Service in the hospital in Hranice, Moravia
(Memoirs of Edith Stein)
Part 3
My favorite interaction was with the patients, even though it came with certain difficulties. In our hospital, all the nations of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy were represented: Germans, Czechs, Slovaks, Slovenes, Poles, Rusyns, Hungarians, Romanians, Italians. There were often also Gypsies. Moreover, there were sometimes a Russian or a Turk. For communication between the doctor and the patient, there was a booklet that contained the most necessary everyday questions and answers in nine languages. I also familiarized myself with it. One day, as I was on my way to our kitchen, I heard Dr. Pick from afar, at one of the beds, saying to Sister Emma: “Be careful, she definitely knows!” Then he called across the whole hall: “Sister Edita, how do you say ‘to sweat’ in Hungarian?” I shouted the missing verb without stopping. With these few scraps and gestures, we helped each other. It would have possibly caused even more difficulties if people had the need to converse with others. But most of them were in a state where that was completely out of the question. Their complete helplessness and the need for care made my work particularly pleasant. I quickly recognized the national differences. At the station, we did not have even one Reich German. Later, I had several as patients. We German sisters rejoiced when we discovered a fellow countryman in the transport. But when we had him in our room for several days, we were usually quite shocked. Our compatriots were demanding and critical, and when 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 torn from their peaceful villages and sent to the fields. What did they know about the history of the German Empire and the Habsburg monarchy? And now they lay there suffering, without knowing why.
Hungarians, renowned for their bravery in the field and chivalrously kind to us, were the most sensitive patients. When a newcomer loudly lamented during the first dressing in the operating room, they would call out: “Nem sabot, Magyar!” (This is not allowed, Hungarian.) Then, for a few moments, the painful cries would cease. One could not be mistaken with 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 transfer an unconscious patient, who was very heavy, to another bed, to tidy up his bed. Those who were fully conscious and not so heavy I usually transferred to the adjacent bed alone. Once one knew how to grasp them properly, it went quite well. But in this case, it was not possible. Since no sister was nearby, I asked a young German Czech to help me. He was doing quite well and was lazily strolling around the hall. He was always sweet as a child and very devoted to me. “Sister,” he said awkwardly, “I would like to do this for you. But I can’t, it disgusts me too much.” Then one Czech volunteered. He was far from standing firmly on his feet like the first. “This is 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 through the rows. I must say, he looked little trustworthy; I also never noticed that he lingered longer with anyone. I never experienced a case where holy communion was brought to any patient or holy anointing was administered. Unfortunately, I was so ignorant in these matters that it never occurred to me to ask about it or to take care of it.
Another visitor who sometimes came was a lieutenant, to whom the military office was subordinate. He was always exceedingly polite and strictly instructed people to listen to the sisters as if they were him. This was more necessary with the patients than with the volunteers we had to assist. At first, I was completely horrified that soldiers were expected to do the lowest and dirtiest work. They did not openly resist it. But Poles and Czechs among them passively resisted by acting as though they did not understand German commands. When we wanted to have the hall swept, we had to grab such a person by the shoulders and thrust a broom into his hands. Then he might deign to start working. However, as soon as we turned our backs on them, we had to be prepared for the fact that the broom soon stood again in the corner. We had to report the loafers to the lieutenant. But the Austrians had such terrible punishments – tying up or even beating. We certainly did not want to expose anyone to that.
When I was at the typhus station for two weeks, I got a night shift. In our hall, we held them alternately. So then a person would only come to the station at night for 14 days – from 7 PM to 7 AM – and the day was for rest. Around 9 AM, there was lunch for the night shift, then they had to sleep until about 6 PM, eat dinner at half past six, and then go to the station. For the night, they received a small pot of coffee, two thick slices of bread with butter and an egg. For those who served at night, there was a special bedroom; I now moved into it as well. When one had good friends who took care of lunch for them, they could have it picked up at the usual hour and brought to their bed. Then it was not necessary to be there at around 9, but it was possible to stay outside longer. Because after light, air, and sun, one craved more than sleep.
When I went to the riding school with my pot of coffee for the first evening, Dr. Pick met me with a colleague. He wished me luck for the night and said to the other, “She has been here for two weeks and has already taken responsibility for 60 typhus patients.” But more awaited me. The head nurse summoned me and asked if I could give injections. I had learned, even though I had not done it often so far. She asked me to pay some attention to the second operating room; a Polish woman who had the night shift there (a little corporal!) was not well-versed in injections. I was also to check on the third operating room occasionally, because there was only a caregiver there. Finally, she handed me a small isolation room: one patient from our room had been transferred there because he had been diagnosed with diphtheria. He was a Gypsy who had already caused us many troubles because he refused to eat. He had lost a terrible amount of weight, and his dark face had turned pale. Diphtheria had done the rest to him. But he did not die during my night shift. On the contrary, a small Polish girl, all frightened, brought me to a dying man on the very first night. The dying poor soul could not communicate with her at all. He was German and she did not understand German. I quickly sent her for the doctor who was on night duty with us, and I prepared an injection in the meantime. The doctor came quickly, but it was already too late. He could only wait for death and confirm it.
That was the first time I saw someone die. (...)
When I came into the hall in the evening, I first walked all around it. (...) I walked through the rows and made sure how badly the seriously ill patients were doing. When the time of sleep came for the people and nothing special was happening, I sat down at a small table, wrote letters, or read. I had taken only 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. His feet were so frostbitten that several toes looked charred and had to be amputated. He almost never slept and almost the whole night had his pipe in his mouth. I calmly left him, even though smoking in bed was strictly forbidden for the patients. I didn’t want to take away this comfort from him.
Mario also lay usually without sleep, with big, shining eyes. Once he motioned to me and signaled me to understand that he would like to dictate a letter to me. He probably noticed that I occasionally wrote. I brought paper and a pen and knelt down beside his bed. With his lips, he formed the words – he could not even whisper – and I watched his mouth with tense attention, wrote down each word, and showed him each sentence that I had finished for him to check. Thus we put together quite a nice Italian letter to his sisters. It was certainly the first message they received from home during his illness. Shortly after that, Dr. Pick informed him during the rounds that his sisters had written. The great effort we made together with Mario paid off richly. After several weeks, the fierce illness eased, he regained his voice – even really strong voice – he could eat with pleasure and finally also get up. (...)
Several nights, I was strained by one patient in heavy delirium. He was brought in without clear consciousness; he seemed benevolent, but was tormented by terrible nightmares. When I approached him, he seized my white coat and cried: “Sister, help me, help me!” One night he constantly wanted to flee. I had no choice but to tie him up securely. I pulled a sheet across the whole bed and tied the ends to the bed frame. The restless patient’s head still stuck out, but otherwise he was caught. However, after a while, as he was a strong man, the knots loosened and I had to start the work anew. At that time, I was surprised by the doctor who had duty that night and wanted to see what was happening at the station. He was a peaceful country doctor who probably had never seen a case of typhus. He was horrified that I was alone in the hall with such a severely restrained patient. When he saw how I was cleaning the bed, he exclaimed in shock: “Sister, you will get infected!” I laughed and pointed to our basin with sublimatum. To relieve the patient and me, he finally gave him a morphine injection. The effect was not the best, however. The man now lay quietly, but began to sing loudly, waking the others. The next morning, they said it was nice how the sister sat by the bed and sang lullabies.
(Edith Stein's Works VII, Editions Nauwelaerts – Louvain 1965, pp. 239–244, abridged.
Selected and translated by Sister Petra from the Risen One OCD.)
