Stanislaw Lem: Hospital of the Transfiguration

When he came to, he realized that he was lying on something warm. His head rested on Nosilewska’s knees; Pajpak was holding his legs up.

“What happened to the nurses?” Stefan asked distractedly.

“They were all sent to Bierzyniec this morning.”

“What about us?”

No one answered. Stefan stood up, staggered, but felt that he would not faint again. Steps approached from outside; a soldier came in.

“Ist der Professor Lonkoski hier?” he asked.

There was silence. At last Rygier whispered, “Dean. Your Excellency.”

The dean, slumped in his chair when he heard the German’s call, slowly straightened. His large, heavy, expressionless eyes moved slowly from face to face. He grasped the arms of the chair, raised himself up with an effort, and reached into the upper pocket of his coat. He felt for something with a movement of his flattened hand. The priest, in his black cassock, stepped toward him, but the dean gestured categorically and walked to the door.

“Kommen Sie, bitte,” said the German, and graciously allowed him to go first.

The rest sat in silence until two shots roared thunderously in a closed space very nearby. Even the Germans, talking as they sat on the couch, fell silent. Kauters, bathed in sweat, stretched his Egyptian profile into a notched line and wrung his hands until his joints cracked. Rygier twisted his mouth childishly and bit his lip. Only Nosilewska—bent forward, elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her fists—seemed calm. Calm and beautiful.

Stefan felt something swelling in his stomach, his whole body seemed enormous and slick with sweat, a hideous trembling crept over his skin, but he thought that Nosilewska would be beautiful even in death, and he took a perverse satisfaction in the thought.

“It seems that… that we, too…” Rygier whispered to Staszek.

All of them sat on the red chairs except the priest, who stood between two bookcases in the darkest corner, Stefan rushed over to him.

The priest was whispering.

“They’re killing…” said Stefan.

“Pater noster, qui est in coelis, ” whispered the priest.

“Father, it’s not true!”

“Sanctificetur nomen Tuum.”

“You’re wrong, Father, it’s a lie,” Stefan whispered. “There’s nothing there, nothing! I understood it when I fainted. This room, and us, everything, it’s only our blood. When that stops flowing and the heart stops beating, even heaven dies! Do you hear me, Father?”

Stefan pulled at his cassock.

“Fiat voluntas Tua, ” whispered the priest.

“There’s nothing, no color, no smell, not even darkness…”

“It is this world that does not exist,” the priest said quietly, his ugly, pained face looking back at Stefan.

The Germans burst out laughing. Kauters suddenly stood up and went over to them. “Excuse me,” he said in German, “but Herr Obersturmführer took my papers away. Would you happen to know whether…?”

“Be patient,” answered a stout, wide-shouldered German with red-veined cheeks. He turned back to his comrade and spoke. “You know, the houses were already on fire and I thought everyone inside was dead. All of a sudden this woman comes running out through the flames, heading right for the woods. She’s running like a madwoman, holding onto a goose. Unbelievable! Fritz wanted to take her out, but he was laughing so hard he couldn’t shoot straight.”

They both laughed. Kauters stood motionless in front of them, then suddenly his face twisted up strangely and he forced out a reedy “ha ha ha!”

The storyteller’s expression darkened.

“What are you laughing at, doctor?” he asked. “There’s nothing for you to laugh at.”

White spots appeared on Kauters’s cheeks.

“I…” he croaked. “I am German!”

The German looked up at him carefully.

“Are you now? Well in that case go ahead and laugh.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, powerful and hard, instantly recognizable as German.

“Father, do you believe?” Stefan asked with his last ounce of strength.

“I believe.”

A tall officer they had not seen before came in. His uniform fit as if it had been painted on, and a dull sparkle showed on his epaulets. His bare head was long, with a noble forehead and chestnut hair speckled with gray. Light flashed in his steel-rimmed glasses when he looked at them. The surgeon approached him, tensed, and held out his hand.

“Von Kauters.”

“Thiessdorff.”

“Herr Doktor, what has happened to our dean?” Kauters asked.

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll take him to Bieschinetz in my car. He’s packing his things now.”

“Really?” Kauters exclaimed.

The German blushed and shook his head. “Mein Herr!” Then he smiled and said abruptly, “You must believe what I say.

“Why are we being held here?”

“Come now. You were in real trouble before, but Hutka has calmed down now. You’re under guard so our Ukrainians can’t do you any harm. They go for blood like hounds, you know.”

“Really?” asked Kauters, amazed.

“Oh yes, they’re like falcons: you have to feed them raw meat,” the German psychiatrist said with a laugh.

The priest came over and spoke in broken German. “Herr Doktor, how has this come about? Man and doctor and patient, the people who have been shot. Death!”

At first it seemed the German would turn away or raise a hand to shield himself from this black-clad interference, but he suddenly brightened.

“Every nation,” he answered, his voice deep, “is like an organism. Sometimes the body’s sick cells have to be excised. This was such an excision.”

He looked over the priest’s shoulder at Nosilewska. His nostrils flared.

“Aber Gott, Gott,” the priest repeated.

Nosilewska sat silent and motionless, and the German spoke more loudly as he looked at her. “Let me explain it to you another way. In the days of Caesar Augustus there was a Roman viceroy in Galilee who reigned over the Jews. His name was Pontius Pilate…”

The German’s eyes were burning,

“Stefan,” Nosilewska said in Polish, “please tell him to let me go. I don’t need anyone’s protection and I can’t stay here any longer, because…” She broke off.

Stefan, deeply moved—it was the first time she had called him by his first name—went over to Thiessdorff. The German bowed politely.

Stefan asked if they could leave.

“Do you want to leave? All of you?”

“Frau Doktor Nosilewska,” said Stefan, rather helplessly.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Once again, you must be patient.”

The German kept his word. They were released at dusk. The building was silent, dark, and empty. Stefan went to his room to pack a few things. When he turned on the light, he saw Sekułowski’s notebook on the table and threw it into his open suitcase. Then he saw the sculpture next to it. He felt sick when he realized that its creator was somewhere quite near, buried under dozens of bodies in the grave that had been dug that morning.

For a moment he fought the pain tearing at his stomach, then fell on the bed and sobbed briefly, without tears. Then he was calm. He quickly took what he needed, knelt on his suitcase to close it, and locked it. Someone came in. Nosilewska. She carried a briefcase. She handed Stefan a long, white object: a sheaf of papers.

“I found this in the hallway,” she said. When she saw that Stefan did not understand, she added, “Sekułowski lost it. I thought that since you took care of him… It’s—it was his.”

Stefan stood with his arms at his sides.

“Was?” he said. “Yes, it was.”

“It’s better not to think about it now. Don’t,” said Nosilewska, in a physician’s tone. He picked up his suitcase, took the papers, hesitated, and finally slid them into his pocket.