The Jewish hospital loomed three stories tall with an arched ribbon of marble roped over the entrance. Juxtaposed to the slums, the gray building looked grand. A cobbled walkway led to the paupers’ entrance, and Miri couldn’t drag Sasha to the door fast enough. She had his uninjured arm around her shoulders. He leaned on her, harder, with every step. He was bleeding dangerously. What had he done? Miri burst through the iron door. The smell of blood and sweat—of hospital—curled over her. “I need help,” she said. Her voice echoed. The waiting room was cavernous. A woman in a white nurse’s uniform and head scarf came up on the other side of Sasha and put her hand around his waist to help. She looked exhausted and ancient. “I need a suture kit,” Miri said. “He’s losing too much blood. And a cot. Do you have a cot? If you don’t, the floor is fine.”
“Yes, child, I can help. Please, stay calm,” the woman said. Her Yiddish was warm with the same accent as Babushka’s. She stood on her tiptoes, peeled the top of Sasha’s shirt back so the cut was exposed. The edges looked raw. Blood tangled down his tunic to his chest. “If I ask how this happened, will you tell me the truth?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Miri said. “You’re a nurse? Or a surgeon?”
“I can find you help, but you must stay calm.”
“Calm? He can’t wait. Look at the blood,” Miri said. “I’m a doctor, a surgeon. I can take care of him. I just need supplies.”
“You’re a surgeon?”
“Yes.” It was the first time she’d said it in a long time, and the words took her by surprise as much as they did the nurse in front of her. She realized she’d never told Sasha, either, but he was too far gone to react.
“Even if that’s true, I can’t let you walk into my hospital and work without references.”
“I’ll pay,” Miri said. “I can even stitch him here, in the waiting room. I just need supplies.” The nurse hesitated. “Please?”
“Where did you study?”
“I told you, we don’t have time for questions. My patient needs help. Now.” To Miri it seemed that the nurse thought through their case for an hour, but it was more likely a matter of seconds. “Please,” Miri said. “Please.”
“He’s more than a patient, child, isn’t he?” the nurse asked. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll take you to a cot.”
“Thank you.”
A dozen faces blurred past as Miri and the nurse dragged Sasha through a side door and into a long, narrow men’s ward. Like Kovno’s paupers’ clinic, beds were packed head to foot, row after row, with barely enough room to stand between them. But unlike Kovno, all the sheets were crisp and white, and the room was flooded with natural sunshine. And instead of clay dust layering every corner, this hospital was tinged with the smell of sugar. The nurse pointed to a cot at the end of the room. “A surgeon will come.”
“I told you, I’m a surgeon. I only need room to work. And supplies.” The nurse was suspicious, and Miri could see she was sharp. She bent down to look at Sasha.
“Sir,” the nurse said. “Sir, do you trust this woman?”
“Yes,” Sasha mumbled.
“Do you want her to stitch your wound? You understand she says she’s a surgeon?”
Sasha’s eyes were rolling in his head, but he managed to speak. “Yes.”
The nurse stood. “I’ll fetch bandages and supplies.”
“Thank you,” Miri said.
“And I’ll watch you. Closely.”
“That’s fine. Just hurry.”
The nurse scurried between beds. Miri eased Sasha out of his tunic and took a closer look at the wound. The edges were thick but clean. His knife had been sharp. She grabbed a bandage from a stack on a shelf near her and applied pressure. “You shouldn’t have done this.” Was she crying?
“You. Can fix me,” Sasha said. It looked as if he was trying to smile. She held the wound tighter. “You are better. Than him.”
“Than Yuri?” She shook her head. “Shhh. You need to keep your strength.” She felt his forehead and cheeks, looking for fever, but he was cool. It was too early for infection anyway. He needed blood. Would they be able to offer a transfusion? It was a new technique, but this was Tessler’s hospital. The nurse returned with a tray that included gut for stitching, a needle, and a syringe. “Boiled water, and bandages. And I need soap. Doesn’t Dr. Tessler require clean hands for his doctors?”
The nurse paused. “You know Dr. Tessler?”
“Every surgeon worth his salt has read about Dr. Tessler.”
The nurse handed Miri a syringe half-filled with morphine. “Our supplies are low, but this should do.” Miri flicked the glass tube, pumped out an air bubble, and inserted the needle in Sasha’s arm. He mumbled. His head lolled to the side.
The nurse brought a bowl of steaming water and soap. As Miri scrubbed her hands and dunked a pile of cloths in the water to wash the wound, Sasha mumbled something.
“What’s that?” the nurse asked. She stood behind Miri, watching over her shoulder.
“Nothing. The morphine,” Miri said.
“Husband. The farmer said husband,” Sasha managed.
“Husband, you say?” Miri heard the nurse’s tone relax into a smile. “I suspected as much. You’re newlyweds, then?”
“Newlyweds?” Miri was speechless. She dug into the wound to spill carbolic onto the slashed flesh. He moaned. “I’m sorry, Sasha,” Miri whispered to him. She wiped away more blood. Podil was filthy and she didn’t want to risk infection. The man in the bed opposite Sasha sat up. One of his eyes was covered with a bandage. She hadn’t seen him when they came in. He’d been buried under his sheet but now he was exposed, watching. Was he Okhrana? There was no way to know. Even the nurse could be an informant.
“Back to your own business,” the nurse said to the man. She moved to the other side to block his view. There she stood between the sun and Sasha, in silhouette, and Miri saw this nurse was small and perhaps not as old as she seemed when they’d first met. Miri threaded the needle and then pulled the two sides of the gash together.
The nurse leaned close so her forehead almost touched Miri’s. “No respectable Russian woman walks into a hospital holding a man so close who isn’t her husband.”
Miri finished the next stitch. “Do you have the ability to transfuse him?” she asked.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“The transfusion, can we perform a transfusion?” Miri asked again.
“Answer me, child. You’re married? Even in times of war we have standards.”
“Of course.” Miri had no choice. The nurse was telling her that if she said no, they’d have to leave.
The nurse nodded, satisfied, then said, “He hasn’t lost enough blood to warrant a transfusion.”
“Look at him. He’s pale. He’s mumbling.”
“Morphine. Your relationship is clouding your judgment. He’ll be fine. We don’t want to waste care.” Miri finished a knot, snipped the end. Three stitches. Then ten more. The blood slowed to a trickle, and she began to wind a bandage around the wound.
“Here, let me wrap that so you can rest. You look exhausted.” The nurse reached for the snake of bandage, and Miri realized she was grateful for the help. She let the nurse finish while she sat to the side and held Sasha’s hand. “Your stitches are impressive. Precise,” the nurse said as she worked. “I can see you’re well schooled.” She tucked off the end. Miri slid a finger under the dressing to test the tension and then covered Sasha with a blanket. His cheeks were tinged just a touch pink now, and he’d fallen asleep. Miri stood. She realized her back was sore. She stretched, reached up for the ceiling, and for the first time since they’d lain together in the hayloft, she let her shoulders drop.
“Come. We need to talk,” the nurse said.