The guardian angel
The floor is as cold as ice and as hard as stones. Snow is banging harshly on the door of the little wooden hut. I am surrounding my arms around my granddaughter, as she cupped her bare hands near the fireplace and shivered. At the centre of it a weak flame was flickering in the dark. As if breaking the silence, she asked me to tell her a story. "Sure." I nodded. "Sure…" Gazing at the flame, I heard my own low voice speaking. It wandered into the chilly air, and it brought me back to the piece of memory that was locked somewhere deep in my mind…
It was about fifty years ago when I first met him. At that time, the First World War had just ended for a few years. He had golden, tidily slicked hair, as well as a pair of deep blue eyes. His white long coat that identified him as my new doctor was turned orange as the candle shone on him. "Hello," He spoke, giving me a professional smile. I twitched in my bed as I heard the greeting—not because of the greeting itself, but the accent. He had a thick German accent.
A German doctor for a Russian?
I had tried seeking help from five or six doctors through my friends' recommendation because of my immobile left leg. It was not completely immobile, but pain would strike me like thunderbolts every time I tried to move my hip joint. None of the doctors really healed my body. Honestly, it was time I tried seeking help from another doctor. But to think of a German doctor! Germans were supposed to be our—Russians' mortal enemies. Just think of the lost of the Battle of Tannenburg, when troops and troops of Russian soldiers are forced down the river to be drowned! Many of them preferred suicide with their own guns instead, and the German generals just stood there and watch…
I bet it was the hostility shown on my face that betrayed me. The German doctor seemed to see through my mind. He laid his palm on my shoulder, asking me how I hurt my leg. Ironically, as long as I could remember, no doctors had ever asked me this question. Instead, they all claimed their painkillers are the most magical and then I wouldn't feel a thing afterwards. Of course those were all lies.
I told him that I hurt my leg by carelessly tripping down the stairs. Without further hesitation, the German carefully pulled up my blanket. I took a book from the bedside to cover my face, frequently peeking from behind. I saw, and felt him laid his hand on my legs, probably checking. I studied his deep blue eyes. There was something in them which somehow had a calming effect on me. But Germans are wicked, you know. I was convinced not to trust them wholeheartedly. "Are you going to give me any medicine?" I inquired. "No, I shall give you a constant massage on your leg, but the treatment is going to be a long and painful process…if you allow me." I tried hard to hide my distrust, but how could I reject and say that I was afraid of pain? "Go ahead," I muttered, "Just make sure you aren't going to break it."
He came to my bedroom every other day since then. He would start by checking my leg, ask if I had felt better or not, and start a new session of massage. His arms were strong and stable. Every rhythmic press he made was like a hammer on my hips—I even had to control my gasps. I bet he noticed that as well, but covered this shame of men for me skillfully by chatting with me on casual topics. So casual that once it was about the difference between German and Russian methods of sweet-making, which happened to turn my gasps into saliva. "Here you go," He stuffed something into my mouth, it was something sweet. "German sweets?" I choked. "They taste terrible!" I joked. "Stupid, they are Russian sweets that I bought on my way here. It must have been a long time since you've had something good inside, hmm?" Instead of feeling embarrassed, I thought my view on this German has shifted a bit away from wickedness.
At one winter night several years later it was deadly cold outside. The German doctor came as usual. Due to constant treatment, I was already able to get of my bed and stagger around my room. I proudly presented a cup of tea that I made for him as a sign of triumph against immobility that had long locked me on my bed. He held my wrist instead and sat me on the couch. "New place for you, you are not on the bed anymore. Look, this is something I worked out recently. I believe it works." I stared at the tiny glass container in his hand. It was some kind of ointment. "Well…You have to take that off." The German blushed when pointing at my pants and I tried hard to hide my laughter due to his awkwardness. Things started going on as usual except I could clearly feel his bare, warm hands spreading the ointment and pressing against my leg alternately. "Haa-chee." I sneezed, not really being accustomed to the feeling without any covers. "Aren't you cold?" I asked, trying to turn my head around for the first time.
What I saw really shocked me. The coat he had been wearing was put aside, I even thought I could see sweat on his forehead. Not at such a cold winter night! Then I saw his eyes—they were fully concentrated on what he was working on. For a second I finally know what was in those deep blue crystals.
Kindness.
As if he was a comrade…or even, a brother to me.
The political issues used to be the taboo between us, but we even talked about that later on. Despite my trust that had developed towards my German doctor, it was clear that the majority of Russians were hostile towards Germans. He also told me that as the rise of Hitler goes on, Germans did not like the idea of communism of the Soviet Union either. Nevertheless, I still cherish our time together, as it was the only thing in my life that seemed significant. In this tiny cozy room, I feel safe. Provided that the German doctor was with me.
It sometimes worried me that if my leg had fully healed, the German doctor might leave. Yet, it came much earlier than I had expected. When he came in that time, he didn't say "hello" in his thick German accent.
"We have to say goodbye." He put a big jar of ointment beside my bed.
I heard his low voice. My heart jumped. So quickly? "Hmm." I muttered.
"I'm leaving. I...have to leave." He turned away, hesitantly.
"I will not stop you from leaving. Thank you for informing...and, thank you for looking after this-" I patted my leg and squeezed out a smile, "for all these years..."
He gave a last check to my leg. And then he was gone. None of us really looked into each other's eye.
I began to realize, after he was gone, that I was actually able to walk downstairs and go around the house that I used to be. With a little bit more practice, I was even able to run. I read newspapers on my own, and whenever the pain came again I imitate the way the German doctor massaged my leg. Years passed again. "Out of sight, out of mind."—I slowly missed the German doctor less than I did as daily work overwhelmed me.
Not long after, World War Two started. Before that, Hitler has signed a Non-Aggression Pact with the Soviet Union, but the pact never happened to calm me down from my worries as tension was clearly building up between the two nations. On the 22th of June, 1941, I saw the giant lines about the shattering fact that the Nazis started an invasion against my motherland. I was quickly deployed as the Red Army to defend against the wicked.
Yes, the wicked.
It was definitely not easy. The mobilization of the Nazis was still fast even with the early snow starting to block the underdeveloped muddy roads. During each clash we would lost a lot of men. Tanks and bombs were frequent. We hid in the holes and tried shooting through the tiny tank windows. "Back! Back!" Suddenly, I heard heavy footsteps scrambling away behind me, and the second I turned back for a glance the sharpest pain I had ever experienced penetrated my leg. A bomb attack! I heard myself roaring and clawing into the snow while blood oozed out from the very leg that was healed not long ago, staining the snow bright red. I looked around and shouted for help, only to listen to the shout becoming a helpless whisper as gusts and gusts of wind filled my mouth. Half of my leg was blasted open to minced flesh, pieces of bones looked like broken porcelain. No signs of comrades were present. Where have they all gone? Why would they know that they should run back? Pathetic, I thought. That's it, everything had its end. Everything had its end, but why did everything have to end so quickly? In piercing agony, I recalled the Battle of Tannenburg where the Russians saved themselves from lasting pain by committing suicide. However, there were no bullets left.
On the verge of passing out, I felt someone approaching. WHO? Without doubt, I saw a man in high-ranked Nazi uniform menacing. "Kill me," I begged, fearing a series of sadistic torture. "Shot me, now! So that I can be relieved from pain… Bitte!" I cried in German, hoping for mercy. As he trod closer, I still couldn't see his face. He had half his face covered under his cap.
His muddy boot landed on my unwounded leg. "I don't waste my bullets." He knelt down to me. "Hush."
"WHAT?" I gasped, both out of pain and surprise. I watched him pulled out a heavy kit, opened it, and inside shown an abundant supply of medical supplies. I watched him using antiseptics to clean up my wound. I watched him using up a whole roll of bandages, then another, then another. I watched him, taking off his very own coat, plucking off all the military badges and stuff, ripping it into pieces as a final wrap of my wound. He did all this hastily and anxiously, I could clearly see his hands shake. At last, he looked up and gave me a quick glance.
Deep, blue, kind eyes.
"ARE YOU…"
"Farewell."
He ran after leaving me this word in a husky voice.
It didn't need much explanation about what happened next. Yes, I managed to crawl back to my comrades alive, and I told them an unknown Russian comrade saved me from this severe injury. The military doctor awed at the skillful wrap, and joked that the Russian who saved me must have ripped the cloth off one of those wicked Germans. A few more years had gone off the calendar; the next thing I knew was that we were celebrating the victory of the Great Patriotic War. Slowly, I even learnt how to coordinate well with my "fake leg".
Yet there was still one wish deep inside my heart.
I set off to East Germany, where soon became a part of the Soviet Union. I looked carefully at every face—every man that possessed golden hair and blue eyes. Some people asked me, "What is his name? How does he look like?"
I then realized that the German doctor had never told me his name.
"He's called Ludwig," I made something up. "And he had deep, blue, kind eyes."
"There are a lot of Ludwigs out there. Does he have a surname?"
"No. Ah, and he has tidily slicked back golden hair."
"Still too common….I regret to tell you I could offer no further help."
"Thank you. Sorry for the inconvenience caused."
I stayed, got married and searched for him in Germany for nearly my whole entire life, until I found myself lost and wandered back to somewhere deep in the snow. My granddaughter clinged on to my trousers that day when I bid farewell to my family one morning. We eventually found a little hut there and settled down. We went along well. I loved sitting beside the fireplace. One day, I discovered that I could no longer stand up and walk.
So what?
I smiled, and stared at the flame at the central of the fireplace. Just a tiny flame, but it turned the whole fireplace orange.
"There are angels living among people and sometimes they just can't hide their wings anymore..."
"Even though we were mortal enemies, Even though we were destined to be torn apart by the era…"
"That man is, however, one whom I would never forget, one who has walked past my life hastily…Der Heisskalter Engel."
-The End-
Translations:
*bitte "please" in German
* Der Heisskalter Engel "The Guardian Angel" in German