Candle in the Attic Window(89)

– Comrade, we’ve made prisoner a German soldier. He is wounded. I just had to hold back my men from killing him. He needs medical attention.

– Very good, Sergeant. Put him in the operating room. I’ll arrive at once.

– I didn’t know that you helped even the Fritzes! laughed Simonov.

– A doctor occupies himself with helping the whole world. And also, contrary to what our superiors would have us believe, they are not all brutes. Here, come with me in lieu of aggravating me … Ruslan, what are you doing?

– I’m coming with you, responded the Siberian.

When the trio approached the prisoner, they immediately noticed that the German was terrified. Iliev leaned over him and observed him with great attention. He decided that the injury had caused significant damage. His verdict was without appeal.

– He needs a blood transfusion, without which he’ll croak. Piotr, you can jabber in German, no? You can explain the situation to him?

– I can try, Simonov replied nonchalantly.

Simonov had always appreciated the language of Goethe. While he was a student, he had taught at the University of Leningrad. He was then far from imagining under what circumstances it would serve him … At that time, the war seemed so far away.

He approached the wounded man and began to explain to him what it would be necessary to do to save him. With a visage pimply and hairless, the other had the look of a kid having barely left adolescence. In his grey uniform of the Wehrmacht, he gave the impression of being in disguise. He listened attentively to what Simonov told him. As the Soviet officer spoke to him, he lost his composure. In response, he cried, eyes rolling:

– Nein, nein!

Simonov tried to calm him, insisting on the gravity of the situation, but nothing helped.

– He categorically refuses any blood transfusion. He doesn’t want Slavic blood. He doesn’t want the blood of an untermenschen – a ‘subhuman’, as the Nazis designate us. This man has been brainwashed by the propaganda of Goebbels.

– If he doesn’t undergo the transfusion, he’ll die within two or three hours, said Iliev.

– I’ve explained all that to him. He doesn’t want to hear any of it.

– Ah, well, then, he’s dead. We’re not going to waste any time on this kind of fool … Leave him.

– Wait! I want to try something, cried Solotin.

– What do you want to do? asked Iliev.

– A sort of experience. Wait for me. I’m going to my office to find something that I need.

With these words, the Buryat left the room like lightning. Iliev and Simonov stayed with the wounded man, who weakened with the passing minutes. His voice became less and less audible and his strength progressively abandoned him. He finally lost consciousness.

– He still lives, but he won’t for much longer, Iliev said.

– And your colleague? He wanted to try what, exactly?

– No idea. You know, with that kind of guy, we can expect any … The Buryats don’t think like us. They don’t have the same cultural references. But wait; here he comes.

In the same fashion that he had gone out, Ruslan burst into the room. In each hand, he carried a bottle of vodka. Around his neck hung an animal-skin bag.

– And what are you going to do with all this alcohol? asked Iliev, who was beginning to worry.

– Don’t be uneasy, Yuri. I repeat that this is a simple experiment. In any case, this man is condemned. And anyway, he is a Fascist bastard, no?

– All right. As you wish … Do you have need of us?

– No, but you can stay here if you want. Move away and let me be.

The two witnesses did just that and sat on stools that were situated in the back of the room. From there, intrigued, they observed the merry-go-round of the Siberian: He deposited the first two bottles next to the German then poured a part of their contents into a graduated cylinder connected to operating tubes. He also prepared the vials and the syringes. Iliev understood, then, that his colleague was about to effect a transfusion in defiance of all medical ethics.

– But ... you want to inject him with vodka? My word! he exclaimed.

– Yes, but that is not all. Have a little patience.

– I hope you know what you’re doing, Comrade ….

The Buryat did not flinch at this warning. He continued his preparations with seriousness and precaution. Iliev and Simonov attended the scene with apprehension, asking themselves what was going on in the head of the Siberian.

The latter took out his little altar, which he placed on the operating table. He added a small ceramic cup, into which he poured a little vodka. He then lit two candles and a stick of incense. With his two hands, he delicately fanned the grey smoke toward his face, which shone with a sort of ancestral bliss.

The Siberian closed his eyes. While grey vapours enveloped his weather-beaten face, he reached into his sack and extracted a small drum with white skin.[4] Without warning, he began to strike it sharply, at regular intervals, launching a strange litany. He chanted prayers that, for Iliev and Simonov, went back to the dawn of time. The words of the shaman were to them incomprehensible, though Simonov thought they were addressed to obscure Siberian divinities. There, in that far country, on the banks of the great Lake Baikal, spirits had certainly begun a great dance. Before this spectacle of another age, the two men were struck dumb, unable to move and interrupt their comrade in his enigmatic ceremony.