: because at St Mary's Hospital, Sylvia had the pick of London's finest young doctors; handsome, intelligent men, every last one with good career prospects. Yet Elspeth had watched Sylvia deflect all their advances. Now – for the first time that Elspeth could recall – Sylvia seemed genuinely interested in a man, and she would like to know why.

‘Well you could keep him on as an orderly,' Elspeth said. ‘I remember him telling Dr Soltau that he's worked at St Mark's and Mount Sinai before, so he's clinically experienced. I don't know whether he could handle taking orders from a woman, but if he could, I'm sure he could be used in some capacity on the wards.'

Sylvia looked down at her fingers again as she resumed her filing. ‘It's a good idea, but I'm not sure he'll agree. He seems quite concerned about the men in his camp, says it's his duty to get back to them. But I'll suggest it to him tomorrow and see what he says.'

***

Gabriel slept well that night, and when he woke the next morning his pulse and temperature were still normal and he felt hungry for the first time in more than a week. Guilt and a sense of loyalty to his men still prompted him to think of returning to the prison camp, even though the same thought filled him with dread. But he was also keen to know what had happened since his absence: had Schwann survived his bout of typhus? Had Peter and Klaus coped while he was away? Then he saw Sister Calthorpe arrive on the ward. She walked towards him; stood at the end of the bed; lifted his observation chart.

‘Your pulse and temperature are still normal. You are officially cured of typhus, Captain.'

He nodded. ‘I know you said I should not rush to leave, Sister. However, I have a duty to my men and still feel I should return to my camp as soon as possible.'

‘You'll have to see Dr Wakefield first,' she folded her arms across her chest, ‘but if you still insist you're well enough…Well, I'm sure Dr Wakefield won't stop you from going back to your camp.'

He nodded again. He was uneasy at the thought of returning, but it felt like the right decision.

There was a momentary silence as she watched his face. Then she sighed and unfolded her arms. ‘Look, Captain, I do understand why you feel it is your duty to return to your camp. But would it not be better to stay a while longer, to build up your strength before you go?'

He would have preferred that, but couldn't bring himself to say so. She was still studying his face. ‘Might I make a suggestion?' she said.

‘Of course.'

‘Dr Soltau sent the supplies you requested back to the camp with your orderly, and you told me that there are two other doctors – a physician and a surgeon – still working there.'

‘That is correct.'

‘Well it strikes me that you don't need to be back in the camp with any degree of urgency. I think you told me that you don't have any surgical instruments, so it's not as if you could perform any surgery, could you?'

‘No…' He frowned: what was she trying to say?

‘Well, Captain, typhus is ravaging Serbia and has already killed many doctors and nurses. We've lost several of our own to it, and even Dr Wakefield shouldn't be back on duty: she's only just recovered and far from fully fit, which is why you've hardly seen her on the wards.'

Gabriel suddenly knew what she was about to propose.

‘So there will always be room for a prisoner with your background and training, whose skills would be much better utilised here in Kragujevac, than in the camp where you have no proper equipment or facilities. You would of course only be working as an orderly and would have to accept orders from our doctors and nurses.' She paused. ‘And they are all women.'

He continued to listen to her in silence.

‘If you think you could stomach the idea of taking orders from a woman, then I'm sure we could use you. You'd be much better off here than in the camp, and your excellent spoken English would help with translation. There may even be the opportunity to work in the operating theatre – only as an assistant of course.' She refolded her arms as she waited for him to respond.

He thought for several seconds before replying. ‘Your offer is very appealing, but I feel a responsibility to the men in my camp. I would be failing in my duty if I did not return to them—'

‘And what about a responsibility to the people of Serbia?' she retorted, her voice unexpectedly raised, her eyes filled with sudden indignation. ‘They who have suffered so much since
your
country took them to war? Don't you think you would be repaying them an obligation, staying here, using your skills to help them at this difficult time?'

He was stunned by the passion of her outburst, her words stinging him with their truth: he
was
thinking only of his own position; his country
had
invaded Serbia; Potiorek's strategy
had
resulted in death and misery for the Serbian people. She had presented him with a strong moral argument in favour of staying. And she was right: there was very little he could do in the camp. For a moment he felt ashamed, but when he looked back at her but saw that already her anger had gone, that her gaze had softened.