The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,64
away, Helene, he cried, reaching out his own hands to remove hers from her face so that she must look him in the eye. As he did so, the backs of his hands brushed against her breasts so roughly that Helene found it hard to assume he didn’t notice. Now he pulled her up from her chair, his hands either side of her head, pressing so firmly against her ears that it hurt. What are you thinking of, Nurse? Do you suppose you could ever be better off than here at my side, in my ward? You’re allowed to hold my instruments when I make incisions in my patients; I even let you stitch up the wound when my own wife had her operation. What more do you want?
Helene would have liked to answer his question, but she felt numb and still inside.
Now the professor let go of her and started pacing rapidly up and down. Helene could feel how her ears hurt, how they were burning. She had admired him ever since she had first been present at an operation and had seen his hands moving calmly, surely, almost gently, as if he were playing a musical instrument rather than handling bones and sinews, growths and arteries, ever since that first sight of his hands when she observed the fine, precise movements of the individual fingers. At first she had been afraid of him, because of her admiration and his abilities; later she learned to value him, because he never misused those abilities to humiliate a colleague, because he was always at the service of his patients and the art of medicine. Helene had never heard an angry word from him, let alone seen him make a rough gesture. Even when they had been working for ten hours without a break – once it was fifteen hours, through half the night, after the accident at the railway carriage factory – even then the professor had seemed to preserve a godlike calm that made her think of his kindness as well as his self-confidence. Now the professor turned the light on his desk so that it shone into Helene’s eyes, dazzling her.
Sheer high spirits? asked the professor, as if assessing a case. No, probably not, he answered himself. He moved towards her, cupping her chin in his hand. Thoughtlessness? To be sure. So saying, the professor put his head on one side and his voice softened. Perhaps stupidity? As if he were wondering whether this diagnosis might help Helene.
Helene lowered her eyes. Please forgive me.
Forgive you? Stupidity is the last thing I could ever forgive. Tell me honestly, what do you expect to find in Berlin, child?
Helene looked at the floor, which was polished and shiny. We . . . we, she stammered, searching for words to say more than she could clearly formulate in her mind, well, the way things are now, rising prices, Professor. People want to protest to the town council, they want work and bread. There’ve been rumours that people here at the hospital will lose their jobs too. Surely you’ve heard that, Professor? Well, Martha and I will have opportunities open to us in Berlin, please understand, we’ll have opportunities. We want to work there . . . and study – well, perhaps.
Study – perhaps? You have no idea what that means, child. Do you know what commitment study calls for, what self-control, how demanding studies are? You’re not up to it. I’m sorry to have to say it so frankly, child, but I really would like to warn you. Indeed, I must warn you. And the expense, you have no notion of the expense. Who is going to keep you while you study? You’re not the sort of girl who’d plan to make your way by going on the streets.
No, certainly not, Professor. Helene could think of nothing more to say. She felt ashamed.
Certainly not, murmured the professor. His eyes went to her wide, smooth face, which could surely hide nothing; his look seemed heavy, pressing down on her, she wanted to say something in reply, to ward off his glance, but then she saw a desire in it that made her look away quickly, and she allowed her tears to flow. She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.
Helene. The professor’s gentle voice caressed her ear. Don’t cry, child. You have no one, I know that. No one to care for you and protect you as only a father could.