Translated by Anthony Stanis (718)2759286 New York 2013

TADEUSZ DOLEGA MOSTOWICZ

THE WITCHDOCTOR

Translated by Anthony Stanis (718)2759286 New York 2013

All rights reserved! Email:

CHAPTER I

In the surgeon’s ward reigned absolute silence, periodically broken by distinct, sharp clinks of metal instruments placed on a glass plate. Those inside breathed in through respirators nauseous, sultry air mixed with vapors of chloroform and the odor of raw blood. One of the nurses had fainted in the corner, yet no one at the operating table rallied to resuscitate her. None could or would; three assisting doctors alertly trained their eyes at the open red cavity in which moved slowly and seemingly awkwardly the rugged hands of Professor Wolf.

The slightest shift and twist of these butcher like hands had to be immediately and accurately interpreted. The imperceptible nod, the stifled grunt escaping from under the mask contained directions, which were readily understood by the assistants and obeyed in an instant. After all, it was not only a case of saving one’s life, which was essential in itself, but to overcome the odds of this very complicated operation, even if it had been judged categorically as not feasible to perform and one had had to be crazy to dare to undertake it, and in effect to garner more esteem, not only for the professor of the clinic and his assisting doctors, but also for Polish science, not to mention the worldwide publicity.

Professor Wolf operated on an open heart. He held it in his left hand; softly massaging it, rhythmically squeezing it with his fat fingers because he felt it was weakening. Through the thin rubber gloves he sensed every ripple and gurgle when the valves of the heart refused to pump; with his numb fingers he forced it to perform. The surgery was in its forty-sixth minute. Doctor Marczewski, who was responsible for pulse and blood pressure, for the sixth time injected the patient with solution of atropine and camphor.

Meanwhile the professor’s right hand executed a succession of short, quick cuts with lancet knives and spoons. Luckily the boil wasn’t lodged deep into the heart muscle, placing itself shallow in a truncated conical shape. “The life of this man will be preserved if he survives eight, nine more minutes,” flitted through the professor’s head.

“None of the top surgeons in the world dared even to consider such arisqué,never everattempted operation,” cogitated conceitedly Professor Wolf.

“That’s right, no one - none of the London surgeons, Paris, Berlin, none of Vienna. They’ve delivered their patient to Warsaw, forfeiting fame and a substantial pecuniary reward; this financial reward will render a new wing in his clinic possible and primarily for Beata and the baby a trip to the Canary Islands for the winter. It’ll be hard on him without them; nevertheless it’ll be good for them. Beata’s nerves recently…”

The bluish pouch of the left lung rose in a spasm, filled with air and then abruptly collapsed. Once, twice, thrice, whereas the live flesh held in the professor’s hand shuddered. A trickle of blood from the tiny wound fell on the violet diaphragm. The eyes of the assistants betrayed panic. The low hiss of oxygen manifested itself again, and another hypodermic was administered under the skin of the patient. The professor’s fingers continued to squeeze and open in a frantic pace. Several minutes later the tiny wound was cleared.

A finesurgical thread will wrap up the procedure. One, two, three stitches; simply incredulous how such a huge pair of hands was capable of so delicate task. Gingerly he placed the heart back and observed it intently. It swelled and limped unevenly, though the danger unmistakablywas over. He straightened himself and gave a nod. From the sterile white cloth Doctor Skorzen took the sawed off part of the chest. A few more of necessary measures and the professor breathed a sigh of relief. The rest belonged to his assistants. He trusted them absolutely, without a shade of doubt; after the final instructions he went into the dressing room.

With real pleasure he took a deep breath of fresh air, removed a respirator, gloves, a coat and a bloodstained apron and stretched himself to his full frame. The clock indicated 2:35 p.m. Again he’ll be late for dinner, and on an exceptional day. True, Beata comprehended only too well that the performed operation was inordinately paramount to him; notwithstanding being tardy on this festive day might get her riled up. Intentionally when leaving the house in the morninghe had not betrayed himself he had remembered the date, the eighth anniversary of their wedding. But Beata knew perfectly well that he had not forgotten it. Every year on that special day she had received a nice present, each consecutive year more precious and more expensive in direct proportion to his rising fame and wealth.

The professor on the run changed the apparel. He still had to look up the bedridden on the third floor and to reappraise the patient he had just operated on. On duty there Doctor Skorzen reported tersely:

“Temperature 36C, blood pressure 140, pulse weak and arrhythmic from 60 to 66.”

“Thank God,” the professor said amiably.

The young doctor in adulation beheld the colossal, bear like form of his chief. He currently with assiduity attended the professor’s lectures at the university; had been instrumental in gathering materials in preparatory stages when the professor had been involved in scientific research antecedent to establishing of his own clinic. In due course Doctor Skorzen had been awarded ahighly desirable position with access to a wide field of exploration. Perhaps he regretted that his chief had suddenly abandoned the ambitious scholarly projects, limiting himself to lecturing at the university, in preference to financial advancements; he didn’t admire him less on that account.

He knew all along, like everyone else in Warsaw, that the professor was not toiling like a slave for his personal or monetary gains, that he had never shirked responsibilities and often had performed miracles like the one today.

“Professor, you are a genius, sir,” he exclaimed with conviction.

“Please do not exaggerate, my friend. Believe me, in time you’ll attain the comparable skills. I’ll admit though I am quite pleased of the outcome. In case of complications get without delayin touch with me, although between us I’m certain it won’t be necessary. Well, today I would like to commemorate my anniversary without interruptions. I’m sure they have already phoned here to remind me not to be late.”

The professor was right. In his office the telephone rang unremittingly.

“Please inform the professor,” impetuously pleaded the butler, “to return home as soon as he can.”

“The professor is in the surgical ward,” every time replied the unperturbed Miss Janowicz, the professor’s secretary.

“An emergency?” inquired Doctor Dobraniecki upon entering. Miss Janowicz turned the roller of the printer, removed the just finished letter and volunteered:

“There’s the professor’s wedding anniversary celebration this evening. You have not forgotten, have you? You of all have received an invitation, I’m sure.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I expect it to be a perfect soiree as usual. There will be an excellent orchestra, exquisite food and the cream of society.”

“You have omitted, doctor, I’m surprised, beautiful women,” she remarked ironically.

“No, I’ve not; you’ll be there, too, won’t you?”

The lean, affable countenance of the secretary flushed rubicund.

“You are jesting, doctor,” she shrugged it off. “Even if I were a perfect beauty, you would hardlycondescend to notice me.”

Miss Janowicz intensely disliked Doctor Dobraniecki. He was a pleasant looking man, fairly handsome with a classic aquiline profile and high forehead; a prominent surgeon whom the professor trusted with the most complicated operations and eventually had promoted to a dean. Despite of the above she discerned in him a selfish, unscrupulous careerist who sought every opportunity to better himself, like for instance through a wealthy matrimony. Apart from that, she judged him to be arrogant, disrespectful and discourteous toward the professor, to whom he owed everything.

Doctor Dobranecki was subtle enough to detecta shade of enmity in her voice. A master of deception so as not to displease or antagonize anybody who might present even a minor hurdle in his advancement, he answered in themode of a conciliatory guise, pointing to a box flanking the table.

“I see you have furnished yourself with a new fur coat from Porajski.”

“I couldn’t afford Porajski, especially this type of fur.”

“This type?”

“Please take a good look. It’s a black sable.”

“Hmmm! Hmm! Life has been good to Mrs. Beata.”

He nodded thoughtfully and added:

“At least in a material sense.”

“What do you mean by this?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.”

“Aren’t you ashamed, doctor?” She erupted disdainfully. “Such a man, loving her with all his body and soul could be envied…”

“Oh yes, it’s understandable…”

Miss Janowicz pierced him with her angry eyes.

“She has everything a woman can aspire for. She has her youth, beauty, adorable daughter, and a famous and universally veneratedand admired husband, who slaves nights and days to provide for her comforts, extravagances and social position. And I assure you, doctor, she knows how to appreciate such a man.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he nodded politely, “but I also am awarewhat women treasure most.” He hadn’t completed the sentence. Into the office fell Doctor Bang; he cried out:

“He’ll live! Incredible! A miracle I’d say.”

With the enthusiasm of a youth he surged into his narration pertaining to the operation he had partaken in.

“Only our professor dared to venture the very impossible! Again he has magnificently proven his superiority,” echoed Miss Janowicz.

“Please, don’t get carried away,” interpolated Doctor Dobraniecki.

“My patients happened to be not of the lords or millionaires ilk. Not to boast about I have been lucky to perform several successful heart surgeries, whereas Doctor Krajewski, also here in Warsaw, wrote a golden page in the annals of medical history with an identical surgery thirty years ago.”

Others of the clinic staff quite naturally gravitated into the professor’s office; so that once he had entered he was swamped with congratulations.

He listened politely with a content grin adorning his large fleshy face. From time to time he furtively consulted his watch. Another good twenty minutes had elapsed before he climbed inside his long limousine.

“Home,” he ordered the chauffeur, sprawling himself comfortably in the back seat.

He was recovering fast. He was strong and healthy. Because of his tendency to put on weight he looked a bit older; he was but 43 years old and felt much younger, at times like a teenager. To be truthful wasn’t he able to quite convincingly turn tumbles on the carpet and play hide-and-seek with his daughter, Mary-Yolanda, not only for her enjoyment but for his as well?

Beata could never understand such behavior and childish follies. With consternation she voiced her disapproval.

“Rafael,” she reprimanded him, “what if someone saw you?”

“They will engage me as a circus clown,” he’d offer with a grin.

In reality at such moments he grew dismayed. Beata indubitably was the best wife in the world. For certain she loved him. Then again her fussing regarding the proper respect for him, the awe like reverence and solicitude boarding on liturgy. In the first years of marriage he had supposed she was a bit shy and perhaps with a slight inferiority complex. He had attempted to sideline her insecurities by bringing himself closer to her level. He had related grotesque stories of his apprenticeship, confided in her about his everyday trials and tribulations, shortcomings and triumphs in order to purge from her head the preposterous notion that they were not on equal standing. He had emphasized each and every minute that he lived only for her, toiled for her and that she was the only justification of his unbound happiness. It was the sacred truth after all.

He loved her madly, knew that she reciprocated with a corresponding passion, although in a guarded manner, never too overtly. She seemed invariably so subtle and delicate, pastel like a flower, yet always ready with a praising word and a warm smile for him. He might have surmised that she couldn’t behave otherwise hadn’t he seen her joyous and gay, bursting into a robust laughter, playful and flirtatious while in company of youth, being oblivious that he had espied her. He literally stood up on his head in an effort to convince her that he was like anyone else, just an ordinary, carefree, jolly good fellow, alas to no avail. Eventually with time he had acquiesced himself and proscribed from his heart pretensions to further or to augment the already enormous aggrandizement of happiness.

In few short hours he will be celebrating the eighth anniversary of their marriage, the eighth anniversary of the union of the life unspoiled or marred by the slightest controversy, dispute or a shade of discord, but perpetual bliss illuminated by countless moments of mirth, caresses, shared secrets…

Shared secrets… In verity it was he who usually unreservedly confided in her his feelings, thoughts and plans. Beata wouldn’t or couldn’t, perhaps her inner-self was too timid or too simple, perhaps too insufficient. Professor Wolf upbraided himself for such description. “Too insufficient” was detrimental to Beata’s virtues. No, he should never ever entertain alike notion. And if incidentally he was right, his heart warmed up even more with love and solicitude.

“I’m overpowering her,” he suffered in his mind, “I’m smothering her with my personality. She’s so sensitive and subtle, that’s why she’s constantly on guard not to betray herself that her affairs are of common, everyday’s kind.”

In concert with the above reasoning he endeavored to reward her for the disproportion of priorities. He got himself wholeheartedly involved in the particularities of the household, commented on her apparel, hairdo, lent his ear to diverse projects, social events and gave them attentive consideration as if they were the assignments of veritable significance; they became quintessential to him. He firmly believed that happiness had to be nourished and cultivated with the greatest of solicitude, and understood that these scarce hours, when he was ableto extricate himself from the clinic and devote himself to Beata had to be filled with love and warm care.

The automobile pulled in front of a beautiful white villa, undoubtedly the most imposing villa in Lilac Alley and one of the most elegant in Warsaw.

Professor Wolf alighted not awaiting for the chauffeur to open the door, took from him the box with the fur coat and hastily ran up the path. Using his key he opened the entrance door as quietly as possible, closing it behind him. He had wanted to surprise Beata, planning all about it while he had been bent over the open chest cavity in the operating room, scrutinizing jumbled knots of aortas and veins.

In the anteroom he stumbled upon his butler and an old housekeeper, Mrs. Michalowa. Apparently Beata was ill disposed for him being tardy, since both of them pretended to be disenchanted awaiting his belated arrival. He hadn’t expected such a dramatic demeanor and liked it even less; impatiently he waved them away.

Regardless Bronislaw stirred.

“Professor…Sir.”

“Pst!” Doctor Wolf interrupted him and with a frown added surreptitiously:

“Take my overcoat.”

The butler wished to speak, but was capable to utter only something unintelligible while helping the professor with the overcoat.

Professor Wolf quickly unpacked the black shiny fur coat of long silky hair, slang it over his arm, boisterously set on his head the matching fur cap with two frolicking swaying tails and shoved his left hand into the muffler. With a roguish grin he eyedhimself in the mirror. He resembled a clown, indeed.

He glanced at the servants to check their own impressions, alas the eyes of the butler and the housekeeper expressed consternation.

“A silly lot with no sense of humor,” he concluded in the end.

“Mr. Professor,” Bronislaw initiated afresh, whereas Mrs. Michalowa minced her steps on the spot.

“Silence, damn it,” he hissed in a low voice and bypassing them opened the living room door.

He had expected to find here Beata with the baby, or in the pink baby’s room, or in the bedroom.

He crossed the bedroom, the dressing room and peeked into the baby’s room. He found it also empty. Next he went into his study. No one was there either. In the dining room on a long adorned with flowers and set with gilded porcelain and crystals table, he saw two covers yet not cleared off. Earlier Mary-Yolanda and Miss Tholereed had had their lunch here. In the open pantry door stood a young maid, her eyes red and puffed up.

“Where’s Beata?” he demanded anxiously.