Chapter Eight

The atmosphere in the district hospital was quite friendly. The chief physician, with the not very euphonious last name – Krot, which means mole in Russian, was a great professional, and it seemed to me, a truly wise man. Throughout the region the hospital was well known for good outcomes and an excellent reputation. Not only the local high and mighty preferred to be treated here, important people came from all over Ukraine to this hospital.

Krot managed to hire a great team of doctors, nurses, and aides, and even managed to create decent working conditions for them. He paid them salaries, which was not a very common thing in those days. Even American humanitarian supplies, given to almost all medical institutions at that time, were actually kept and used in the hospital, not sold to put money into his own pocket.

But as congenial as he was, he could hold his subordinates accountable. Once I heard him giving advice to his doctors during one of the rounds, “Do your best to save your patients from suffering, they are already suffering enough just by being here.” In my opinion, this wasn’t something you would often hear from a doctor, though maybe I just had not come across such doctors.

No matter how you sliced it, on the way to my recovery I would face many obstacles that I would have to overcome and lessons I would have to learn by heart.

Next morning, after their rounds, our consulting physician, a man with incredible blue eyes and resembling Aramis in looks from The Three Musketeers, brought me a bottle of yellowish liquid, and another one with Novocaine. He gave me a shot of morphine, reminding me that today was the last day for this kind of easy pain relief, and that tomorrow I would have to live without it. After this he told me to free my legs from the bandages.

I sat up straight and looked at my legs. Lymph had seeped through the fabric, making my legs look like the bark of an old tree, all the way to my groin. Dr. Vladimir Ivanovich, my Aramis, said that those bandages were soaked with Novocaine to help relieve the pain from the burns. In addition, it was August outside, with swarms of flies everywhere. The doctors were afraid that one of these insects would start to fiddle while Rome was burning, landing on my wounds and carrying infection. So it was even more important to keep my wounds clean and covered. Dr. Aramis said he would check back on me in a few hours.

Generously pouring from both bottles, the Furacilin and the Novocaine, on my feet, unable to hold my tears within, I started to free my lower extremities from the sodden fabric. This torture lasted no less than two-and-a-half hours, and the result horrified me.

There was no skin on my feet! There was no skin on my legs! In a few places, I saw pieces of white “cloth,” which turned out to be bits of my skin. The burnt areas were shimmering with red, black, and pink colors, and in some places I could even see a white bone.

The tears were suffocating me as I uncovered at my legs. Once these legs had attracted the opposite sex at all levels and all sectors of the population. According to the roughest statistical calculations, this part of my body always got the most compliments, starting with the most sophisticated phrases, and ending with “I’m going to get lost in those legs tonight,” generally adding the crudest of gestures and facial expressions.

My companions in misfortune didn’t stop me from crying. They offered no sympathetic phrases. They knew that not everyone could handle such a reality without tears. But Aramis, when he found me in tears, was surprised.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” I said.

“Then why are you crying?”

I could not explain, but continued sobbing. The doctor, clearly not understanding my tears, got right down to redressing my legs. He, unlike me, seemed to be quite satisfied with what he saw. “Good,” he kept saying. “Great!” What exactly was good and great, I did not see. Exhausted after such work, the horror of disfigurement, and under the sway of the morphine, I fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later with a strong feeling that I’d learned my first lesson.

I realized that this nightmare was happening for a reason. There was only one person to blame. Myself.