Page 64 of The Last Safe Place
There was freshly brewed ersatz coffee on the coffee table, which Frau Seifert poured in two cups.
“Doctor Nolte was not mistaken. Surgery would indeed be the only correct treatment. However,” Michaela suddenly felt very tired, “after an operation of that nature, your husband couldn’t embark on the long journey for at least two months.”
“If he can’t travel, I’ll stay behind too,” said Frau Seifert.
Her reaction was foolish, yet understandable. Michaela would have done the same. She’d never have left her sick husband behind.
“There is a possible alternative treatment,” she said slowly and immediately raised her hands in warning as she noticed the hopeful glow in Frau Seifert’s eyes. “Your husband must have surgery eventually. However, if we manage to stabilize his condition, the operation could be postponed until after our journey.”
Frau Seifert nodded. “What does that mean?”
“Strict bed rest. A bland diet. Lots of vegetables, but strictly no cabbage, cauliflower, pulses or cucumbers. No sauces. Strictly limited spices. No coffee.”
Frau Seifert gulped visibly. The only vegetable available to Jews these days was cabbage. “And then he’ll be all right?”
“No. Then there’s a chance the inflammation will reduce enough to make him fit to travel. As soon as we’re in Switzerland, he must have the surgery.” She looked at Frau Seifert. “However, there’s always the risk that acute sepsis will set in, and he’ll have to go straight to hospital. We can’t completely rule that out. You can’t let him get distressed under any circumstances.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“I know.” Michaela wished she could give a better prognosis. “But it’s his only chance. Your husband’s general condition is not the best.” That was putting it mildly. “It would take him at least six weeks after surgery to get back on his feet.”
“And by then the train to Switzerland will be long gone,” Frau Seifert completed her sentence.
“I’m afraid so. Give your husband thin soups without acid and a cup of chamomile tea every two to three hours during the day.” She rummaged through her medical bag and pulled out a package of chamomile flowers, which she had received as a gift from a patient. “It’ll relieve the cramps, and it has an anti-inflammatory effect.”
“Thank you so much,” said Frau Seifert. “I’ll do exactly as you suggest. Neither Anton nor I want to stay in this country a minute longer than necessary.”
“Pray that the treatment works, and—” Michaela pressed the last remnant of her carefully guarded emergency supply of morphine into Frau Seifert’s hand. “If the pain gets worse, give him one or a maximum of two drops of this.”
“God bless you.” Frau Seifert gratefully accepted the painkiller.
Michaela said goodbye and climbed back onto the bicycle rack. Her conscience plagued her for the entire journey home. Medically, the treatment she had suggested was completely absurd. The man needed to go to hospital for immediate surgery.
She could only hope that his constitution was strong enough to survive the arduous journey to Switzerland.
31
MID-SEPTEMBER 1942
Eberhard gazed at Selma, who was struggling with tears as four furniture removers carried every item of value out of their apartment, including the piano she had so loved to play.
Even the antique bureau and the pictures on the wall were packed, along with their good porcelain, the beautiful champagne flutes, the linen sheets – everything that had a value, however insignificant, had been loaded into the removal van to be taken to the auction house.
“Don’t fret,” he said, in an attempt to comfort his wife. “The proceeds will secure our ticket to freedom.”
“I know, but…” Her hand flew to her heart as one of the men carried away a small brass statuette that Eberhard had given her when Johanna was born. None of the items had significant material value, though taken together, they were worth a pretty penny.
It was the sentimental value that weighed heavily on both their hearts. When he’d signed the asset transfer papers, he hadn’t realized how many emotions were attached to these things. His heart contracted painfully as his desk chair was carried past.
How many years had he sat on it to work on his files? Next came the suits and any clothing not on the inventory list for their emigration luggage. Not even the fine high-heeled shoes and the long dress Selma had worn to Johanna’s wedding years ago were spared. Every single item was packed into boxes and taken away.
Eberhard turned away, unable to bear the distress any longer. The Abwehr would keep the apartment. Located in one of the central districts of Berlin, the rent would continue to contribute to their emigration costs.
Instinctively, he clenched his hand in a fist, until Selma’s hand touched his back. “We would have lost all this anyway, the moment we left the country. The Gestapo would’ve been pleased to take it all.”
His head knew it was true, but it still hurt in his heart. He forced a smile. “At least this way it’ll serve a good purpose.”
Their other companions, in particular Leonore, could never have raised the horrendous deposit required. As they stood watching, a removal man carried Selma’s jewelry box past them.