“It wouldn’t be a bad thing for her to take a little rakija. It’s better than dust,” and Aunt Lela:
“To be sure. To be sure”; but Marija was already standing in the threshold by the door and staring into the clean, newly fallen snow as though at a miracle. Meanwhile now she was still standing, immobile, with her back squeezed up against the rod in the cabinet and with her head practically jammed into that stinking hospital coat until with one of her hands she pressed on her underwear and felt the blood coat her fingers and run down her leg, and she had the impression that she was going to bleed out like a butchered animal hanging from a hook, head down in a slaughterhouse while blood slowly drips and congeals on the concrete down below in a thick scarlet stain. It was obvious to her: she could do nothing; she would have to remain standing in this impossible position until something happened, until Dr. Nietzsche left or Jakob tried something; all she had to do was see to it that she didn’t pass out because to do so would betray her presence, and that she go on waiting there, her teeth clenched. She had already heard the doctor’s deep harsh voice that sometimes ended sentences in an unpleasant and unexpected falsetto and suddenly she realized that the light was burning again outside and that, therefore, the blown fuses had been fixed, for along the cabinet’s door a sharp fissure of light had appeared. That Maks had again managed to get away with it, she thought, and at the same time she heard Jakob’s voice too.
“He’s gotten us out of a lot of tight spots,” Marija said after a brief pause: she said us because that word also means “you,” meaning Žana, because it was clear that the preparations for their escape were in large part Maks’s work; he was there in the background; he pulled unseen strings; he created light and engineered blown circuits. He. Maks. Whom no one saw.
Then she heard Žana’s voice in an echo of a sentence spoken just before:
“Damned clever fellow,” and Marija thought that this was the only way Jakob would ever be able to compliment another man. Not that Žana had any such difficulties. But her “Damned clever fellow” was welcome nonetheless. And Marija imagined telling Žana about what came after, when Dr. Nietzsche finally departed and she said good-bye to Jakob and headed toward the barracks door, at the end of the hallway; and then she thought It would be better if I tried to sleep a bit. I need to be rested. And she pressed the child to her and said in a whisper, without turning her head:
“I have the impression that time is passing more slowly than ever. I think it would still be the best thing for me to sleep a bit. Especially if it’s past midnight.”
Chapter 4
And although she wasn’t able to sleep, she was also not in a position to tell Žana what happened later, not only because she was upset and afraid but also because she was preoccupied with herself to such an extent that she was hardly able to think in chronological terms and she hardly knew what came before and what afterward, and it was as if all kinds of time had flowed into one, and it was also because it seemed impossible to her to separate from the whole web of occurrences one single story like the one about Maks, nearly indistinguishable from the shapeless mass of achronicity out of which her mind now selected things in no apparent order. So she was fully in the grip of all this, and she wouldn’t have been able to tell Žana even if she’d wanted to, or even tell herself, what happened later.
But she could still hear the doctor’s voice and she tried to make sense of the sequence: first she heard the scraping of the chair on the floor, and then the chair creaked under its load (and she understood that Dr. Nietzsche had lowered his weight onto the chair and she immediately thought that something was wrong here if a Dr. Nietzsche, also known as the Nazi Hippocrates, a highly regarded researcher with “human guinea pigs” and a highly placed secret advisor on racial questions, if, therefore, a person like that arrives unannounced and without escort and what’s more at that time of night at a subordinate’s room, the room of a non-Aryan colleague — according to his own (Dr. Nietzsche’s) racial theory), and she began to recount to herself everything Jakob had told her about that man who supervised the crematorium and the “Institute for Scientific Research.” And even without all that, even if she hadn’t known of Dr. Nietzsche and if Jakob hadn’t talked to her about him, the former professor of anatomy at the University of Strasbourg, she would have grasped that something wasn’t right when a German doctor paid a visit to Jakob and did so at that time of night; she knew that something unusual was occurring as soon as the chair groaned and even before the doctor inquired of Jakob in an almost confidential tone:
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” said Jakob. “Of course. Who would be here at this time of day?”
“For example, one of those women whom you saved from the camp and took for your own.”
“That would be the same as there being no one here. They’re only guinea pigs.”
“Never mind that now,” Dr. Nietzsche said. “I’m here on a confidential matter.” Then he paused before saying:
“We consider you a trustworthy person.”
“I’m only a doctor,” Jakob replied.
“Do you really mean only a doctor?” asked Dr. Nietzsche, “or do you mean a trustworthy doctor? — I guess you’ve thought about that.”
“Yes,” Jakob said. “As has every doctor. I think of my professional oath, Herr Nietzsche: I will endeavor to justify the trust that my patient has in me.”