Page 63 of The Last Safe Place
“Very well, let’s go into the living room. Would you like a coffee?”
“Thank you. After the hellish ride here, I could use some refreshment.”
Frau Seifert turned to the young girl, “Claudia, would you please brew us coffee.” Turning to Michaela, she explained, “Claudia is a friend’s niece. She’s been living with us since her parents were deported a few weeks ago.”
Sitting down on the couch, Michaela asked, “What did the other doctor say?”
“Anton has suffered from gallstones for a long time.”
Michaela nodded. That explained Herr Seifert’s pale, greenish, pain-distorted face when she had seen him a few days ago.
“In the last few days, it’s been particularly bad. We didn’t think anything of it at first. I gave him chamomile tea to drink, as usual. But it got so bad that I called an Aryan doctor friend of ours. He has diagnosed acute gallbladder inflammation and has advised immediate surgery.”
Michaela bit her lip. She’d have suggested the same treatment. “Assuming the Jewish hospital has a bed available, and can operate on him immediately, he’d have to maintain strict bed rest afterward.”
“Exactly.” The wrinkle on Frau Seifert’s forehead deepened. “That’s what Dr. Nolte mentioned too. Anton would have to stay in the hospital for at least two weeks.”
Michaela thought that was very optimistic. Judging by Herr Seifert’s age and his recurring headaches from a gunshot wound sustained in the First World War, she suspected his recovery time would be closer to four or six weeks. She sucked her breath in audibly as the consequences sank in.
To buy time, she drank a few sips of coffee and placed the delicate white porcelain cup with its dark pink floral pattern back on the saucer.
“What do you want me to do?”
“A miracle cure would be my first choice,” replied Frau Seifert drily.
“Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of them.” How many times had Michaela wished she could do more for her patients than make herbal dressings or offer a massage.
Frau Seifert must have sensed the frustration Michaela felt at her helplessness. She looked intently into the doctor’s eyes over the rim of her teacup. “My dear Frau Kronberg, we both know how tightly your hands are tied. All I want is an informed opinion. Please examine my husband and advise me what I should do.”
“Certainly. Where can I wash my hands?”
“In the bathroom. Please follow me.”
Michaela always carried a bar of soap in her bag, just in case. However, it wasn’t needed today. Despite all the hardships, the Seiferts seemed to be doing relatively well. Beside the sink was a piece of genuine, perfumed soap.
Frau Seifert must have noticed Michaela’s surprise, or maybe she was simply used to the same reaction from other guests. “One of my husband’s clients before the war was a soap manufacturer. When he emigrated, he gave us two cases of soap. We had no idea at the time how valuable soap would become.”
Michaela washed her hands thoroughly and followed Frau Seifert upstairs into the bedroom. Here, too, it was clear that the family had once been well-off, although the fine linen sheets were now worn, and the fabric wallpaper was peeling.
Anton Seifert was lying in bed, as pale as a ghost. His lips were pressed firmly together, and he seemed not to notice them enter.
“Anton, Frau Kronberg is here.”
He turned his head to the side, groaning in agony.
“Lie still and don’t move,” Michaela ordered. She walked to the bed and set down her medical bag.
“Did Dr. Nolte give you an antispasmodic?”
Frau Seifert stepped in to answer, as her husband’s jaw clenched while another wave of pain washed over his body. “He left some pills – one every four hours, as needed.”
“May I?” Michaela asked, waiting for a nod before pulling back the covers and palpating Herr Seifert’s upper abdomen. Everything, including his reaction, indicated an acute gallbladder infection, and in any other circumstances she’d have recommended immediate surgery.
After the brief examination, Herr Seifert’s eyes fell closed with exhaustion. Michaela usually preferred to discuss possible treatments in the presence of the patient. She despised doctors who acted like arrogant demigods in white, smugly deciding on the best course of treatment without discussing it with either the patient or the family.
On this occasion however, she decided it would be better to let Herr Seifert sleep and discuss the situation with his wife. It wouldn’t be an enjoyable conversation. She picked up her medical bag and walked to the door, where she asked Frau Seifert, “Could we discuss it further in the living room?”
“Yes, naturally.” The woman was astonishingly composed – something Michaela observed in many of her Jewish patients. The constant blows of fate had deadened people’s emotions.