Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

A couple of days later, unable to go back to the hospital, I called Patient Information.

“Beth Israel, how may I assist you?” came the voice of a female operator.

“I’d like to know how Jiri Weisz-Krupka is doing?”

“It’s Krupka-Weisz.”

“That’s what I meant. How is he?”

I knew they’d say Fine. They always say Fine, even if a patient is clinging to life. Even if he already unclung it.

“How do you spell the name?”

I spelled it, last name first, first name last. She repeated the spelling.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Gone gone.”

I barely choked out the word, “Dead?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but the new privacy laws do not permit me to give out any personal information.”

“Then why did you correct his name and ask me to spell it?”

“So as not to disappoint you right away.”

“Then why did you say, ‘Gone’?”

“Three reasons. But I’ll give you only the fourth. We don’t give out personal information.”

“But I don’t want personal information. I just want to know if he’s alive, at least if he’s still in Beth Israel.”

“That’s personal and I cannot give it.”

“May I speak to your supervisor?”

“Of course.”

After a brief delay a woman with a raspy smoker’s voice answered.

“This is the supervisor. The lady at the other end was right. We cannot give out personal information without the patient’s consent.”

“All right. But if, let’s say, he’s — I’m not saying he is, but for argument’s sake, suppose he is. How can he give his consent?”

The supervisor seemed to take a sip of something, then cleared her throat and said:

“So if you know that already, not that it’s necessarily so, which I can neither confirm nor deny, why ask me?”

“I don’t know it. I just used it as an example. But I would like to know.”

“That is personal information.”

“Can’t you contact him to see if he will authorize information to be given to a relative?”

“Not without his permission. Sorry.”

“Can I speak to your supervisor?”

“Certainly.”

A moment later I heard, “Supervisor speaking.”

“Wait a minute, I recognize your voice. I just spoke to you.”

“I know. I am the supervisor’s supervisor. I supervise myself. I’m very sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“But I am. Very, very sorry.”

“We’re talking in circles, lady. I’m a relative—” I figured since Jiri affectionately called me bruderl , little brother, I could honest say: “Actually, I’m his younger brother.” And I gave her my name.

“But that’s not the same name.”

“I know. We come from one different father and two of the same mothers and the one who is my mother changed her name when she remarried my uncle for the second time to avoid confusion. You see, she had the same name.”

“As who?”

“My uncle.”

“Then why did she have to change her name?”

“You see, that’s just the point. So as not to get it mixed up with my other father, who fathered Jiri, who also had the same name after he changed it after my adoption papers were misplaced. You follow?”

“Even Napoleon couldn’t follow what you’re saying.” The she sniffed. “And anyway, a supervisor never follows. Always leads. Now let’s see if you’re on the list… How do you spell your name?”

“If you tell me how he is, I’ll spell it for you. I’m at the airport, madam, about to take off for Prague…”

“How do you spell that?”

“…and I desperately need this information for his other brother in Prague who cannot contact him.”

“I am not permitted to give out that information, I regret.”

Indeed, now the dark timbre of regret sounded in her voice.

“Okay, I’ll spell my name for you.”

“It’s not on the list,” she said.

“Then what can you do for me?”

“Connect you to Billing.”

“Wait! If you can’t give me any information, what is Patient Information?”

“In our department, my dear sir, Patient Information is not a compound noun. People always make that mistake. Patient is an adjective. That means I am extremely patient when I give or withhold information,” she said softly.

“One last attempt. I don’t want personal information. What illness he has. What medications he’s on. If he has Medicaid or Medicare. What his account number is. If he’s contagious. If he has a disease that’s spelled only with all caps. If he has one of the dozen sicknesses or syndromes with other people’s names. Or even better, if he has a hyphen with a doctor’s name tagged on either end, like Creutzfeld-Jakob. I just want to know if the poor man is alive.”

“According to the new federal guidelines on privacy, that is precisely the kind of personal information we’re not allowed to give out.”

I could swear I heard a catch in her throat.

“Telling me if a person is a patient at your hospital is also patient information.”

“That is correct.”

“But your colleague confirmed that by asking me how Dr. Krupka-Weisz spells his name.”

“That wasn’t confirming. That was curiosity. And we do slip up once in a while, for this is a very emotional job.”

“Okay, I’m curious too. I’m curious if he’s alive.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. Him too.” Gloom inundated her voice.

“So he is dead.”

“You still didn’t spell Prague.”

“P…r…a…g…u…e…”

The supervisor burst into tears. “He was such a special man. Everyone in the hospital loved him. One of the most unusual patients I ever met. There was something otherworldly, even saintly, about him… Do you know, when he came into the emergency room with a heart attack there was a child crying next to him and he told the doctor to take care of the little one first? Did you ever hear such a thing? But you didn’t hear the news from me. It’s not official. And probably wrong.”

I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t thank her. I was touched by her sudden weeping.

I wanted to call Jiri’s apartment but his phone was unlisted.

Or maybe it happened this way:

I called the gabbai at the Eldridge Street Shul.

“Hello. This is Amschl. Do you by any chance know where Dr. Krupka-Weisz is?”

“Isn’t he at the hospital?”

“I called them and they won’t tell me. Privacy laws. And I’m not on their ‘give information to’ list. Are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“If he died would you be notified?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No. He wasn’t a member of the shul, so he’s not registered with us, even though he davenned here quite regularly. I just saw him once at the hospital last week. He was a very private person, you know. He never invited anyone to his house.”

All the more reason not to tell the gabbai that I had walked home with him but failed to note his address.

I tried Patient Information again. This time it was a man.

“I’m sorry, I can’t give out personal information without the patient’s consent. This call is being recorded for quality control or training purposes.”

“Can you contact him if he will allow it?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

I gave him my name and said I was Jiri Krupka-Weisz’s half kid brother.

“How can you be his kid brother if he’s eighty and you sound like you’re thirty?”

“My mother was very attractive. And I always sounded thirty, even when I was fourteen.”

“Physiologically impossible, a fifty-year birth span. I used to be a doctor… And how come you have two different names?”