by Irma Joubert
“I didn’t realize it was such a mission,” Lettie said.
“There’s another reason,” Marco continued. “My parents’ home is small. It has only two bedrooms, so both families can’t stay there. Lorenzo’s in-laws have a big villa higher up the mountainside, but I think both Antonio and I would prefer to stay in our childhood home if we go back.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” said Lettie.
“My parents are getting older and I know Mama. She’ll want to spoil us and cater to all our needs. It might be a bit overwhelming if we descend on my parents with five kids in tow.”
Lettie began to laugh. “And they can be so wild and uncontrollable when they’re all together! Marco, I’d love to meet your parents and see where you grew up. But I think you’re right, we should wait.”
“Next year we’ll go. I promise,” he said.
That winter, shortly after Antonio and his family had left for Italy, pneumonia clawed its way back into Marco’s chest. It hit him harder than before, completely eroding his resistance and leaving him doubled over with pain.
Lettie immediately resumed the treatments that had helped him in the past. She hired Sister Greyling, a recently retired nursing sister with years of experience, to care for him by day. She herself spent each night at his bedside.
This time it took a second course of penicillin before Lettie was satisfied that Marco was on the mend.
With Marco in the hospital, the children became unruly. Especially Isabella missed her papa terribly. “I think you should take her to see him,” Lettie’s father suggested.
“Marco is still very weak, Daddy,” Lettie replied.
“The child is worried about her father. She’s too young to understand. I think she’d feel better if she could speak to him.”
“If you think so,” Lettie agreed uncertainly. “I’ll see how he feels this afternoon and fetch her. But Leonora must stay.”
On their way to the hospital she tried to prepare the child for what was waiting. “Papa is very sick. He’s in bed,” she said.
“I know, he has pneumonia and he coughs,” Isabella replied earnestly.
“Yes, that’s why he has to sit up in bed, even when he’s sleeping. If he’s asleep when we get there, we mustn’t wake him.”
“I want to speak to Papa,” the child said.
“If he’s awake, you can, Isabella. Papa has a tube in his arm to help make him better, and sometimes there’s a mask over his nose to help him breathe.”
The child sat up straight in the passenger seat next to Lettie, her legs dangling, her feet in white socks and shoes. “I want a red ribbon in my hair,” she had insisted before they left.
She seemed to be pondering something. “Can Papa talk?” she asked after a while.
“A little, but only when he’s awake,” Lettie replied. “And not too much, or he’ll start coughing.”
“I know,” Isabella said.
They walked down the shiny hospital corridor together, the child at Lettie’s side, her shoulders straight, her head held high.
When they reached the ward, Lettie took Isabella’s hand and quietly opened the door. “Papa’s asleep,” she whispered. “We must be quiet.”
Isabella nodded seriously. She let go of her mother’s hand and walked to the bed. But her eyes were level with the mattress.
“Come, Mommy will lift you up so you can see Papa,” Lettie said, bending down.
She sat on Lettie’s arm and looked at her father for a long time. “Why does Papa look so funny?” she whispered. “His face is funny . . .”
“It’s the color of the illness, Isabella,” Lettie said softly. “It has a smell too.”
She breathed in. “Yes, I smell the illness,” she said.
“Papa will soon be well, then he’ll play with you again and tell you stories.”
“And sing songs,” the little girl whispered. “Mommy will make Papa better.”
“It’s Mommy’s work, my love. But Mommy can’t do it alone. Actually, it’s Jesus who makes Papa better. That’s why we pray for Papa every night.”
“And every morning. Oupa prays for Papa in the mornings when we eat our breakfast,” she said seriously.
Slowly Marco opened his eyes. The gaunt face blossomed, the eyes shone. “Isabella,” he whispered hoarsely.
The little face broke into a smile. “Papa!” she said happily and held out her arms.
“Come to me,” he whispered, making a slight movement.
“Wait, careful,” said Lettie. “Come, Mommy will pull the blanket down, then you can sit here, in Papa’s arm.”
“The one without a tube,” Isabella said and carefully moved closer to her father. She put out her hand and stroked his face. “Papa, you look like a pirate. You must shave,” she said.
Marco smiled. “Yes, I must.” He beckoned feebly with his other hand. “Aletta?”
She came round the bed, sat down, and took his hand in her own. “Your little girl wanted to see you. We won’t stay longer than five minutes,” she said.
He nodded. “Leonora?”
“Our youngest is fine,” Lettie said. “She’s being spoiled rotten by my parents. We’ll have to go back to a strict routine when everyone is back home again.”
“As long as the children are happy,” Marco said.
“Leonora misses Papa when we go to bed at night,” Isabella reminded Lettie.
“Tell her Papa will be home soon,” Marco said.
The next moment he was overcome by a coughing fit. Lettie lifted the child off the bed, then held him upright, handed him his handkerchief, rubbed his back, and gave him a sip of water when at last the coughing subsided. She rearranged the pillows behind his back and he leaned back, exhausted, his eyes shut. “Papa is going to rest now. We must go,” Lettie said.
“I want to kiss Papa good-bye, but not on his cheek, it’s too scratchy. I want to kiss his forehead,” the child said firmly.
Lettie picked her up. She leaned over and kissed her father’s brow.
Marco lifted his hand and stroked her hair. “Ciao, Isabella,” he whispered.
“Ciao, Papa,” said the clear little voice.
Isabella held Lettie’s hand as they walked back down the long corridor to the entrance. It wasn’t something that happened often, for the child was fiercely independent. “Papa is sick,” she said somberly.
“Papa is getting better. Before long he’ll be fit as a fiddle,” Lettie tried to reassure her.
“I know,” said Isabella.
In the car on their way back home she said, “When I grow up I want to be a doctor and make people better.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Lettie. “Or you can be a teacher, like Papa, and teach children to be clever.”
The child gave it some serious thought. “Or a fireman, then I can slide down that long pole,” she said.
Lettie laughed. “You can be anything you wish,” she said.
When the two of them walked into her parents’ home, her father asked, “And?”
“You were right, it was the right thing to do, for both of them,” Lettie said.
September 1954 arrived dry and hot. The rains had not yet come. The flowers Mrs. Roux put in the waiting room for Spring Day had wilted by noon.
At one, just as Lettie was getting ready to leave, the phone rang. “Dr. Ismail wants to speak to you,” said Mrs. Roux.
“Put him through,” said Lettie. Yusuf Ismail was an Indian physician with a surgery on the main street in town. He did most of his work at the non-white hospital. Occasionally they exchanged opinions on difficult cases, and sometimes he called to ask her to assist during an operation.
“Dr. Louw?” came the familiar voice over the line.
“Yusuf Ismail!” she scolded. “How many times must I tell you my name is Lettie?”
“And how many times must I tell you if I call you Lettie, the Boers in the vicinity will stone me to death?”
“You’re just as obsessed with
politics as the rest of the folk around here.” Lettie laughed. “How can I help?”
“I’ve got bad news. I’ve just diagnosed our first case of infantile paralysis.”
Lettie felt a shock pass through her body.
“Where, Yusuf? Who’s the patient?”
“A five-year-old black boy admitted to the non-white hospital yesterday. I’m afraid he’s too far gone. They brought him in from a farm in the district, but it’s too late. I wanted to send him to Pretoria, but the ambulance can’t take him until tomorrow.”
At the white hospital two ambulances were on standby, Lettie knew. But the law decreed that no non-white person was to be transported in an ambulance reserved for whites.
“Yusuf!” she said helplessly. “Have you informed the authorities?”
“I’ve been battling for more than an hour to get the call through to Pretoria,” Yusuf replied wearily. “And Dr. Maree has been out in the district all week. I can’t reach him.”
Lettie knew that Yusuf didn’t have the luxury of a receptionist who could tell the operator it was an emergency, that this call to the state department in Pretoria should get priority.
“Listen,” she said, “I’ll get Mrs. Roux to phone Pretoria. She’s very efficient, she’ll set all the wheels in motion. The non-white hospital will probably have to be quarantined at once.”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I got more cases very soon, specifically from the area the child is from,” said Yusuf. “This disease spreads like wildfire.”
“Let’s hope most people from that community have a natural immunity against the disease,” Lettie tried to encourage him. She had to choose her words carefully. Her colleague was quick to pick up any discriminating insinuation, whether one meant it or not. “I still think people from urban areas are more susceptible to the virus.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Yusuf. “I’ll keep you posted.”
The disease spread rapidly through the district. There were new cases on a weekly basis, the victims chiefly black children. The limited facilities of the non-white hospital were hopelessly inadequate. Women were choosing to give birth at home for fear of being infected; Yusuf Ismail drove miles in his small Ford Prefect to deliver babies or tend to children with feverish bodies and anxious eyes.
“I simply can’t help everybody,” he told Lettie one afternoon when she phoned to ask how he was doing. “I don’t have the necessary equipment, and the medication the government provides is the bare minimum. I hear you’ve also diagnosed a case.”
“Two, actually, a little boy last week and another five-year-old boy this morning. That’s why I’m calling,” Lettie replied. “They’re both from the Boggoms River district. I suspect the water might be contaminated. I notified the authorities, but I suppose they’re going to want to fill out forms in triplicate and get approval before anything will be done.”
“I wish the people would seek help sooner, then at least we can treat the symptoms,” Yusuf said despondently. “By the time they get to me, it’s often too late. And of course there are so many superstitions and traditional remedies and medicines . . .”
The line grew quiet. “We do what we can,” Lettie said. “I fear our region is the perfect breeding ground for the virus: it’s hot, the water supply is often inadequate, and whatever the source, it’s used by too many people . . .”
“If only we had a vaccine.” Yusuf sighed.
For a while after Lettie put the receiver down, she sat motionless. The child she had diagnosed that morning had upset her. The ambulance had taken him to Johannesburg, accompanied by Sister Greyling.
But it was a four-hour drive, and there was very little even Sister Greyling could do for him along the way.
Lettie sighed and picked up her doctor’s bag. She was glad to go home.
At the beginning of October, Boelie and Annabel’s daughter was born. Baby Fourie, said the label on her bassinet in the hospital nursery. “We haven’t decided on a name yet,” Boelie said, looking grim.
Six days later he sat opposite Lettie in her surgery, his face pale with worry. “She doesn’t even want to breastfeed,” he said desperately and ran his fingers through his hair.
“This baby won’t be the first to be raised on formula milk, Boelie. Neither is Annabel the first new mother to react this way. Female hormones can be very volatile after pregnancy and birth. Baby blues is a common occurrence.”
Boelie shook his head. “It’s not natural for a mother to reject her baby so utterly. She hasn’t held her even once. She’s a perfect baby, isn’t she, Lettie?” His dark eyes pleaded for reassurance.
“She’s a beautiful little girl, Boelie, and she’s thriving on the formula milk. There’s no need to worry. Annabel will come round, you’ll see. Just give her time.”
Boelie shook his head. “I hope you’re right. I sincerely hope you’re right,” he said heavily. There were dark smudges under his eyes. He got to his feet and picked up his hat from the corner of her desk.
At the door he turned. “You know, Lettie, sometimes the mistakes we make are irreversible,” he said.
He closed the door without saying good-bye.
Every day more people came to the surgery and the list of house calls grew longer. Every common cold or slight flu symptom was regarded with suspicion. “Doctor, are you sure it’s not polio?” The voice would choke to an eerie whisper, forced past the fear.
“There’s an entire family in the waiting room to see you,” Mrs. Roux said one sweltering Thursday morning in early November. “It’s a mister and missus, just so you know.”
“Show them in,” Lettie said, smiling. Over the years Mrs. Roux had developed her own cryptic code to supply the doctors with information about the patients.
Mr. Viljee entered: fat, pompous, brazen. Behind him came Mrs. Viljee: fatter, more pompous, even more familiar. A string of children trooped in, sniffing, fiddling, clambering.
“How can I help?” Lettie asked formally, trying to keep her eye on the swarming kids.
Mr. and Mrs. Viljee made themselves at home in the two chairs reserved for patients while the children explored the surgery. “Hang on, no, you can’t play with that,” Lettie protested. She turned to the father. “Is there someone I need to examine?”
“We’ve brought them for a thorough checkup,” he said, leaning back smugly in his chair. “We’re not taking any chances with this polio thing. We’re not that type.”
“You want me to examine all of you? Is one of the children sick?” Lettie asked.
“What do they look like to you? Do they look sick?” Mrs. Viljee demanded, sounding aggressive.
“You want me to examine them all to make sure they’re healthy?” Lettie got up and lifted a child off the bed. “No, leave those books on the shelf,” she said.
“There’s nothing wrong with my kids,” Mrs. Viljee said firmly.
“In that case I don’t understand what you want from me,” Lettie said as patiently as possible. She removed an instrument from a child’s grasp. “No, don’t touch this,” she said. “And mind your shoes on—”
“I’ve already told you we’ve brought them all for a thorough checkup in case they’ve got polio,” Mr. Viljee said impatiently.
Lettie picked up the bell on her desk and rang it vigorously. The children froze, the door opened, and Mrs. Roux said, “Yes, Doctor?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Viljee and the children will wait outside, and the children will come in one by one to be examined,” Lettie said firmly.
“We’re staying,” Mr. Viljee said, equally firmly.
“One of you may stay. The other must wait with the children.”
Mrs. Viljee took offense. “If all my children aren’t welcome here, we’re leaving! Come!” She marched to the door. “I’m not going to be pushed around by a young upstart who thinks she’s smart just because she has a so-called education. ‘Don’t understand what you want from me’! I ask you!”
The children trooped
out behind her, sniffling and looking offended.
At the door Mr. Viljee turned. “And don’t even think about sending us a bill. I’m not the type to be pushed around. You’ve chosen the wrong man to mess with, missy. You don’t know James Viljee!”
A moment later Mrs. Roux peered around the door. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, “what just happened here?”
“I’m not quite sure myself, but I think I may just have lost a large number of patients,” said Lettie.
“Doctor, what were you thinking?” Mrs. Roux asked, smiling. “Would a nice cup of tea be any consolation?”
Lettie’s phone rang the next morning. “Mr. Pistorius, the principal of the high school, is on the line,” Mrs. Roux said.
“Did something happen at the school?” Lettie asked worriedly.
“I’m not sure. He just said he wants to talk to you.”
“Okay, put him through,” Lettie said.
As it turned out, nothing had happened at the school. As high school principal and chief elder in the congregation, Mr. Pistorius said, he was speaking for the entire community in their deep-rooted desire to approach Dr. Louw to inquire whether she might perhaps find time in her hectic schedule for an information session on the dreaded disease infantile paralysis, which was fast turning into an epidemic both countrywide and locally and was leaving members of the community paralyzed with fear, so to speak . . .
Here the principal lost track and stumbled over his own rhetoric and long-windedness.
“It sounds like a good idea,” Lettie said warily. “Maybe we could arrange for the Department of Health—”
“The community owes you a debt of gratitude for agreeing despite your hectic schedule,” he continued. “The event will take place Monday night—a fortnight from today. It’s hard to find a time and date to suit everyone. There’s the prayer meeting on Wednesdays, town council meeting on Tuesdays, church council meeting on Thursdays, and then it’s the weekend. And if one happens to serve on all those councils—”
