Jerry - Chapter Two

"You know, I haven't seen a display of colours like that since I dropped my palette while I was putting the finishes touches to a masterpiece called Plums, Lemons and a Lime," said Colonel Potter as he wrapped a new bandage tightly round Hawkeye's ankle.

Hawkeye was in a much better frame of mind now that he had seen the x-rays again and satisfied himself that there was no fracture. He wiggled his toes experimentally

"It's what all the best feet are wearing," he said. "This month Korea, next month the catwalks of Paris."

Potter smiled. "Well, you don't need me to tell you that time is the best healer for this kind of injury. My expert medical advice is to rest it as much as you can and things should start to improve pretty soon. You want some painkillers, or maybe a cane?"

"Nah," said Hawkeye, getting down off the table and testing the damaged foot carefully. "Painkillers make me woozy. And a cane will just mean I have to watch BJ doing bad Chaplin impressions. That new strapping's much more comfortable. Thanks, Colonel."

"Anytime. One more thing, Pierce," said the Colonel quietly as Hawkeye headed for the door. "I don't have to tell you how unacceptable that scene in the compound this morning was. Remember, no matter how much you're hurting, these boys are hurting more."

Hawkeye nodded miserably. The incident had been playing on his mind. "Yeah, I know," he said. "I acted like a jerk. I'll drop by and see Sergeant Clark on my way out."

"Good idea, son."

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Entering the post-op ward, Hawkeye unhooked the clipboard from the bed of Private J Hoffman, who had inadvertently been the cause of the episode in the compound. He was still unconscious, and Hawkeye had removed several pieces of shrapnel from the young man's belly, but he was confident he'd got them all and that Hoffman would make a full recovery. The private would play no further part in the war, though. Be thankful for small mercies, Hoffman, thought Hawkeye as he finished checking over the notes and replaced the clipboard. In the next bed was Sergeant Clark, his left shoulder heavily bandaged and his arm in a sling. He watched Hawkeye pull over a stool between the two beds and sit down heavily with a grunt.

"How does that shoulder feel?" asked Hawkeye.

"It's okay, I guess. Dr Hunnicutt says there's some deep muscle damage, and I might not get all the movement back, so it looks like I'm going home. The army won't need a soldier who can't toss a grenade or hold a rifle butt to his shoulder."

Hawkeye nodded sympathetically. "Listen, Clark – I wanted to apologise for what happened earlier. My bedside manner doesn't usually include bodily assault and verbal abuse, but you caught me at a bad time on a bad day. I'm sorry. Both bark and bite are back under control."

Clark grinned. "Hey, don't mention it. It's me who should be apologising to you, Doc. I saw the limp on you when you walked in just now, and the way you dropped onto that stool. That leg of yours is really giving you grief, and I didn't help any, did I? I'm sorry. I was just so scared for Jerry."

Clark stuck out his hand, introducing himself as "Big Sam Clark, from the Big Apple," and Hawkeye shook it and gave his name in exchange. Despite their first meeting, he was beginning to like this man with the lopsided smile and easygoing manner.

"Well, now we've opened and closed the inaugural meeting of the Mutual Apologies and Acceptances Society, I have a question for you, Sam" said Hawkeye. "This kid Jerry – what did you mean when you said he deserves to live more than anyone?"

"Jerry's kind of my pet project, Doc," answered Sam, frowning slightly. "I promised myself I would get him through the war safe."

"You're very protective of him," said Hawkeye. "Are you two related or something?"

The big sergeant fidgeted, scratching his cheek and looking away, then met Hawkeye's eyes again. "Jerry doesn't really like people to know," he said. "But I guess I can trust you. I mean, you're a doctor – you'll respect his confidentiality and all that, won't you?"

"Yeah, sure I will," said Hawkeye. "If you're sure you want to tell me."

"Okay," Sam nodded. "But you might not thank me afterwards." He made himself more comfortable in the bed, and Hawkeye leaned forward slightly on his stool to hear better.

"Jerry's name is Jerzy, and he was a Polish Jew from Warsaw. One day in late '42, he was coming home from the store when he saw his mother, father and older sister being dragged out of their house and driven away in trucks by German soldiers, along with all their neighbours. He was nine years old."

Hawkeye stared at the man in mute horror. He was reminded abruptly of a winter's day in Crabapple Cove when the ice was slick on the roads and his old convertible had only half-made the right turn from Main Street onto Forrest Avenue. Mercifully, there had been no traffic coming the other way, but as he was carried smoothly and helplessly towards the delivery truck parked outside Johnston's Hardware Store, Hawkeye had had time in the moment before impact – a moment that had seemed to last an eternity – to think, quite clearly and calmly, "This is going to hurt". And it had. He felt exactly the same way now. He had set things in motion with his questions; he knew what was coming next, and he could do nothing to stop it. And it was going to hurt.

"Jerzy ran back to the store owner who was a friend of the family, and he was hidden – passed from family to family, contact to contact, all of them risking their lives for this kid, until finally they were able to get him to an old friend of his mother's who lived in New York," Sam went on, his gaze never leaving Hawkeye's face. "He never saw his parents or his sister again. He learned over the next few years that his entire family had died at Treblinka. Every single relative; cousins, grandparents, everyone. Jerzy lost everyone during the war, Doc. Not just his family but his classmates, his neighbours, his friends and several of the people who'd helped him to get out of the country, including that store owner."

"Oh my God," whispered Hawkeye.

Sam looked over at the young man asleep in the next bed. "He was adopted by the family who took him in and Jerzy, whose surname I can't even come close to pronouncing, became Jerry Hoffman, US citizen. Six months after that, the Hoffmans died in a fire in the shop they owned one day while Jerry was at school, and he was sent to an orphanage – not that far from where I live now, in fact. So much for a new start and a happy ending."

If he hadn't been sitting, Hawkeye thought his legs might have given out beneath him. The everyday noises of the ward seemed far, far away. He swallowed hard and rubbed a hand across his face. Seeing his distress, Sam reached out a sympathetic hand and touched his arm.

"Take it easy, Doc," he said gently. "Hear me out. As soon as Jerry was old enough, he joined the army, and that's where we first met. I guess he was searching for some sort of family, some sense of belonging. Just after we came over here, I found that Jerry and I had a kind of common ground. You see, I was one of the first troops into Auschwitz in '45. I saw things there you couldn't begin to imagine, or want to." Sam's friendly face darkened and his eyes became distant as he looked away for a moment, blinking hard. "Anyway, Jerry heard me talking about it with some of the guys one night, and later he told me his story. He sobbed on my shoulder – the first and last time he's cried since Poland, he said - and he made me promise not to tell anyone else in our unit about his past. Well, I promised, but I also swore to myself that night that I'd get him through this alive. His is a life worth saving."

Hawkeye was relived that his voice sounded a lot steadier than he felt, in spite of the sudden tightness in his throat. "But why the big secret?" he said. "He's done nothing to be ashamed of. He survived against all the odds."

Sam smiled bleakly. "Jerry's a great kid, Doc. He's fun to be with, plays a mean hand of poker, listens to the guys' problems. He's one of the most popular men I know. He'd hate it if people thought they had to be careful what they say around him. The men might stop taking their gripes to him because they seem tiny compared to what he's had to deal with. Some of them might even avoid him altogether. He's not ashamed; he's scared. Scared that he could never be one of the guys if all they see is a victim, a freak survivor of the worst atrocity in history. Jerry's lost his faith in just about every way, Doc. He needs to know that his buddies will stick with him."

Hawkeye's mind was in turmoil as he looked again at the thin, pale face in the bed beside him. He looks just like any other kid that comes through here, he thought, and then realised with a shock that he was already seeing the young man differently, just as Sam had said. As if feeling his gaze, Jerry Hoffman stirred and opened bleary eyes as dark as his hair.

"I'm still here," he whispered, his voice carrying a slight accent.

"You betcha, Jerry," beamed Sam. "And you'll be just fine, right Doc?"

Trying to pull his thoughts together, Hawkeye bent over the bed to examine Jerry's dressing and then took his wrist to check the pulse. "Yep, I think so. You may have to rest the bellydancing routine for a few weeks, but give it time. A couple more days here, a little while resting up in Tokyo and then you'll be ho-home."

The hesitation was tiny, but it was there, and Jerry caught it straightaway. The young man turned his dark gaze onto Sam.

"You told him," he said accusingly.

Hawkeye froze. What do I say now? How do I handle this?

He handled it by not handling it. "Well," he said, straightening up. "I've got a ton of paperwork, and I'm sure you two have some catching up to do. I'll check in on you both later this evening."

Outside, he leaned back against the wall with his head tilted upwards, drinking in huge gulps of cool air. Again and again the image appeared before his eyes – a dark-haired , dark-eyed young boy, dressed in shorts and a jacket too big for him, a yellow star on its left breast. He was standing alone and terrified on a street corner, watching through the thin autumn rain as a truck took his parents away, knowing that he must not run to them or call out. Knowing that he would never see them again. Knowing that he was alone.

Hawkeye wiped his eyes furiously. "Get a grip," he muttered. "Get a grip, damn it!"