Stanislaw Lem: Hospital of the Transfiguration

“Excuse me?”

“Is there any potassium cyanide in the pharmacy?”

“Well, yes,” mumbled Stefan, unable to collect his thoughts. In his amazement he dropped the bottle of luminal, which shattered on the floor. He bent to pick up the pieces, but then stood and looked expectantly at the dean.

“The key is hanging right there, Excellency. Yes, that one.” The cyanide and other poisons were kept under lock and key in a small cabinet on the wall.

Łądkowski opened a drawer and took out a small glass tube that had contained piramidon. Then he took a jar off the shelf, uncorked it with tongs, and carefully poured white crystals into the tube. He corked it and put it in the upper pocket of his coat. He locked the cabinet, hung the key back on its nail, and turned to go. But he stopped and hung the key back on its nail, and turned to go. But he stopped and said to Stefan, “Please don’t tell anyone about this…”

He gripped Stefan’s hand, squeezed it with his cold fingers, and said in a half-whisper, “Please.”

He hurried out, closing the door softly.

Stefan stood leaning on the table, still feeling Łądkowski’s fingers on the back of his hand. He looked around, went back to the cabinet to pour himself some bromine. With the bottle in his hand, he froze.

He had caught a momentary glimpse of Łądkowski’s frail old chest through his unbuttoned shirt. It reminded him of a fairy tale about a powerful king, a story that had once obsessed him.

This monarch ruled an enormous kingdom. People for a thousand miles around obeyed him. Once, when he had fallen asleep on his throne in boredom, his courtiers decided to undress him and carry him to the bedchamber. They took off his burgundy coat, under which shined a purple, gold-embroidered mantle. Under that was a silk robe, all stars and suns. Then a bright robe woven with pearls. Then a robe shining with rubies. They removed one robe after another until a great shimmering heap stood beside the throne. They looked around in terror. “Where is our king?” they cried. A wealth of precious robes lay before them, but there was no trace of a living being. The title of the story was “On Majesty, or, Peeling an Onion.”

The conference in Kauters’s apartment lasted an hour. In the end the surgeon opted for nonintervention: he would know nothing, do nothing. He would admit to familiarity with the operating room alone. Sekułowski would pose as the doctor on his ward. When Nosilewska told Stefan about the discussion, she mentioned that Sister Gonzaga was in Kauters’s apartment, sleeping on two armchairs pulled together. Sister Gonzaga? Stefan no longer had the strength to be astonished. He felt numb. He saw everything through a light fog. It was almost six. He saw Rygier in the corridor sitting in a special wheelchair used to transport paralytics. Rygier put the bottle on the floor in front of him and delicately kicked at it, as though delighted by the pure sound of glass.

Stefan was struck by the tension on his face, which seemed to presage an outbreak of tears at any moment. He did not dare say anything, but Rygier suddenly started hiccupping.

“Do you know where Pajączkowski is?” Stefan asked.

“He went out into the garden,” said Rygier, hiccupping.

“What for?”

“He’s with the priest. They must be praying.”

“I see.”

Sekułowski emerged from the library and spotted Stefan.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m all in. I think I’ll lie down. We’ll need our strength in the morning.”

Sekułowski seemed heavier in the white coat. The belt was too short to tie until he added a length of bandage.

“I admire, doctor. I couldn’t do it.”

“Don’t be silly. Come to my room.”

Stefan noticed a bundle on the radiator in the stairwell. Then he remembered that the boy had given it to him. He picked it up and, curious, unwrapped it. He saw the head of a man wearing a helmet, submerged to the upper lip in a block of stone. The eyes bulged and the cheeks were distended. The invisible mouth, lost in the stone, seemed to scream.

He put the statue on the table in his room, pulled the blanket off the bed, moved the chair, and fell onto his pillow. At that moment, Rygier burst in.

“Listen,” he said. “Young Pościk’s here. He’s taking six patients through the woods to Nieczawy. Do you want to go along, Mr. Sekułowski?”

“Who is it?” Stefan moved his lips voicelessly.

But his whisper was drowned by the poet’s questions: “Who? Which patients?”

Stefan raised himself from the bed, fighting sleep.

“Young Pościk, who worked at the substation. He came over from the forest and is waiting downstairs.” Rygier was sobering up. “He’s taking everyone who didn’t get luminal from the old man. Do you want to go or not?”

“With the lunatics? Now?” the poet asked, getting out of the chair. His hands were shaking.

“Should I go?” he said, turning to Stefan.

“I can’t give you any advice on this.”

“After curfew, with the lunatics,” Sekułowski calculated half aloud. “No!” he said decisively, but when Rygier reached the doorway, he shouted, “Wait!”

“Make up your mind! He can’t wait. It’s two hours through the woods!”

“But who is he?”

Sekułowski was plainly asking questions to stall for time. His hand was on the knot of the belt around his coat.

“He’s a partisan! He just got here and had an argument with Pajączkowski about the way those patients were doped on luminal.”

“Is he reliable?”

“How should I know? Are you coming or not?”

“Is the priest going?”

“No. Well?”

Sekułowski said nothing. Rygier shrugged and left, slamming the door. The poet took a step to follow, then stopped.

“Maybe I should go,” he said helplessly.

Stefan’s head dropped back on the pillow. He murmured something.

He could hear the poet pacing and talking, but could make no sense of the words. A paralyzing somnolence rose within him.

“Lie down,” he said, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Abright light woke him. A rod of some kind was digging into his shoulder. He opened his eyes and lay motionless. He had drawn the blinds the night before and the room was dark. Several tall people were standing at his bed. Groggy with sleep, he shielded his eyes: one of the men was shining a powerful flashlight in his face.

“Wer bist du?” Who are you?

“He’s all right. He’s a doctor,” another voice, somehow familiar, said in German. Stefan gave a start. There were three Germans in dark raincoats, automatics slung over their shoulders. The door to the hall was open. He. heard the heavy tread of hobnailed boots outside.

Sekułowski was standing in the comer. Stefan noticed him only when the German shined the light in that direction.

“Is he a doctor too?”

Sekułowski replied in rapid German, his voice breaking. They left one by one. Hutka stood in the door. He left a young soldier in command, ordering him to bring the doctors downstairs. They took the rear staircase. In the pharmacy they saw Pajączkowski, Nosilewska, Rygier, Staszek, the dean, Kauters, and the priest, all guarded by another soldier in a black uniform. The soldier escorting Stefan and the poet entered, closed the door, and took a long look at them. The director stood near the window with his back to the others, his shoulders hunched. Nosilewska sat on a metal stool, Rygier and Staszek in chairs. The day was cloudy but bright, the white of the clouds showing through the rusty leaves. A soldier blocked the door. He was a peasant with a dark, flat face and a crooked jaw. He breathed more and more heavily, and finally shouted in Ukrainian, “Well, doctors, what about you? The Ukraine lives, but you’re finished!”