The Girl from Krakow (6 page)

But he could admit, if only to himself, it wasn’t solidarity driving Tadeusz to Spain. It wasn’t romance either. It wasn’t even calculation, though he later would pretend to himself and others that it was. It was just the easiest thing to do, the line of least resistance. It turned the page, wiped the slate clean, disembarrassed Tadeusz of all the obligations he had built up in Paris, Marseille, even as far back as Poland—all his covenants with his parents. He wouldn’t need to bow to conditions for their continued support, still less come home. He wouldn’t even have to excuse or explain his choices to them, or to anyone, for that matter. He wouldn’t have to sit any more exams. None of this made him feel heroic, of course, but at least he could look that way. And who knew, perhaps he’d become a hero. He was, after all, going to have to be a soldier, wasn’t he?

Well after dawn, somewhere between Avignon and Narbonne, the young woman arose from her seat and left the compartment. An hour later she did the same thing. When she returned for the third time, Tadeusz ventured to ask, “Cramps? Could they be contractions?” The girl nodded with a grimace and dropped into her chair.

By the time they were south of Perpignan, she was holding his hand tightly, and the Catalan woman facing them across the compartment understood as well.

Tadeusz had little trouble retrieving the theoretical details of childbirth and delivery from memory, but he needed more information.

He leaned toward the woman across from them. “Pardon me, do you live in Barcelona?” He hoped the Catalan-speaking woman knew some French.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me whether there is a hospital near the train station?”

“Yes. We come into the Estació de França, in Barceloneta. The closest place is Hospital del Mar, very close.”

“Thank you.” It was still two hours to Barcelona, and there were the border formalities at Cerbere.

Perhaps because it was a Monday morning, perhaps it was the socialist work ethic of the Republican customs agents, or perhaps they were just lucky. Passport and customs checks that morning were cursory. By nine o’clock the train was perceptibly slowing as the track joined others converging on the station. Tadeusz turned to the pregnant woman. “You won’t make it to Tarragona. The contractions are coming every four minutes. We are getting you to a hospital here.” She nodded compliance. “Where is your bag?”

“I checked it to Barcelona. I have to change trains for Tarragona.” She winced.

“Good. They’ll keep it for you at the
Consigne.
By the way,” he heard himself say, “I am Dr. Sommermann.” He’d never called himself that before. He liked the sound of “doctor.” So apparently did she. With a wan smile, she introduced herself, Mms. Borda, Aine Borda.

Slowly they made their way between passengers and valises already crowding the corridor.
“Permisso?”
He had already begun to speak Spanish, or was it Catalan?

On the platform now, she was leaning heavily on his arm, tears of pain running down her cheeks as she controlled the urge to cry out.

At the station entrance, they found a cab. “Hospital del Mar,” Tadeusz snapped, pronouncing the ‘s.’ It wasn’t in the French word,
hôpital
, and he liked the sound—stronger. In less than three minutes, they were at the
Urgencia—
the casualty ward
—
where the door was opened by a young man dressed in white, wearing a flat-brimmed cap, also in white. As they entered Tadeusz shouted to no one in particular, “Anyone speak French?” There was a chorus of
“Oui”
from around the waiting room. A nurse, evidently in charge, approached. “Are you the father?”

“No, I am the doctor.” Her demeanor changed instantly. She stood back, awaiting orders. So Tadeusz decided to play the part. “Is there a midwife on duty or a physician?”

“Yes, Doctor, I will find her.” As she turned to leave, an orderly pushing a gurney turned up.

It was an uncomplicated birth, over within an hour. The midwife did everything, but Tadeusz was surprised that he was able to anticipate and understand almost every move. As a physician he was shown deference—
rather too much
, he thought—and allowed to participate, cutting the umbilical cord and tying it off. The child was a healthy girl, and both mother and daughter were wheeled out of the
Urgencia
.

He found himself wondering what she would name the daughter as he rifled through her purse for the baggage check. Finding it, he walked to the outside door, passing the head nurse, who was in conversation with the midwife. Both looked up. “I am going to get the patient’s bag. We just came off the train from Paris.”

Coming out of the hospital, he looked around. He was facing the Mediterranean. Between him and the sea was a line of palm trees sinuously curving into the azure. They were the first he had ever seen, and he realized at once that he would love them. Beyond was a broad expanse of sand, already dotted with sunbathers, wearing less clothing than he was used to seeing on a strand anywhere in northern Europe. The beach sloped down so that he couldn’t see where it met the water, but the sea was a pointillist pattern of intense purple and phosphorescent white. Without sunglasses he could not stare at it long. He turned right, walked along the beach, and turned right again, into Barceloneta. The quarter was a perfectly regular grid of buildings, some painted in pastel, all about five stories each, close enough across the narrow streets to provide one another with shade even against the late morning sun. There were no balconies, but most of the windows were framed by a grillwork, over which hung tropical plantings and colorful laundry. At each intersection, in at least three directions he could see a fierce blue sky. He realized immediately that this part of Barcelona was a peninsula. Then he began noticing the fishmongers and the fry-up stalls among the bars. Shopkeepers and workers going about their affairs seemed remarkably cheerful and much more gregarious than their French counterparts. He was going to like Spain.

It was an hour before he returned to the hospital, carrying their suitcases. Again he headed for the casualty entrance. As he came in, he saw a middle-aged man in a narrowly cut suit with a chalk pinstripe and a black tie in conversation with the intake nurse. The man abruptly turned from his conversation, walked over to Tadeusz, extended his hand, and addressed him in accented French. “
Bienvenu, M. le médecin
—I am Dr. Marti. We were not expecting you till tomorrow. Still, you obviously came at a moment convenient for one of our patients.” He smiled, and before Tadeusz could interrupt, he called over a porter and issued an order, evidently in Catalan. The porter took the bag from Tadeusz while Dr. Marti explained. “He will show you to a room.” By this point Tadeusz had decided to allow the misunderstanding to play itself out a little further.

No one bothered him the rest of that day. So he unpacked, went to the hospital canteen for a meal, and took a turn on the beach. Again he was surprised, disturbed, pleased to see women walking along the water’s edge with bare midriffs and halter tops, looking like the posters of Josephine Baker he had mooned over in Paris. Well before anyone in Barcelona was even thinking about supper, Tadeusz was sound asleep in a room at the
Hospital del Mar
, overlooking the sea.

The next morning a nurse presented herself at his door, addressing him as Dr. Nadeau. He could not allow the misunderstanding to go much further. He corrected her: “Dr. Sommermann.”

“Very well, sir.” She spoke French. Off they went on rounds. As they moved to the first bed, she briefly explained the case—symptoms appeared to be simple pleurisy. “But she is not responding to treatment.” Then she fell deferentially silent, evidently expecting orders. In no position to give any and in fear that anything he suggested might harm the patient, Tadeusz assumed an air of friendly complicity. “What would you do?” The nurse looked surprised. Evidently she had never been asked for her opinion by a doctor. With a broad smile, she offered two or three observations on the patient’s history and made a suggestion.

“Just what I was going to say.” He smiled. Fortunately the next patient and the one after that were suffering from the same symptoms. Tadeusz needed to say something intelligent. Looking at the charts surreptitiously, he noticed that all three shared a surname that ended in “ian.” They had to be Armenian and perhaps Turkish by nationality. He had it. “Could this be familial Mediterranean fever? It’s not uncommon among people from Turkey.” This was so rare a disorder only someone fresh from memorizing textbooks of tropical medicine would even have heard of it. Best of all, the prescribed treatment was identical to cases of pleurisy.

The nurse looked at Tadeusz with a little gasp. “How did you know they are Turkish, Doctor? They’re sisters, an Armenian family from Anatolia.” Tadeusz’s omniscience was extended to include his textbook confabulation.

The rounds did not produce any more difficulties, but evidently Tadeusz was treating staff in completely unaccustomed ways. “Please” and “Thank you.” “What is your advice, nurse?” Every request he made was met with alacrity. Every question was answered in detail. A surprising number of the staff spoke at least a little French, and the Catalan was not impossible to guess at. Things were going much too well.

At four o’clock that afternoon, Dr. Marti, the director, appeared on the ward, flushed but closemouthed. Sighting Tadeusz, he crooked a finger. “Doctor, follow me!”—the words spoken with a tone of anger. Marti led him to an empty consulting room off the main floor. “I have a telegram from Dr. Nadeau here. He’s gotten a better offer and changed his mind about coming. Exactly who are you?” He was fierce but speaking just above a whisper.

“I am Dr. Tadeusz Sommermann. I tried to correct your staff as to my name each time they addressed me. I am a doctor
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
I admit I am not the doctor you were expecting. Give me a moment, and I will explain.”

Marti’s silence was enough of an invitation to continue.

“I brought in the young woman who was delivered of a child yesterday morning.”