My darling Paula, it started, and her heart beat faster. They might have been married for over twelve years, but whenever he called her that she felt like a love-struck teenager.
We’ve arrived in Tripoli safely. The railway journey to Italy passed without incident and, being medical officers, we were lucky and had our own compartment. In Brindisi we boarded the ship to Tripoli. It was unfortunate that we got there in the dark so I had no opportunity to take photographs. The sea was rough and lots of people were seasick. Fritz and I escaped unscathed, but we decided to spend all the time below deck once we realised that being out in the open meant the risk of slipping over on the vomit left by those who didn’t quite make it to the railings in time.
Tripoli’s a wonderful city, a blend of Middle Eastern charm, the culture of Ancient Rome and Italian flair. Did you know that a third of Tripoli’s inhabitants are Italian? You could almost think yourself in Europe. In the twenties the Italians built a beautiful cathedral, the Santa Maria degli Angeli. I’m enclosing a photo so you can get an idea of how Italian it is here. You’d hardly think there was a war on. Just as Fritz promised, we’re in the main military hospital and our job is to take in all the field hospital patients and either get them fit for further duty or send them back home for full convalescence. The main military hospital is very well equipped. We’ve got two operating theatres, an X-ray department, dentistry and a pharmacy. Fritz has officially allocated me to surgical work because there’s no psychiatric ward, but every unit has three mad-nurses and our three are something special. There’s Walter, the highest ranking – when he found out I’d originally been a psychiatrist, he commented that no decent German uses foreign words and that the word for me is ‘mad-doctor’. I countered this by saying that the only person who’d say ‘mad-doctor’ is someone who doesn’t know how to pronounce ‘psychiatrist’ and that this is a diagnostic tool for measuring a colleague’s intelligence. Walter looked at me in some irritation while the other two, Bert and Wolfgang, burst out laughing and said they would show me around. To my surprise, Walter joined in the laughter and gave me a knowing slap on the back. Since then he hasn’t once referred to a mad-doctor in my presence and enjoys the joke of no longer referring to his own profession as mad-nursing but as psychiatric nursing. He’s really gone up in my estimation now. Walter is also a rarity when it comes to getting anything organised. He’s one of those people who can get hold of the most extraordinary things. So, for example, he knows a cobbler who can make you bespoke shoes without coupons and at a good price. Fritz and I are going to pay him a visit – after all, we have to take whatever opportunities come our way. If it turns out that he can make ladies’ and children’s shoes without doing an actual fitting, I’ll tell you next time I write what measurements he’d need and then on my first home leave, although I’ve no idea when that might be yet, I’ll bring you all new shoes! And do tell Emilia from me that I haven’t needed the cream yet because here in March it hardly gets above twenty degrees. Besides, we’re in the military hospital all day, and because there’s more surgical work here than psychiatric, I’m often indoors with Fritz in his theatre. It’s lucky that he more than makes up for my lack of experience in the field, so sometimes I hold the clamp to assist him and so far nobody’s realised that the last time I operated was as long ago as 1929.
There are a lot of cases of diarrhoea so the most I prescribe at the moment is charcoal tablets. I’m pleased to say that Fritz and I have escaped all that so far. Fritz thinks it’s because Walter provides us with beer every evening and this cleanses the gut. Whether that’s medically correct, well, I very much doubt it. I think it’s far more to do with the fact that we only ever use boiled water. Still, it’s a good excuse for a beer. When we sit on the terrace outside the military hospital in the evening, both of us enjoying a beer as we watch the sun set behind the palms, you could almost believe we were on holiday.
Tell the children I love them and give them big hugs from me.
With all my love,
Richard
Paula’s heart ached as she read the letter, all the more so when she’d studied his pin-sharp black-and-white image of the cathedral against the city backdrop. She remembered vividly how he’d spent a couple of years deliberating over whether he should indulge in the expensive Leica III, which professionals used, or whether he should choose the cheaper, earlier model. Once he’d forced himself into a decision, he’d been like a little boy with his new camera. Nothing escaped his viewfinder. His first home leave would see him turning up with not just a bag bursting with new shoes but also three new photo albums boasting everything worth seeing in Tripoli. This was some consolation to her as it meant she could share something of his experience.
She read the letter several times over before setting it down and writing an equally long and affectionate letter in return, even though she didn’t have anything special to relate other than little anecdotes about her everyday life with the children. But that was exactly what he longed to hear about and she was only too happy to recount as much as she could. Then she stowed his letter away safely in the suitcase with their family albums and documents. From now on, that would be as important a memory as every single photo in the albums.
A couple of days later, Dorothea got back in touch.
‘I’ve found a way of us doing some voluntary work without it coming under People’s Welfare.’ She said this first and foremost as she knew how low an opinion Paula had of that organisation ever since it had become a purely National Socialist set-up. ‘At Finkenau there are now even more lone first-time mothers because their husbands are fighting at the Front. Not all of them want a mother’s help from the NSV. Sister Mathilde suggested putting us in touch with these women and we could then help them if they need support with newborns or have questions.’
Paula was pleased. She still had warm memories of the young mothers she had worked with at the women’s hospital when she’d been doing her PhD thesis. ‘When can we start?’
‘We could go to Finkenau tomorrow if you like to introduce ourselves to two young mothers and their babies.’
‘Let’s do that! I’m really looking forward to it!’
‘I’ll leave Harri and Rudi with my mother and then we won’t be restricted. By the way, I’ve had a letter from Fritz at last!’
‘And what does it say?’
‘He’s working on a new approach to amputation. It’ll decrease the safe distance from healthy tissue so that in certain cases he won’t have to amputate as high on the thigh, but lower down at the knee joint. He even sent me all sorts of detailed drawings and descriptions of the dermatoplasty he’ll use to create a weight-bearing stump for a new prosthetic limb.’ Dorothea laughed. ‘That’s Fritz all over. His work is his life and he likes being married to an old theatre nurse who understands what he’s on about! And I must admit I’d rather be taken seriously like that than have him write me soppy love letters.’
‘We’re so lucky with our two, aren’t we? They see us as equal partners they can share everything with,’ said Paula with warmth.
‘I know. That’s why I miss Fritz so much.’
Chapter 38
‘You people really are something else!’ Richard didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed. The medics’ common room had been decorated with a huge banner, proclaiming:
AFRICA, 23 JULY 1941
DR HELLMER’S 40TH BIRTHDAY
Various bits of furniture had been pushed together to create one long banqueting table on which stood a magnificent cake, the number 40 beautifully marked out in frosting.
Walter was the first to congratulate Richard. ‘Many happy returns, Doctor, sir.’ Other colleagues came over to do the same, but Fritz was nowhere to be seen. This surprised Richard as he was sure that Fritz was behind everything.
Just as he was wondering where his friend could be, the man himself appeared, together with the two musicians from their regiment, Fieten and Max, both of whom also worked as hospital porters.
Fritz had also brought Richard’s camera from the room they shared.
‘Many happy returns, Richard, my dear chap!’ Fritz said, shaking him by the hand. ‘You didn’t really think we’d let your fortieth birthday pass unnoticed, did you? Especially as you’re spending it so far from home!’
‘I hoped you would, to be honest.’ Richard looked awkward.
‘Never! And now time for the birthday boy’s serenade – Fieten, Max, ready? We need everyone to join in!’
As the two musicians struck up the well-known melody of ‘Happy Birthday’ and eleven male voices chimed in, some less tuneful than others, everyone felt the emotion of the occasion.
After the choral offering, Fritz got the men organised for a souvenir photo. ‘Now everyone stand behind the long table, please, and hold up the banner, birthday boy in the middle. The folks back home will want a picture, won’t they?’
‘You’ve got to be in it too, Fritz!’
‘OK, but who’s going to take the picture?’
‘My camera has a self-timer,’ Richard explained. ‘All we need is something steady and at the right height for it to stand on.’
‘We can manage that!’ said Walter. ‘Let’s use one of the little tables and put a chair on top of it.’
Although this reduced the impressive length of the banqueting table, it meant the camera was at the right height and in exactly the right spot. Richard set the self-timer then dashed to his position in the middle, between Walter and Fritz and in front of the banner they were all holding up. Then they cut the cake.
‘Delicious!’ said Richard. ‘Who made it?’
‘Our mess sergeant’s a mate of mine,’ explained Walter with a grin. ‘We all put aside a bit of flour from our own rations too.’
Richard was touched. He knew the current supply situation was tight. People didn’t speak of it, but everyone had difficulty getting enough food at the moment. Which was why, to try to secure deliveries from Italy, the chief of staff had planned a major offensive to capture Tobruk and its large harbour.
‘Any news from home?’ asked Fritz.
‘Nothing. The army post seems to be as slow as our supply ships at the moment.’
‘Not to worry, there’s still time today. Maybe there’ll be a convoy this afternoon. And I’ve already lined up something you’ll like for this evening.’
‘Really? What’s that, then?’
‘A touch of the Middle East in an Italian colony in Africa!’ Fritz said with a grin. ‘Bring your camera. It’ll be worth it.’ That was all he would tell him.
When the little party ended early in the afternoon, there were still three operations scheduled. The advantage of working in the main military hospital was that the life-saving emergency work always had to be done out in the field units near the front line, which meant that the patients arrived at the main hospital in a stable condition and so surgery was always done to a timetable. Infected wounds continued to cause problems, however, and often made amputation inevitable. Working in conjunction with a consultant in general medicine, Dr Buchwald, Fritz tried to combat this through early intervention with antibiotics, first using sulphonamides to fight the infection and only then carrying out any surgery, so as to minimise the necessity for amputation. Sadly, many of the men arrived in such a weakened state that the infection could not be contained even with the use of antibiotics.
Two out of today’s three cases had ended in amputation.
‘I’ve heard that the British have a new antibiotic called penicillin,’ said Fritz as he carefully stitched the skin flap over the stump of his patient’s amputation at the knee. ‘Trouble is, it’s very expensive and hard to make. There was a really interesting lecture about it at that last conference I went to in London in ’37. If they’ve found a way of producing it in quantity by now, they’ll have a huge advantage over us when it comes to dealing with the wounded.’
‘So why aren’t our chemists working on it?’ asked Richard.
‘Dr Buchwald reckons it’s best to rely on our mass production of sulphonamides because penicillin hasn’t really proved itself yet. And producing it on an industrial scale isn’t possible at this stage, so it wouldn’t really contribute much to the war effort at the moment.’ Fritz let out a sigh of regret. ‘Do you know what I hate most about this war, apart from the obvious stuff like the death and destruction? It’s not being able to exchange ideas with colleagues in other countries for the benefit of all our patients. You know I’d like to see the Royal Air Force shot out of the sky, but the few times I was in London for work I met such good people and we always had really productive discussions.’
Darkness had fallen by the time they left the operating theatre and Fritz decided this was the right moment for the surprise. ‘I’ve got leave of absence for us both till seven in the morning,’ he told Richard. ‘Get spruced up and bring your camera!’
They headed for a bar with more than a hint of Middle Eastern and Italian influences, where the main draw was belly dancers in their exotic and revealing costumes.
Guests sat at tables or lounged on couches, enjoying the traditional hookah.
‘Shall we try a pipe?’ suggested Fritz.
Richard wasn’t keen. He’d never had a taste either for cigars or cigarettes, whereas Fritz enjoyed the occasional cigar.
‘I’ll just watch, I think,’ said Richard after a bit of hesitation, ‘then you can tell me if I’m missing anything.’
‘Then your job is to get a couple of nice photos of the dancers. I’ll take care of all the tips.’
Fritz certainly hadn’t exaggerated the delights of live belly dancing. They’d only ever seen anything like this in moving pictures, so to experience it now with authentic local music and two professional dancers was something very different. The girls’ costumes were a mass of sequins and reminded Richard of the new two-piece swimsuits that had become fashionable of late. Paula had got herself one during the summer just before the start of the war. She’d gone for emerald green, and with her bare midriff and long blonde hair falling loose, had looked for all the world like a mysterious sea goddess in Richard’s eyes.
One of the girls wiggled her way over to the two friends on their couches and gave them quite a close-up of her swaying hips, while other men cheered on in the background. But Richard treated this as all just part of the show and didn’t consider that the dancer was doing this especially for his benefit. She realised she wasn’t having quite the desired effect on Richard so turned to Fritz, who reacted in the same way as his friend and seemed to prefer another drag on the hookah. Richard detected a look of disappointment on her face as she moved away.
The lighting hadn’t been good enough for any photography during the dancing so when the girls came over at the end for a bit more attention and the usual tip, they were surprised to find that Richard still wanted nothing more than a few pictures. He noticed how their stage smiles turned into genuine laughter as he asked them to adopt a few dance poses for him to photograph, something they were more than happy to do. When Richard explained in a mixture of German and Latin, the latter due to its closeness to Italian, that he wanted to show the pictures back home to his wife and children, the women looked so puzzled that Fritz couldn’t help but laugh.
‘I suppose most men wouldn’t even tell their families they’d been anywhere like this,’ remarked Fritz.
‘What about you?’ asked Richard.
‘Me? I’d just like a couple of prints to show Doro and the children. I’m a decent family man like you, my friend.’
They lingered a while in the bar and watched the next act, a turbaned man juggling with flaming torches. While Richard stuck to his usual beer, Fritz was already on his third pipe of the evening.
‘And how was the hookah?’ Richard asked him as they made their way back to their quarters, long after midnight.
‘I feel pretty sick, to be honest. That stuff’s really gone to my head.’
‘You can’t go wrong with a good German beer,’ Ric
hard said with a grin. ‘Shall I fetch you a sick bowl?’
‘Don’t you dare! It’s not that bad!’
The following day, the long-awaited supply convoy rolled in, bringing post as well as the urgently needed food supplies.
There was a parcel for Richard. In it was a new, beautifully framed photograph of Paula and the twins, and a copy of Stefan Zweig’s biography of Marie Antoinette, covered in a deliberately inconspicuous dust jacket. As he unwrapped the book, he broke into a broad smile. Paula had always loved buying him Stefan Zweig because she knew how much he admired the man’s writing. He wondered how on earth she’d got hold of a copy. Since the Nazis had outlawed Zweig and publicly burned his books, it hadn’t been possible to find them anywhere. She had probably found it at her favourite antiquarian bookshop, where the owner would keep special books under the counter for particular customers. A wave of love and affection flooded him with warmth. Not only had his wife sent him something good to read, she’d also chosen a symbol of rebellion against the dictatorship under which they lived. As well as the gifts, there were letters from his children and a very long one from Paula.
My dearest Richard
Not a day goes by without us missing you, although the children are very brave and don’t want to let it show. Your birthday will be especially hard for us and we hope that our good wishes arrive in time. Summer has truly come, and even though it’s not as hot here as it must be for you in Africa, we’re enjoying warm weather that makes me long for those spontaneous trips we used to make to the Baltic coast. Yes, I know I could go there alone with the children but I thought it better to store the car at your father’s place in the garage. With the constant air raids I wouldn’t feel easy driving out to the seaside resorts. So instead of that we’re spending the summer at Moorfleet at your parents’ allotment. The children love it here and can splash around in that little tributary of the Elbe. Georg is thrilled because his friend Horst is out here too, spending the summer at his grandmother’s. The two are inseparable and Emilia felt a bit shut out at first, mostly because the boys love the Winnetou books by Karl May and play at cowboys and Indians the whole time. Horst likes to be the cowboy Old Shatterhand and Georg is his native friend Winnetou. Horst thinks that’s the right way round because Winnetou is silent and Old Shatterhand does all the talking. Emilia didn’t want to be Nscho-tschi because she dies. Fortunately, your father loves reading Karl May and came up with the perfect solution. He suggested to Emilia she should be Kolma Puschi from the Old Surehand books – the woman who lives and fights like a man. Horst and Georg couldn’t argue with that! It looks as though the original adventures will need a rewrite as the boys are now both in thrall to their leader, Kolma Puschi!
A Fight in Silence Page 25
