Service in the hospital in Hranice, Moravia
(Memories of Edith Stein)
Part 3
The interactions with patients were by far the most pleasant for me, even though they came with certain difficulties. All nations of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy were represented in our hospital: Germans, Czechs, Slovaks, Slovenes, Poles, Rusyns, Hungarians, Romanians, Italians. Gypsies were often present as well. Sometimes there would also be a Russian or a Turk among them. To aid the communication between the doctor and the patient, there was a booklet that contained the essential daily questions and answers in nine languages. I familiarized myself with it as well. One time, while I was on my way to our kitchen, I heard Dr. Pick from a distance at one of the beds, saying to Sister Emma: “Be careful, she definitely knows!” Then he called across the hall to me: “Sister Edith, how do you say ‘to sweat’ in Hungarian?” I quickly shouted back the missing verb without stopping. With these few scraps and gestures, we helped each other. It would have been more difficult if the people had the need to converse with each other. But most of them were in such a state that it was completely out of the question. Their complete helplessness and need for care made my work especially pleasant. I quickly recognized the national differences. We had no German Reichs Germans at the station. Later, I had several as patients. We German sisters rejoiced when we discovered a compatriot among the transport. However, after having him in our room for several days, we were usually quite taken aback. Our compatriots were demanding and critical, and if they didn’t like something, they could stir up the whole hall. The “wild nations” were humble and grateful. I felt so sorry for those poor Slovaks and Rusyns, who were ripped from their peaceful villages and sent to the front. What did they know about the history of the German empire and the Habsburg monarchy? And now they lay here, suffering, without knowing why.
Hungarians, renowned for their bravery in the field and chivalrously kind to us, were the most delicate patients. When newcomers cried out loudly at their first dressing in the operating room, they were told: “Nem sabot, Magyar!” (You mustn’t do that, Hungarian.) Then the painful cries would quiet down for a few moments. You couldn’t be mistaken about nationalities. The Czechs, who were so hated for their “betrayal” of the German cause, we recognized as the most patient patients and the most willing to help. Once I had to move a patient in a coma who was quite heavy to another bed so I could tidy his. Those who were conscious and not so heavy, I usually transferred to the nearby bed by myself. If you grabbed them correctly, it went quite well. But in this case, it wasn’t possible. Since no sister was nearby, I asked a young German Czech to help me. He was doing quite well and was lazily wandering around the hall. He was always as sweet as a child and very devoted to me. “Sister,” he said awkwardly now, “I would like to do this for you. But I can’t, it disgusts me too much.” Then a Czech came forward voluntarily. He didn’t stand as firmly on his feet as the first one. “It’s not easy for me either,” he said, “but a sick person needs help.”
(...) Sometimes a military chaplain in uniform would come into the hall and walk among the rows. I must say he looked rather untrustworthy; I also never noticed him staying with anyone for long. I never experienced a patient receiving Holy Communion or being given the Sacrament of the Sick. Unfortunately, I was so ignorant in these matters that it didn’t even occur to me to ask about it or take care of it.
Another guest who sometimes came was a lieutenant, under whom was the military office. He was always extremely polite and strictly instructed people to listen to the sisters as to himself. This was more necessary with the patients than with the home guards we had to help. Initially, I was completely horrified that soldiers were expected to do the lowest and dirtiest tasks. They didn’t openly resist it. But Poles and Czechs among them passively resisted by pretending not to understand the German orders. When we wanted to have the hall swept, we had to grab such a person by the shoulders and shove a broom into his hands. Then he might take it upon himself to start working. However, as soon as we turned our backs to them, we had to be ready for the broom to soon be back in the corner. We had to report lazy ones to the lieutenant. But the Austrians had such terrible punishments—binding or even beating. We didn’t want to expose anyone to that.
When I had been at the typhus station for two weeks, I got a night shift. We alternated them in our hall. So, after 14 days, one came to the station only at night—from 7 PM to 7 AM—and the day was for resting. Around 9 AM, there would be lunch for the night shift, then they had to sleep until about 6 PM, have dinner at half-past six, and then go to the station. For the night, they received a coffee pot, two thick slices of bread with butter, and an egg. For those who were on the night shift, there was a special bedroom; I now moved there as well. If one had good friends who took care of lunch, one could have it picked up and brought to the bed at the usual hour. Then there was no need to be there by 9, but one could stay out longer. Because after light, air, and sunlight, one longed for more than sleep.
When I went to the riding hall with my coffee pot for the first evening, I met Dr. Pick with a colleague. He wished me luck for the night and told the other: “She’s been here for two weeks and has already taken responsibility for 60 typhus patients.” But more was awaiting me. The head nurse had me summoned and asked if I could give injections. I had learned it, although I had not done it often so far. She asked me to pay a little attention to the II. hall as well; a Polish nurse who had the night shift there (a little corporal!) didn’t know much about injections. I was also to check in on the III. hall occasionally since there was only a caregiver there. Finally, she assigned me a small isolation room: a patient from our hall had been placed there because he was found to have diphtheria. He was a Gypsy who had already caused us a lot of trouble because he refused to eat. He had lost a terrible amount of weight, and his brown face had turned pale. Diphtheria took the rest. But he didn’t die during my night shift. On the other hand, a little Polish girl, all scared, took me to a dying person right away on the first night. The poor dying man couldn’t communicate with her at all. He was German, and she didn’t understand German. I quickly sent her to the doctor who was on duty with us at night and prepared the injection in the meantime. The doctor came soon, but it was already too late. He could only await death and confirm it.
That was the first time I saw someone die. (...)
When I came into the hall that evening, I first walked around the entire room. (...) I walked through the rows and checked on how the seriously ill patients were doing. When it was time for people to sleep and nothing special was happening, I sat at a small table, wrote letters, or read. I had only brought two books with me to Hranice: Husserl's “Ideas” and Homer.
Right behind me in the first row lay a Czech man in middle age, small and weak. He had such frostbitten feet that several toes looked charred and had to be amputated. He almost never slept and nearly the whole night had his pipe in his mouth. I calmly left him, although smoking in bed was strictly prohibited for people. I didn’t want to take away this comfort from him.
Mario also usually lay awake, with big, shining eyes. Once he motioned to me and indicated that he would like to dictate a letter to me. He likely noticed that I occasionally wrote. I brought paper and a pen and knelt beside his bed. With his lips, he formed words—he couldn’t even whisper—and I watched his mouth with tense attention, deciphering each word, writing it down, and showing him each sentence I had finished for him to check. That way, we managed to put together quite a good Italian letter to his sisters. Surely, it was the first message they had received at home since his illness. Shortly after that, Dr. Pick informed him during the rounds that his sisters had written to him. The great effort that Mario and I put into it paid off richly. After weeks of relentless illness, he began to recover, his voice returned—indeed, a really strong voice—he could eat with appetite and finally get up. (...)
A patient in severe delirium gave me a hard time for several nights. He had already been brought in without clear consciousness; he seemed good-natured, but was tormented by horrible nightmares. When I came to him, he grabbed my white coat and cried out: “Sister, help me, help me!” One night he wanted to keep running away. I had no choice but to tie him down firmly. I pulled a sheet over the entire bed and tied the corners to the bed frame. The restless patient’s head still stuck out, but otherwise, he was caught. However, when he struggled for some time—he was a strong man—the knots loosened, and I had to start working again. At one point, I was surprised by the doctor on duty that night, who wanted to see what was happening at the station. He was a peaceful country doctor who had probably never seen a case of typhus before. He was horrified that I was alone in the hall and with such a difficult patient to restrain. When he saw me cleaning the bed, he exclaimed in shock: “Sister, you will get infected!” Laughing, I pointed to our bowl of sublimat. To relieve the patient and me, he ultimately gave him an injection of morphine. However, the effect was not the best. The man lay there now quietly, but he began to sing loudly, and that woke the others. The next morning they said how nice it was that the sister sat by the bed and lullabies were sung.
(Edith Stein's Works VII, Editions Nauwelaerts – Louvain 1965, p. 239–244, shortened.
Selected and translated by Sister Petra of the Risen OCD.)
