Hospital

Chapter 101 Hospital

Anna remembers that morning.

She stood at the entrance of the recruitment station, carrying a canvas bag containing two changes of clothes, a piece of black bread, and a photograph of her mother. Her mother hadn't come to see her off; she was working the night shift at the factory. Her mother hadn't returned home when she left. She had left a note on the table, tucked under the teapot.

"Mom, I'm going to join the army. Don't worry, Anna." She didn't know when her mother would see the note. Maybe after she got off her night shift, maybe the next morning.

The recruitment station was chaotic, crowded with people, including several girls who looked about her age.

A woman in military uniform sat behind a table, a pen in her hand, a thick roster spread out in front of her. Her face was thin, her cheeks high, her lips chapped, and deep dark circles under her eyes. She glanced at Anna, asked for her name and other information, and Anna answered. The woman wrote a few strokes in the roster, then took a piece of paper from a drawer and handed it to her.

"Medical Team No. 3, East of the city, 17 Stalingradsky Prospekt. Report for duty at 8:00 AM tomorrow."

Anna folded the paper, stuffed it into her pocket, and turned to leave. She knew that street; it wasn't far from the school. She walked east along the main street for a long time until she reached a gray building with a sign hanging at the entrance that read "Temporary Base of the 3rd Medical Team" in red paint.

She went inside. The corridor was crowded with people, piled up in all sorts of positions. The air was thick with the stench of blood, so strong it made her want to vomit. A young nurse ran past her, carrying a basin of gauze, which was covered in blood.

"Are you new here?" A woman in her forties stood in front of her, wearing a white coat, her hair wrapped in a headscarf, and her face was covered with deep wrinkles.

"Yes," Anna said.

The woman glanced at her. "Come with me."

They walked down the corridor and into a large room. Dozens of beds were in the room, their sheets white, but quickly stained crimson with blood. A woman lay on a bed by the window, a piece of her leg severed by shrapnel, wrapped in several layers of bandages, yet blood still seeped through. Her face was as white as paper, her lips trembling. A nurse knelt beside her, took her hand, and whispered something. The woman closed her eyes, tears sliding down her cheeks and into her ears.

"Have you studied nursing?" the middle-aged woman asked.

"no."

"Do you know how to bandage it?"

"Won't."

Will I need a shot?

"Won't."

The woman looked at her and remained silent for a few seconds. "What can you do?"

Anna thought for a moment. "I can sew."

The woman nodded. "Then you know how to stitch wounds. Same thing." She pointed to a pile of gauze and bandages in the corner. "Go fold those up, one on top of the other. Starting tomorrow, you'll be with me."

Anna walked to the corner, squatted down, and began folding gauze. The gauze was stained with blood, which had dried into dark brown lumps. When her hands touched those lumps, dark red powder got embedded in her fingernails.

As dawn approached, the middle-aged woman came over. "Go to sleep. You have things to do tomorrow."

Anna stood up; her legs were numb. She followed the woman to a small room at the end of the corridor. Inside was an iron bed covered with a gray blanket. She took off her coat, lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and her mind was filled with blood; the entire hospital was enveloped in blood.

The next morning, she was awakened by shouts. She sat up, put on her coat, and went out of the room. Stretchers were being carried in one after another, some of the people lying on them were shouting. A young soldier lay on a stretcher, his face wrapped in bandages, only one eye showing.

Anna stood in the hallway, watching the stretchers being carried past. She didn't know what to do.

"Anna!" the middle-aged woman called to her. She went over.

The woman handed her a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors. "Come with me."

They entered the large room. The woman walked to a bed where a soldier lay, his leg wrapped in bandages, which were already red. The woman knelt down and cut the bandages open with scissors. The wound was revealed; a piece of flesh had been torn away by shrapnel, revealing a layer of dark red, wet flesh.

Anna glanced at it, her stomach churned, and the woman took the bandage from her hand and began to bandage it, tying a knot after she finished.

"Come here," the woman said.

Anna walked to another bed. A soldier lay on it, his arm wrapped in bandages.

"Okay," Anna said after she finished wrapping the cloth.

The soldier looked at her, his lips moving slightly. "Thank you," he said softly.

Anna nodded.

That day, Anna bandaged more than a dozen wounds. Her hands were covered in iodine and blood, and dark red powder was embedded in her fingernails. She worked tirelessly every day, unaware of how many days had passed. The number of wounded kept increasing, and the hospital kept hiring.

One day, when a wounded soldier was carried in, she had already changed his bandages and was preparing to bandage him. She glanced down at the face and froze. The face was young, with a wisp of fine hair just growing on his lips, his eyes were closed, and his face was covered in ash. It wasn't her brother. She breathed a sigh of relief, but then felt she shouldn't let her guard down. She lowered her head and began bandaging.

Misha hadn't thought of him in a long time. How long had he been gone?

One day, a wounded soldier was carried in, clutching a photograph in his hand. The photograph showed a young woman holding a baby, smiling in the doorway of a small house. His fingers were clenched so tightly that the nurses couldn't pry them open. Anna went over, knelt down, and gently patted his hand.

"Loosen it up. Let me put it away for you."

His hand loosened. Anna pulled the photograph out and stuffed it into his breast pocket. His eyes were closed, and his lips were moving, as if he were saying something. She leaned closer to listen and heard him calling a name. "Katya, Katya," he repeated softly, over and over. Anna didn't know who Katya was.

One day, a wounded soldier was brought in, unable to speak. His chest had been torn open by shrapnel, and blood was gushing out uncontrollably. The nurse tried to stop the bleeding with gauze, but the gauze became red, so she changed it, and it became red again. Anna stood by, holding a bandage, unsure of what to do. The middle-aged woman walked over, glanced at him, and shook her head.

"No need to wrap it," she said.

Anna stood there, looking at the wounded man.

His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. His pupils were dilating, growing darker and darker, like a lamp slowly going out. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Anna didn't know what he wanted to say. Maybe he wanted to say "pain," maybe he wanted to say "Mom."

Then he stopped moving.

The nurse covered his face with a white sheet, and two people carried him away. The sheets were covered in blood, and they were replaced with new ones. The next wounded soldier lay down on top of him.

Anna walked out of the large room and stood in the hallway. A young nurse was squatting against the wall, her hands covering her head, her shoulders shaking. Anna knelt down and patted her on the shoulder.

"I can't take it anymore," she said. "It's like this every day, people are dying every day, I can't take it anymore."

Anna didn't know what to say; she couldn't take it anymore.

She stood up and walked back to the large room, where the middle-aged woman was standing in front of a bed, changing the dressing on a wounded soldier's leg. Her movements were still so quick and skillful, wrapping the dressing round and round.

"Give me a bandage," the woman said.

Anna handed her a scroll.

"You cried?"

Anna touched her face. It was wet. She didn't know when she had started crying.

"No," she said.

The woman glanced at her but didn't say anything.

A few days later, Anna stopped counting the days. She would get up at dawn and not necessarily go to sleep after dark.

One day, when a wounded soldier was carried in, she was changing his dressing. She looked down at the face and dropped the tweezers in her hand.

It was Misha's friend; she had seen him at the train station, next to her brother. His face was very pale, his eyes were closed, and his left leg was missing below the knee, wrapped in bandages.

Anna crouched down and picked up the tweezers.

"Ivan," she said.

He didn't answer. His eyes were closed, and his lips were moving, as if he were saying something. She leaned closer to listen and heard him say, "Water—water—" She stood up, walked to the corner, poured a glass of water, and brought it to him. She lifted his head and fed him the water. He drank a few sips, choked, and coughed. She wiped his mouth with her sleeve.

"Ivan," she called again.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were lifeless, dark, like two stagnant pools of water.

"Anna?" His voice was very soft.

"it's me."

He stared at her face for a long time. "Your brother—Misha—" His voice trailed off, followed by a few coughs, "Misha—is alive."

Anna paused. "Where is he?"

"I don't know, we got separated. He was stunned by the shell, and I dragged him away—then—then the German tanks came up, and I ran away on my own—" His eyes closed, and his lips trembled.

Anna tucked him in, stood up, and walked out of the large room. She stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, and closed her eyes. Ivan had gotten separated from the group alive, been knocked unconscious by the shell, and run away on his own. She didn't know what these words meant when put together.

She opened her eyes and walked back to the large room.

The middle-aged woman was standing by the window, smoking. When she saw Anna, she stubbed out her cigarette on the windowsill.

Do you know that wounded soldier?

"know."

"He won't survive; his legs are rotting, and there's no medicine."

Anna did not speak.

The woman glanced at her. "Go and rest. You've worked twelve hours today."

She turned around and walked out of the large room.

In the corridor, several nurses were squatting in a corner, eating their meal. Their food consisted of dark bread and hot water; the bread was so hard that they had to tear it with their teeth.

"Anna," a nurse called her. She looked up.

Which military unit is your brother in?

"have no idea."

The nurse didn't ask any more questions.

Anna finished her dry rations, stood up, and walked to the end of the corridor. There was a window there, open, letting in a cold wind. She stood by the window, looking at the gray sky outside, when a snowflake drifted down.

She thought of the train station, and the morning her brother left. It was still dark, the streetlights were on, casting a dim, yellowish glow. Her brother was wearing a military overcoat, too big for him, the sleeves hanging long. He stood there, smiling, saying he was going to fight the Germans.

"Sister, I'll be back."

She believed him; she had to believe him.

She turned around and walked back to the large room.

Ivan was still lying there. She went over and knelt down beside him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was light and shallow.

"Ivan?" she called softly.

He did not answer.

She stood up and walked over to the middle-aged woman. "How much longer can he hold on?"

The woman glanced at Misha. "One day. Maybe two."

Anna didn't speak. She went back to Misha and knelt down beside him. She looked at his face for a long time. He was a year older than her brother. Nineteen. His lips were chapped, and his face was covered in grime. She took a glass of water and fed him with a spoon.

"Misha, have you seen Ivan? Did you see him run in front of the tank?"

His lips moved. "I saw it—it ran away—it ran east—"

Anna nodded. She covered him with the blanket and stood up.

She remembered Lorraine, the Frenchman. He had helped her carry her bags and accompanied her to the market. He had said that the Germans would come to Moscow and then stop here.

She turned around and walked back to the large room.

Ivan died at three in the morning. He didn't shout or scream; his breathing grew lighter and shallower until he was gone.

Anna knelt down and began changing the sheets.

The next wounded soldier lay on top of him.

She stood up and walked over to the middle-aged woman.

"When can I go to the front lines?" she asked.

The woman looked at her. "Aren't you on the front lines here?"

"It's too far away. I can't hear the gunfire."

The people were exhausted, and so were the generals.

The lights in the Kremlin corridors stayed on all night.

Stalin sat at his desk in his office, a cup of tea that had gone cold in front of him. Three telegrams lay spread out on the table. The first, from Zhukov, reported on the experience of anti-tank operations in the west of the city, suggesting a change from frontal assaults to flanking attacks. The second, from Shaposhnikov, reported that troops transferred from the Far East were still en route and wouldn't arrive until at least December. The third, from Beria, reported on the panic in Moscow, with rumors circulating that Stalin was about to flee.

Poskrebyshev pushed open the door and entered, his footsteps light. "Comrade Stalin, the committee members have arrived."

Stalin stood up, picked up the three telegrams on the table, and left the office. In the adjacent conference room, the members of the Defense Committee were already seated. Molotov sat on the left side of the long table, a document from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs spread out before him. Voroshilov sat on the right, his uniform buttoned tightly, his face expressionless. Beria sat next to Molotov, a pencil in his hand, drawing something in his notebook. Shaposhnikov sat next to Voroshilov, a map in front of him, his finger pressed against a corner of it, motionless.

Stalin walked to the head of the long table and sat down. He threw three telegrams on the table, which spread out to reveal Zhukov's densely written paper.

"Zhukov said that our officers only know how to confront head-on. What they are taught in military academies and in pre-war exercises is to confront head-on."

Now that the Germans have attacked, and we can't hold them off head-on, we realize we need to attack their flanks.

No one speaks.

"Our officers are not as good as a Frenchman." He took a deep breath.

Voroshilov spoke up. "Comrade Stalin, this isn't a problem with the officers. Our military academy textbooks were learned from the Germans. The German textbooks taught us to engage in direct confrontation. They didn't even attack the flanks themselves. It wasn't until we tied them down in the Soviet Union that they started attacking the flanks."

Stalin looked at him. "Now you have a chance?"

Voroshilov remained silent.

Molotov looked up. "Comrade Stalin, Zhukov's report also mentioned something. He said that the Frenchman's suggestion had been used several times at the front, and each time it had been successful. Our casualties had decreased, and the German advance had been slowed down. This illustrates a point."

Stalin waited for him to continue.

"Our tactics need to be changed, but not now. We don't have time to retrain our officers. What we need now is to hold Moscow and wait for reinforcements."

Stalin nodded. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, stood up, and walked to the map hanging on the wall. West of Moscow, the red defensive line looked like a thread about to snap. The German army was advancing from the north, west, and south, with the closest approaching within thirty kilometers.