Page 8 of The Last Safe Place
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I won’t leave you here alone.” He was right, of course. As long as she was married to an Aryan man, she and their two children enjoyed privileged status.
Their daughters had been living with Dieter’s sister for some time, since caring for her husband and working as a medical carer left her no time to spare for the upbringing of her children. Besides, in a village, away from Berlin, where no one knew of Michaela’s Jewish origins, the girls were better protected from persecution.
“I wish I were stronger,” Dieter whispered. She saw how much he suffered – not only physically with his illness, but also mentally, with the knowledge that without him she would be vulnerable to Nazi persecution.
“Don’t exert yourself.” Gently, she pushed him back against the pillow. “I love you. That’s all that matters.”
Dieter suppressed a groan as another wave of pain surged through his tormented body. Michaela could no longer bear to watch, and drew a syringe of morphine.
Legally, she wasn’t permitted to give him morphine, because the Nazis had withdrawn her license to practice medicine in 1938. She was no longer allowed to call herself a doctor or treat Aryan patients. Fortunately, Dr. Palchow, an old colleague who had officially taken over Dieter’s treatment, was willing to supply her with the necessary painkillers.
As soon as she had injected her husband, his muscles relaxed, and his expression softened. He looked almost as he had back in the time when she’d first met him, before the cancer had turned him into a shell of the man he used to be.
“You shouldn’t waste so much morphine on me, you need to keep a stock for your other patients.” Dieter reached for her hand.
She stroked his cheek affectionately. “That’s sweet of you, but you can’t ask me to sit idly by while you writhe in pain.”
“Ask Dr. Palchow to write you a new prescription.”
“I will. Don’t worry, this isn’t eating into my emergency supply. The good doctor prescribes you enough morphine to kill an elephant.” Since Dieter had been sent home from the Charité hospital to die, she had reason to be infinitely grateful to her colleague for his help. They had never talked about it, but he knew full well that she was using the bulk of Dieter’s medication for her Jewish patients.
Dieter squeezed her hand gently. “Ask him today, before it’s too late.”
Bravely, she swallowed the tears welling up in her eyes. “You’re a long way from dead.”
His resigned smile told her he knew the truth. His life was coming to an end. Michaela was one of the finest doctors for miles around; even many of her previous Aryan patients had remained loyal to her. They came in the evening under cover of darkness, or asked her to visit, providing generous gifts of food, clothing, and other things she was no longer permitted to buy.
It grieved her all the more that she could not help her own husband. Looking at their circumstances dispassionately, Dieter was right, and she should have left the country a long time ago. But how could she ever look in the mirror again if she abandoned her terminally ill husband? A sick patient, no matter how good the medical care he received, needed the love and affection of those closest to him.
Michaela would never have had the heart to leave him, either in a professional or a personal capacity. Besides, leaving would mean not seeing her daughters again for many years, since obtaining an exit permit for three people was much more difficult and expensive than for herself alone.
She sighed deeply. There was no way around it: for better or worse, she was at the mercy of the Nazis. When Dieter was dead, she would think about emigrating. Right now, he needed her.
As soon as he had fallen asleep, she put on her coat to make a house call. One of the many advantages of being married to an Aryan was that she didn’t have to wear the hateful yellow star, as most of her patients had to. Nor did the curfew apply to her. She was allowed to move freely around the city at any time of day or night. No one ever asked for her papers when she was carrying her big medical bag.
Since the grocer’s son had been brutally beaten up by the SA a week ago, she had looked in on him every day, and he was now on the road to recovery. His wounds had healed without infection, and she had been able to splint his broken arm with the equipment she had available. The grocer had turned out to be extremely grateful and always gave her the best food for her ration cards.
On the way home, she checked in on an old lady who was bedridden. As usual, Michaela gave the door a forceful shove to open it. But today, it wouldn’t budge, not even at the second attempt. Although she knew the old lady couldn’t leave the bed, Michaela rang twice anyway. Then she knocked. “Frau Behrends, are you home?”
Not a sound came from the apartment.
Just as Michaela was wondering whether to call the police, the door to a neighboring apartment opened and the face of a woman in her mid-thirties, framed with hair curlers, looked out.
“What’s all this noise?” The woman broke off as she recognized Michaela. “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”
Michaela decided it wasn’t necessary to correct the woman. “I came to check on Frau Behrends.”
The neighbor frowned. “Didn’t you know she’s been transferred to a nursing home? Two nurses came yesterday to take her away.”
Hot and cold shivers ran alternately down Michaela’s back. A Jewish woman being transferred to a nursing home didn’t bode well. While the murdering of sick, old and disabled people – euphemistically termed a mercy killing – had recently been stopped after objections from relatives, Michaela didn’t believe for a second that a bedridden Jewish woman would be lovingly cared for in a state nursing home.
“Do you know which home?” she asked.
“Nah, they didn’t say.” The neighbor tilted her head. “Didn’t you order it? You’re her doctor, aren’t you?”
This conversation was gradually moving into unsafe territory, so Michaela smoothed over the issue. “No, something like this is decided by the authorities. We’re usually the last ones to know. Thank you for the information.” She hurried back down the stairs. She couldn’t do anything to help Frau Behrends. But Michaela could still do a lot of good for her other patients, provided she wasn’t denounced for an alleged crime by an overzealous neighbor.
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