Stanislaw Lem - Hospital of the Transfiguration

Pajpak nodded vigorously: he remembered, he was listening, he was paying attention,

“I do not know, however, what my role in all this might be,” the dean went on. “As far as I know, the staff and the doctors are in no danger. Whereas the patients…”

He should not have said that. Accustomed as he was to preparing his words well in advance, he must not have been thinking this time.

Pajączkowski appeared no different, but though his thin hand was still an old man’s hand, it did not tremble as it rested on the comer of the desk.

“These are times,” he said, “in which human life is losing its value. These are horrible times, but Your Excellency’s name should still be able to guard this house like a shield and save the lives of one hundred and eighty unfortunate people.”

The dean’s other hand, which had remained behind the desk as if not taking part in the discussion, now intruded in a vigorous horizontal gesture where meaning was clear: Silence.

“I am not, after all, the director of this institution,” he said. “I am not even listed as an employee. I hold no position here. My presence is entirely unofficial, and I believe that serious problems may arise for me—and for you—on that account. However, I will remain here if you so wish. As for my mediation, the Germans have already evaluated what services I have performed. In Warsaw. And you know to what effect. The wild young Aryan who, as you say, intends to kill our patients tomorrow is following the orders of an authority that respects neither age nor academic reputation.”

Silence fell, a change coming slowly over the room. The last rays of the setting sun moved across the cabinet by the window in a red, weeping stain so delicate that Stefan, though riveted by the conversation, could not help following it with his eyes. Then a blue veil dropped over the room like clear water. It got darker, and sadder, the way the lighting announces a new scene in a well-staged play.

“I am going there now,” said Pajączkowski, who stood erect and looked quixotic with his small beard. “I thought that you would accompany me.”

The dean did not move.

“In that case, I’ll be off. Good-bye, Excellency.”

They left. In the corridor, Stefan felt very small beside the old man. The tiny, withered face bore a great deal of pride at that moment.

“I’m going now,” he said, as they stood at the top of the light-dappled staircase. “I trust you will keep everything you have just heard to yourself until I return.”

He put his hand on the rail. “The dean has been going through a difficult time. He was thrown out of the laboratory in which he laid the groundwork for electroencephalography. His work was important not only in Poland. Still, I didn’t think…” Here a shade of the old Pajpak returned, but only for an instant: his beard trembled. “I don’t know. Acheronta movebo

“You want me to go along?” Stefan suddenly asked. Fear swept over him. He felt stunned, just as he had when the German kicked him, and he took a step back.

“No. What could you do? Only Kauters, perhaps.” He added, after a long pause, “But he wouldn’t go. I’m sure of that. The scene in there was enough for me.”

He started down the empty stone staircase with strides so firm that it was as if he wanted to refute all the rumors of his poor health.

Stefan was still standing at the top of the stairs when Marglewski appeared. The scrawny doctor was in bubbling spirits. He grabbed a button of Stefan’s shirt and drew him to the window.

“Have you heard that the priest is saying Mass tomorrow? He needs altar boys and I promised Rygier that I would find some for him. You know who’s going to serve? Little Piotr from my ward! You know who I mean?”

Stefan remembered a small blond boy with a face like a Murillo angel and a shock of gold hair. A drooling, retarded cretin.

“It’ll be out of this world! Listen, we absolutely have to…”

Stefan sacrificed the button, shouted that he was in a hurry, and left Marglewski in mid-sentence. He ran out of the building and down the road to Bierzyniec where Pajączkowski had gone. As he flew downhill, barely seeing the road, he heard a sound above the crunching of the leaves. He stopped and looked up. It was a motor. Someone was driving up the hill. A cloud of dust drew nearer behind the trees. Stefan could not help shivering, as if an icy wind had blown over him. He turned back quickly. He had almost reached the stone arch with its worn inscription when the engine roared past him. He leaned against the pillar.

It was a German military vehicle, a slab-sided Kübelwagen, rocking as it climbed in second gear. The driver’s helmet showed dark behind the windshield. The vehicle turned and stopped at the gate with a clatter.

Stefan walked toward it.

A big German was standing at the wall, wearing a camouflage cape, dark goggles pushed up onto his helmet, and black gloves with embroidered labels. Patches of mud were drying on the folds of his cape. He was saying something loudly to the gatekeeper. When Stefan heard his question, he answered in German: “Unfortunately the director is not here at the moment. May I help you?”

“Things have to be straightened out here,” the German replied. “Are you the vice-director?”

“I’m a doctor here.”

“All right, then. Let’s go inside.”

The German walked in decisively, as if already familiar with the place. The driver remained behind the wheel. Stefan noticed that he kept his hand on an automatic pistol lying on the seat beside him.

Stefan led the German into the main office.

“How many patients are here at present?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know if…”

“I’ll decide when you should apologize,” the German said sharply. “Answer me.”

“About a hundred and sixty.”

“I must have the exact figure. Let me see the papers.”

“That is confidential.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” answered the German. Stefan took the book off the shelf and opened it. The hospital population was 186.

“So. You’re sure you’re not lying?”

Stefan’s cheeks felt numb. He couldn’t take his eyes off the German’s sharp chin. His cold, sweaty fingers were clenched into fists. Those washed-out German eyes had seen hundreds of people strip naked at the edges of ditches, making meaningless movements as, understanding nothing, they tried to prepare their living bodies to tumble into the mud. The room spun—only the tall figure with the green cape thrown over his shoulders remained fixed.

“What a disgusting backwater this is,” the German said. “Two days hunting down those swine in the woods. A special committee is coming here. If you hide one single patient, that’s it.” No explicit threat, no gestures, no expression. Yet Stefan still felt numb inside. His lips were dry. He kept licking them.

“Now show me all the buildings.”

“Only doctors are allowed in the wards,” said Stefan, barely above a whisper. “Those are the rules.”

“We make the rules,” said the German. “Enough stalling.”

He pushed past Stefan, staggering him. They walked across the yard at a brisk pace. The German looked around, asking questions. How many beds in a given ward? How many exits? Are the windows barred? How many patients?

Finally, on his way out, he asked how many staff and doctors there were. He stopped at the broadest stretch of lawn and looked both ways, as if taking its dimensions.

“You can sleep easy,” he said when they got back to the vehicle. “Nothing will happen to you. But if we find a bandit here, or a weapon, or anything like that, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

The vehicle started as the German settled his enormous bulk into the backseat. Only then did Stefan realize two peculiar things: he had seen not a single doctor or nurse, even though they were usually out walking in the evening, and he had no idea who the German was. His cape had covered his insignia. He remembered nothing of his face, just the helmet and dark glasses. The man might as well have been a Martian, Stefan was thinking when the sound of light footsteps ended his reverie.