Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

He gave me a friendly pat on the back and disappeared into the building.

In the evening, Elias’s scar was weeping. The pus gave off a sweet, biting odor that reminded me of the Soviet perfume Warszawinka and triggered a gag reflex. Elias’s camera was lying on the nightstand. He was facing the wall, feverish. We had rung for the nurse, but she took her time and then appeared in the room so suddenly that at first I thought she was a ghost. Wearing a short lab coat, the nurse exposed her teeth. Her yellowish incisor was decorated with a blue rhinestone. Not to be taken seriously. She stood there with her hands on her hips and her head thrown back. Her eyes had a fundamentalist glow to them. In a quick, deep voice she said that Elias should get up now. I didn’t think that was a good idea. But when she loudly pointed out that I didn’t know what I was talking about, I had to agree. Although I kept that bit to myself.

The nurse jockeyed Elias out of the bed: “Come on, young man. Get up!”

Elias bit his lip and stood. I saw the pain in his face and yelled at the nurse. My words sounded shrill.

“It’s for his own good!” she yelled back.

When Elias took a step forward he moaned with pain, but remained standing. He stood and suffered and the nurse nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, go ahead.”

Elias took another step, this time no sound escaped him. His face was white as a sheet.

“Can’t you see that he’s in pain?”

“Pain is a part of life. Believe me, I’ve been working here twenty years!”

“Twenty years too long!”

“Masha, it’s OK!” Elias’s forehead shone with little pearls of sweat, his breathing fast and irregular. He took a wavering step toward the bed, looking for something to hold on to, and with an audible gasp he clasped the bedpost with both hands. I pushed him onto the bed. Elias gave in to my movements and allowed me to sit him up. I laid my hand on his cheek, which was rough and hot. His eyes were filled with tears. As were mine.

I stood in front of Elias, ready for anything. But Elias pulled me down toward him onto the bed and feebly told the nurse: “Please leave.”

“That’s a first.” The woman stormed out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Elias put his head on my shoulder and I helped him to lie down. He got into a fetal position and turned to face the wall. Shortly after, his whole body started shivering. I stroked his hair, but he didn’t react. I ran into the hallway and dragged the next nurse who passed by into the room. She removed the dressing from Elias’s wound and quickly closed the curtains that separated his bed from the others, even though the other beds were empty. The wound looked bad.

Elias was sent to the radiology ward. When he was brought back, he was convulsing with pain. The doctors were waiting for the lab results. Finally, the senior physician came in, a short bald guy with a paunch. He was followed by a dozen medical students, because this turned out to be a teaching hospital. The senior physician examined the wound, furrowing his brow. Afterward the students hunkered over Elias. Some assumed a disgusted expression, others pushed their colleagues aside to get a better look. I stood in the corner and refused to look at both Elias and the wound. I could smell it.

Elias, pale and no longer responsive, was wheeled back into the operating theater early in the morning. His parents had left home before dawn. Now we were all waiting in the cafeteria: his father with his large-pored nose and brutish face, his mother, chubby cheeks and robust arms. Both sat silently in front of full mugs and homemade sandwiches.

Horst read Der Spiegel while Elke and I looked out the window. The sky was dreary. The weather had turned windy and rainy overnight. The father and mother took turns covertly examining me. I looked at their faces and was reminded of Elias’s childhood pictures: first day at school, Elias in front of the Christmas tree, at his civic initiation ceremony — a pale and shy child. When they both happened to be looking at me at the same time, I suddenly felt embarrassed about my clothes, for having put on makeup and for wearing heels — despite the fact that I had spent the night at the hospital and that it hadn’t been this morning when I’d put on the makeup, but the morning before. Elke cleared her throat and checked her watch, Horst nervously rustled the magazine.

The window where we were sitting was facing the narrow and empty street. A gray bundle in the middle of the road caught my eye. At first I thought it was just a plastic bag, but plastic bags are rarely gray. Then I thought it was a stuffed animal. I excused myself, setting my mug on the table a little too loudly, and said I had to use the restroom. In the restroom the mirror reflected a rather unpleasant image: my nose was shiny, which made it look bigger and bumpier than usual. My mascara was smudged. The doctor couldn’t tell how long the surgery would take.

I was standing out on the street and kept my breathing low to calm myself. The wind was icy and my hands shivered. For a while I monitored my breathing, then I spotted the animal. A rabbit. And it was alive. At least its ribcage rose and fell in irregular intervals. I knew only two prayers: the Lord’s Prayer and Shema Yisrael. The Lord’s Prayer was useless and Shema Yisrael by itself wouldn’t be sufficient. I would bargain with God. Elias versus the rabbit. HE should let the rabbit die and not Elias. I deeply regretted not being religious and not having anything more impressive up my sleeve than “Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might. These words which I command you today shall be on your heart.” I swayed in prayer as I had seen the Orthodox Jews do on one of the public channels. Not Elias. Please not him. Not him. Not him. I would bury the rabbit and recite the rabbit kaddish by heart.

I told God that HE could kill the rabbit right away. The rabbit kept breathing, no car in sight. I carefully lifted the rabbit. It didn’t have any exterior wounds, but its ears hung limply, its fur full of street dust and its red eyes as good as dead (insofar as death can be predicted from red eye color). And what if it wasn’t hurt? What if it was just lying down for a quick rest?

I put the rabbit back down and once again recited the Shema Yisrael. On the right a small GM Opel passed by. Elias’s parents were watching me from the cafeteria window. Panic rose inside me, I searched for a stone. The thought “There are no stones here” passed through my head. But Elias’s life was at stake. I walked along the street and next to the bus stop there was a stone. A good sign. I climbed over the guard rail and took the first stone that I found.

When I returned, the animal had remained persistently alive. How do you explain faith to a rabbit? I bent down to pat its head — it was soft and wet and didn’t react to my touch. My hand shook. I stood up, took aim. The stone hit the ground next to the rabbit’s head. Again I lifted the stone and had the distinct feeling that the rabbit was staring at me. I asked it for forgiveness and once more let go of the stone. This time I hit the mark and its skull burst. The brain mass leaked and mixed with blood and bone splinters. I turned away and suppressed a rising sickness.

As I returned to the cafeteria and to Elias’s parents, I tried to tread lightly and not to let my heels clatter too loudly on the marble steps. My hands were red from the cold.

The surgery had been successful, Resident Physician Weiss informed us. He stood there bow-legged and grinning, shaking Horst’s and Elke’s hands. I stood by their side, looking at Elias. He lay motionless in his bed. An even longer piece of metal protruded from his thigh. In three weeks, approximately, he would be allowed to return home. He could then continue the treatment as an outpatient. The rain pattered against the window and out on the street. Pedestrians under umbrellas were trying to outrun the weather.