33

The days passed. Except for Dr. Winter, all the doctors said the paralysis of my legs was irreversible. Their whisperings gnawed at my hopes, but I didn’t despair. I swallowed the drugs they gave me, and when the pain grew more intense, the nurse gave me an injection.

My comrades were sent into action two or three times a week. They stopped building terraces, clearing land, and planting trees. I alone was sprawled out in bed, groaning in great pain and not doing anything useful. My friends weren’t coming to see me as often as they had in the first weeks after I was wounded, but they came at least once every two weeks. Each time, I saw how they had changed. They were tanner, they had developed their muscles, and they lived their lives wreathed with danger.

Occasionally, I asked the doctors if my condition had improved. The answer was always prompt, concise, repetitive. One of the hospital volunteers took the trouble to visit me once a week. She asked me how I felt and expected me to reply at length. I answered her briefly. She appeared to believe I was in despair and tried to encourage me. I kept telling her that I wasn’t discouraged, that I saw my future as a working man. I didn’t speak with her about my innermost feelings because she might think I was a prisoner of illusions.

Then one day, Dr. Winter informed me that they were going to operate on me again, at dawn on the following day. He sat on my bed and explained to me the importance of this third operation. I looked hard at him and saw that he worried about me like a father.

My recovery, he said, would move forward in stages. At every stage, my chances would improve somewhat. I observed his lips and the movements of his hands.

“How many years will it take?” I asked.

“Indeed, my friend, not in a day, but you must not lose hope. Hope is our most important asset.”

I noticed that Dr. Winter resembled my uncle Stefan, my father’s brother. He was also an easygoing man who always tried to help people.

—

That night I slept restlessly. Pictures of the war and of the time after the war passed before me. Nothing significant bound them together. I asked myself what they were showing me and why, and I had no answer.

Finally, I managed to tell myself, Connecting the parts and giving meaning to it all are my tasks. I was glad I had parted from the dream without depressing thoughts.

When I awoke from the operation, Dr. Winter was standing next to me. He asked how I was.

“While you were attaching my legs to my body, I was trying to put together what I saw at night into a single picture.”

“And did you manage?” Dr. Winter wondered.

“Partially.”

“I see that you’re walking in your father’s path.”

“Also my mother’s.”

I was surprised that my mind was clear, because after the second operation I felt blurred and didn’t recognize where I was.

—

I heard that one of my comrades had been wounded in action and was in the adjacent building. I asked the nurse to take me to his room. To my surprise, it was none other than Edward.

“What happened?” I asked as I approached his bed.

“I was wounded,” he said softly.

I saw that one of Edward’s arms was wrapped in a thick bandage.

Edward was a head taller than the rest of us, well over six feet. We looked like dwarfs next to him. He was also well formed. But he displayed an astonishing innocence. In Naples, the smugglers, thieves, and cheats would exploit this. They made him work like a dog and then gave him only a few bills. He would go out right away and buy pizza for the group. He never worried about himself. His clothes were too small and ragged, but he still looked handsome. The girls liked his height and his strength but not his innocence. A short, ugly refugee whose business was doing well captured their hearts faster than Edward did. Once, a woman refugee, a few years older than Edward, attached herself to him and wanted to live with him. If our group hadn’t opposed it strongly, he would probably have been caught up in her net.

I didn’t ask about his wound, but I could see the pain in his face. The injections were not working.

Edward eventually told me that two fingers of his right hand had been shot off. This wonderful fellow, whose tall good looks we had all admired, was lying in bed like a trapped deer. Unlike the other wounded men, he didn’t blame his comrades or his commanding officer. If you go to war and go on the attack, he explained to me simply, you will encounter danger. It was best not to think about it, because if you did, the attack wouldn’t take place.

“Victory is more important than my two fingers,” he concluded.

Edward then fell silent. I saw that his wound had carved thick lines into his face and neck, and the head on the pillow no longer resembled the handsome one that I remembered. I asked the nurse to take me out to the corridor. I was flooded with sorrow, but, as though in spite, tears would not come.