by Belva Plain
And in his exhilaration he walked faster. Imagine being actually overjoyed at the prospect of an operation! Oh, I like the man, he thought. He’s cultured and manly, just what I would have wanted had I been her proper father and responsible for her. And he went on under the mellow blue sky of a warm fall day, with the last chrysanthemums, still bronze and gold, and the warm wind in his face. He had to stop himself from whistling all the way to Park Avenue.
He felt so pampered that he was almost ashamed of himself. Leah and Lucy had come on every one of the three days he had been in the hospital. Meg had telephoned every morning. People from the office had sent so many flowers that there was no place to put any more. He was surrounded by piles of books and fruit and chocolate, most of which he had given away.
Now Leah came, bringing an enormous sandwich, corned beef on rye and pickles.
“How did you know that’s just what I was thinking about?” he demanded.
“I ought to know. I’ve known you umpteen years, haven’t I?”
Meg, who had brought the last roses from the garden, had to leave. “We have a new kennel man, and Larry’s laid up with a cold.” She kissed Paul. “Don’t forget, we expect you at Christmas. Tim’s coming, we’ll all be there.”
“She’s a darling,” Leah said when she had gone out.
“Yes. Always was.” It made him glad that these two were close friends. They made an odd pair, just as Leah and Ilse had been an odd pair in their way, but all of them had heart and honesty, which were what counted in the end.
Paul was sitting in a chair by the window, through which he could see the East River and the bulk of buildings and chimneys on the other side, now blurring under a fall of snow. He opened his mouth to say something that had been on the tip of his tongue each time he had been alone with Leah in this room, then closed his mouth for a second, and said instead, “It looks like a winter storm. Strange, so early in the year.”
“That’s not what you were first going to say.”
“Wasn’t I?”
“No. You want to tell me something that’s on your mind.”
He really couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Well … have you any idea who my surgeon is?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Theodor Stern.” And when Leah looked blank, “Iris’s husband.”
She leaned back and blew out her cheeks. “Whew! For God’s sake, whatever made you do that?”
“I woke up one night and the idea came to me. I couldn’t resist it, that’s all.”
Leah looked severe. “That’s not all, you damned idiot. Oh, are you looking for trouble! Do you actually want something to slip out? Is that it? Suppose he mentions this to … her, to Anna? What then?”
“It’s highly unlikely that he’ll go home and discuss who is or is not his patient. And if it were to happen, well … she … Anna would trust me, that’s all.”
“Frankly, I think you’re a masochist.” Leah shook her finger, jangling a wristful of bracelets. “Do you know, in all this time, and I don’t keep secrets from my husband, your secret is something that even he doesn’t know? And why? Because it’s your secret, not mine. And it’s you who are deliberately putting it at risk.” She put on her fur coat and stood over Paul scolding. “I believe you like to torture yourself, I really do. Damn it, Paul.”
“I’m not torturing myself. As a matter of fact, I’ve felt fine since I spoke to him. Some of the nagging curiosity, even some of the hurt of separation seems to have lifted. That’s a fact, Leah.”
Her snapping bright eyes were kind. “But are you going to be satisfied with this? Once you’re discharged as a patient, you won’t be seeing the man again. I should think it would be better for you, then, never to have seen him at all.”
“You may be right. But it’s done, and I can’t undo it.”
“It needn’t go any further. My advice is, don’t get personal.”
“We haven’t,” he put in quickly.
“Well, don’t. Get out of this hospital and forget the whole business. There’s nothing you can do to change anything.”
“At least,” he said, “I know now that Iris has a good man.”
“Well, fine. Listen, I have to go. I have to meet Bill. But remember what I said. The less talking you do with this doctor, the better.”
When she had gone, Paul sat for a long time with an unread book on his lap, staring out at the storm, which was growing rapidly more ominous. It was about this time during these past few afternoons that Dr. Stern had come to his room, staying only five minutes or so to examine him and exchange a few remarks. On the previous day Paul had been reading The Wall Street Journal, so they had had an extra minute or two of comment about finances. This had been the whole of their conversation since that day at the office. Of course, such tantalizing contact made no sense at all; once it was past, he would have to be reconciled to the occasional, inconsequential tidbit received from Leah whenever Anna or Iris might happen to come to the shop for a dress.
Thick wet snowflakes clung to the glass, dimming whatever weak light remained outside. He got up and looked out of the window to see snow streaming onto the sullen black river. Restless now, he turned on the television and heard the weather reporter telling him what he could see, that a ferocious autumn storm was upon them. Service on the New Haven and Long Island railroads was interrupted, and travelers were rushing to get onto trains before it was too late. Many had already been stranded and would either have to find a room somewhere or spend the night on the benches in the railroad stations. He turned off the television, went back to the chair, and fell into a doze.
It was dusk when he awoke. Outside a grim night had closed in, making a grateful haven of the warm, lighted room. And he remembered his delightful shivers during childhood summers in the Adirondacks, being safe indoors when trees swayed and broke and thunder crashed outside. He was thinking of that, and at the same time remarking how amazing it was that one could summon up such feelings so precisely after so many years, when the door opened.
“I looked in before, but you were sleeping,” said Dr. Stern, “so I went on to teach a class of residents.”
A tremendous gust shook the windowpane as if to blow it in.
“Looks like a real blizzard,” Paul said. “One of those that they’ll still write about fifty years from now.”
“I’m afraid so. They tell me there isn’t a taxi to be had.” Stern made a face. “They say the trains are stalled. But it’s a tough walk to Grand Central, anyway. Too slippery underfoot.”
“Oh, yes,” Paul agreed. “And you can’t afford to break a leg, can you? Now I, as a banker, can sit at my work.”
“Well, don’t you go breaking anything either.” Stern lifted the dressing on Paul’s shoulder. His touch was feathery. An expert’s hands, Paul thought, having winced when less expert hands had touched him.
Stern replaced the dressing. “Looks neat, if I may say so. You’ll have no more trouble with it.”
“Do you still say tennis by spring?”
“Unless you do something crazy, like tearing it open again or getting into any more wars.”
“I won’t,” Paul promised.
Stern sighed and sat down. “Mind if I catch my breath for a second? It’s been a specially rough day. But that happens once in a while.”
“Sit down, stay. You know, I’ve been wishing for a chance to talk to you about something other than my shoulder.”
“Really? What about?”
“Oh, nothing that important. Just a coincidence. When I was in Jerusalem two years ago, I think I met someone who knew you in Vienna. A man named Hemmendinger.”
The other shook his head. “The name doesn’t register.”
“Probably a mistake, then. A jeweler, a funny, old-fashioned fellow, very courtly. He asked me whether I knew a Dr. Theodor Stern, a plastic surgeon in New York. I said I didn’t, but yesterday, for some reason, he came to mind, and I wondered.”
“It does seem odd, t
he name and the profession.” Stern’s interest was aroused. “I’m trying to think.”
“He said he had a shop near the Ringstrasse. The business had come down from his grandfather. He knew your mother well—”
“Oh, oh! Of course. Yes, I do remember. I just didn’t think of the name. My mother was very fond of jewelry. She bought a great many things in that shop. Later she tried to sell them to save our lives. Terrible times, Mr. Werner. You can’t imagine how terrible.”
“I’m afraid I can. I’ve had a lot of contacts with Europeans and European affairs in my time through my business and my work with refugees. I always feel an urge to talk to Europeans about how they’ve come through this awful century. And then, I’m curious about people anyway. I like to ask questions,” Paul said casually, as if he were amused at his own little weakness. Then he added quickly, “That is, if people don’t mind talking to me.”
“I don’t mind,” Stern said. His smile was grim. “If you want to hear my story, I’ll tell you. It’s brief enough. Nothing unusual about it, unfortunately.” The smile fled. “I lost my entire family, down to the last cousin, in the extermination camps. I happened to be abroad arranging to bring them out of Austria when Hitler struck the country, so I made my way to England and fought through the whole war with the British army.” He extended his palms in a gesture of negation. “It’s as I told you, nothing unusual.”
“Yes, I’m all too familiar with it, working in the Joint Distribution Committee. We did a great deal to help people get settled here after the war. I always thought it was especially hard for the doctors, taking the licensing examinations over again in another language and struggling through, with no money except the little we could lend them.”
“I was somewhat better off than most in that respect. My father had sent some funds to the States before the war, so I had a cushion—not much, but enough to get started on. Then I married into a wonderful family, and they helped heal me—emotionally, I mean. They gave me a home and people to belong to again. What that meant …” Stern shook his head. “You can’t know.” He stopped.
For an instant Paul had a feeling of remorse for having opened up a subject that must be agonizing.
Stern resumed. “They took me in and made me their own. My mother-in-law—it’s not often that a man can speak so lovingly of a mother-in-law.” He tried to laugh. “But it happens to be true. She’s a warm and charming woman, so much—I mean no offense—so much like the European women I knew when I was growing up. And my father-in-law is the salt of the earth. That’s the right expression, isn’t it? Salt of the earth. His kind is going out of fashion, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, it’s a good thing when one has family behind him to give some support,” Paul said, ashamed to be actually extorting information from this innocent stranger, information that was none of his business.
“Right now he’s helping raise funds from big givers to enlarge my department in the suburban hospital. We need a lot more space.” Stern looked at his watch. “I’ll never get back tonight. I’d better get to a phone.”
“Use mine, please do.” And as Stern hesitated, “Why not? Use mine, I insist.”
Again guilt flooded, and Paul picked up the newspaper, willing himself to pay no attention to the conversation on the telephone. “You’re cheating, you’re nothing but a voyeur,” said one internal voice, while the other replied, “You’re doing no harm, Paul. Your desire is natural and harmless. What human being in your position would do otherwise?”
He imagined the voice on the line, Iris’s voice, and supplied the other end of the conversation.
“It’s miserable,” Stern was saying. “No, I can’t possibly make it. The trains aren’t getting through. Don’t worry, I’ll get a bite of something in the cafeteria and find a bed in the residents’ quarters.”
By now Paul had summoned a picture of the face on the other end of the line, and it troubled him, because all that he seemed to remember of that brief encounter was a pair of dark eyes with a look of disapproval in them. But that was absurd! What reason could she possibly have had? Absurd.
“What?” Stern said. “If the walks haven’t been cleared, they can miss a day of school. Of course. The hill’s too icy. Yes. All right, dear. I’ll call you in the morning. Yes, my coat’s warm enough.”
He hung up, smiling almost sheepishly. “I have a good wife. She worries about me.”
Paul wanted to hear more and more. “You’re lucky,” he said. “After all you’ve been through, you’ve come to a happy ending.”
“Yes,” Stern said after a moment, “this is my second family. My first wife and my little boy were among those I lost.” And he said, almost dreamily, “But you never forget. It’s odd,” he continued, “they say a man falls in love with the same type of woman each time, but in my case it wasn’t so at all. Liesel was a blonde, very vivacious and athletic. Iris is dark, serious and sedentary.” Stern gave a slight shrug. “Who knows? Who can ever understand why we do what we do?”
It shot through Paul: He is remembering the other woman with regret, just as I used to remember Iris’s mother.
“Who knows why?” he answered, being purposely vague to make the talk last before Stern, who was already halfway out of the room, should be gone forever. The next time they met would undoubtedly be the last time.
“The whole business of love between men and women—I’ve lived a lot longer than you and I haven’t solved it yet,” Paul added with a little laugh.
To his surprise the other responded as if Paul had made a meaningful statement instead of a banality, a mere time-filler.
“I often think it’s really less complicated than it’s made to be. A man has a little flirtation, a little affair, and the wife falls apart, breaks up the marriage.… Do you have children, Mr. Werner?
“No.”
“Ah. Maybe that’s sad for you, and maybe not. Sometimes one wonders. I shouldn’t say that, I know, because of course I don’t really mean it, and I have four, but one of them is more trouble than the other three put together. I’m so terribly worried about him. He’s the oldest, a gifted boy, our pride. Such a brilliant mind, a photographic memory! He glances at a page once and gets the whole meaning of it. Now he’s all mixed up in this damned Vietnam war.” Stern shook his head. “And I can’t seem to reach or reason with him at all anymore. I just don’t know what to think about our Steve.”
Paul studied Stern’s face, on which grave distress was written. Although before now he had always been strict and professional with Paul, it was clear that at this particular moment he had reached the point at which almost any human being will, even against his better judgment, spill out to whomever he happens to be with the thing that most presses on his heart. In a different mood, without the storm or his fatigue or Paul’s connivance, he would not have loosened his tongue.
“This damned war,” Stern repeated. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“That makes two of us,” Paul agreed.
“Flower children! Peace. Love. Twenty thousand of them gathering to hear a lot of befuddled professors tell them to drop out of the system. My son just started college this fall but, you know, even while he was still in high school he was receiving literature from some of these people. Urging these kids to go on marches, to get beaten up and arrested and ruin their lives. There’s one fellow—I can’t think of his name, but he’s always in the newspapers—and, damn it, I think he teaches where Steve is. Lord, if that’s so I hope Steve won’t get mixed up with him! But he’s just the type, a young idealist.”
Befuddled professors, Paul was thinking. Always in the newspapers. And he remembered Jerusalem, remembered Tim’s excusing the terrorists, seemed to see again the bus overturned at the side of the road, and seemed to hear the cries.
“My wife says I worry too much. How can I not, the way things are these days?”
Then, as a nurse came in with Paul’s supper tray, Stern finished apologetically, “They say storms bring out
people’s anxieties the way they frighten animals. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
Paul was about to say “There’s nothing to excuse,” but the nurse, a new one whom he had not seen before, spoke first.
“You’re not saying you’re frightened, are you, Doctor?” Her eyelashes fluttered. “I cannot imagine you being afraid of anything,” she added sweetly.
Stern laughed. “Only afraid of girls like you.” And to Paul, “I’ll see you tomorrow and discharge you. Have a good night.”
“He’s a wonder, isn’t he?” the nurse cooed, when Stern was gone. “You’re lucky to have him.”
“A fine doctor,” Paul replied.
“But human, I mean. Not stuck on himself the way some are. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, very human, yes.”
“What I mean, he looks at you, not through you. You feel the warmth, I mean. His wife’s got to be a lucky woman. We’re all crazy about him. Who wouldn’t give her eyeteeth for a man like him?”
Paul looked at the plump curls under the white cap, at the full lips, so richly red, and the inviting shape under the uniform. Crazy about him. I’ll bet you are, he thought.
And picking at the supper, for he had been overfilled with the food that Leah and Meg had brought, he began to think about Stern. The thoughts were disquieting. That remark about “a little affair,” for instance. And the little exchange between him and the nurse just now. So he played around, did he? Yet who am I to talk? Paul asked himself. Is my life an open book? But Iris is my daughter, damn it! That’s where the difference lies. She’s my daughter, and now I don’t know and never will know whether she’s miserable … although probably not, if she worries about him, as he said. Yet I don’t know, do I? But I liked Stern! I still do like him! Oh, hell, Ilse was right. I would be happier not knowing anything about Iris or about their boy either. He must be a real worry, that boy. There must be more to it than Stern said in those few words, or he wouldn’t have it so much on his mind. Oh, hell, there’s nothing I can do about anything. And I was a lot better off with my fantasies of Iris, with those few mental pictures of her in her wedding dress that time I stood on the sidewalk watching for her, or at the dinner a few years back, dancing in Leah’s velvet gown. Yes, I was better off.
