Love Child (eBook)

Chapter 1

Military Hospital

Vilnius, Lithuania
February 8, 1946

She had always admired this impressive hall that had a beautiful crystal chandelier and candelabras that were so common in the nineteenth century and made Lana think of palaces and balls with exquisite women and gallant men.

As nervous as Lana was, she couldn’t help mentally observing the ultimate irony of placing a Soviet government establishment in a mansion, formerly belonging to some now-unknown nobleman. The mansion still carried its undeniable mark of a pompous and defiantly anti-proletarian look, which was in alarming contrast with the functionality of a communist bureaucratic institution.

Oh, that merciless mirror. Instead of seeing a striking brunette with unforgettable eyes, Lana focused on her pale face and a protruding belly.

Okay, time to remind myself that my nickname at the medical school is Beautiful Lana.

She forced a reassuring smile at her reflection.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing here?” A short, unfamiliar man in an attendant’s uniform asked angrily, “Have you got a pass?”

“No, I don’t. I’m looking for someone. I mean, this person works here. His name is Keres, Marek Keres. He is a deputy chairman of the fuel department.”

“You’re not allowed here without a pass, and I cannot talk to you, I’m busy. You must leave now.” The man was brisk, almost rude.

“But I need to find him.” She noticed with self-disgust an imploring intonation in her voice.

“Who are you to him?” The attendant stared directly at her bulging belly.

Lana felt flushed and humiliated. She tried to cover the bulge but stopped and defiantly shook her head.

“I am his wife!”

“Then how come you don’t know that he doesn’t work here anymore?” The attendant looked at the young woman with evident pity. How many women in her condition, the consequence of the war, he must’ve seen!

“Can you tell me where he has gone?” she shamelessly tried to play up his concern.

“My dear girl, all of them, Polacks, left the other day, and God only knows where, to some place in Poland, of course, or maybe farther.”

“What about his secretary, Monica? Is she still here?”

“No, I told you, didn’t I? All of them gone.”

Lana nearly passed out. This did not surprise or frighten her. Lana had always been prone to fainting. As a little girl, she would black out almost every time she had to go down on her knees to scrub the floors in her parents’ apartment.

At least, this time I didn’t completely lose consciousness. Still I hate the sinking feeling of falling into the darkness.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

Lana regained her posture. “I am fine, thank you. I guess I will be leaving now.”

Lana didn’t listen to the attendant anymore. She didn’t remember how she found herself outside and how she started wandering along narrow, post-war streets of Vilnius, the city that Marek called Vilna, in the old, pre-Soviet fashion.

Lana first encountered Vilnius’s beauty when the hospital was relocated there in the late spring of 1944. Surprisingly enough, Lana, a Soviet atheist, was mostly impressed with the gothic splendor of the city’s Roman Catholic cathedrals. The mixture of architectural styles, the imposing Gediminas’ Castle, and the general Baltic European charm that the wonderful city possessed made Vilnius forever unique to Lana.

The perfect timing augmented the first impression. By then, Lana had forgotten how lovely spring could be. Gentle, throbbing, ripe buds and flowers were strewn everywhere. The air was bursting with delicate fragrances. Each sunlit, gorgeous morning, with the sun touching the tops of the cathedrals and trees, creating different shades of color any place the sunlight landed—all that reminded Lana of a normal life even more poignantly. The sight of polite, nicely attired people, strolling down impeccably clean cobblestone streets and populating beautiful little shops and cafes, added to her fascination. It was amazing to Lana that this town did not bear as much of a war imprint as the ravaged Russian towns and people.

Lana aimlessly walked, rather, dragged her feet along those cobblestone streets, stumbling, unable to see anything through the fog of tears. It was such an inconceivable paradox—being in this place, so associated with Marek, and yet without him. Her memory readily provided the snapshots from the past.

Military Hospital Near Russian Front
1943

“Comrade Lieutenant!” When Pyotr Vasilyevich2 addressed Lana so officially, it meant trouble. Lana’s military rank was Lieutenant of the Medical Division, but Pyotr Vasilyevich, the head surgeon, called her Lana, just like everyone else.

Lana jumped up from the floor where she had collapsed in a semi-sleep, semi-stupor during a short break from around-the-clock surgeries.

The boss was furious. “Since when do you have your patients write their own anamneses3 in their files?”

“Pyotr Vasilyevich,” Lana made an attempt to fix her white coat that had been dirty and torn for the longest time, “you know how big my load is. I never complain. I realize that our hospital is very close to the front line, and the wounded get here around-the-clock. We, of course, need to be working nonstop.”

Pyotr threw the file almost hitting Lana’s face. “Stop beating around the bush. Just explain to me what’s going on.”

Lana wasn’t taking the accusations without a fight. “I have about a hundred wounded under my care. Day and night, I perform all the limb surgeries: amputations; pus surgeries; removing shells, bullets; and, in addition, I must still do rounds. I am sorry, but I’d rather allow some of my educated patients write in their files so that I can afford to sleep for ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Lana!” Katya, a surgical nurse, frantically waved, “everything is ready for the amputation, time for you to sterilize.”

“Okay, Lana,” Pyotr was nearly apologetic. “I haven’t slept for three days. I am on edge, and if there is an inspection, we will be in trouble. All of the notes in your files are written by different people, almost none of them by you. I value your outstanding work and understand that you handle one of the most difficult divisions in the hospital, but please, be more discreet.”

Lana dashed toward the operation room and didn’t hear most of his speech.

Later that day she finally returned to the room that she shared with two surgical nurses—her best friend Shura, a lively, full-faced woman, and a plain-looking, quiet Valya. Lana, a nonbeliever, prayed to God that she wouldn’t be called downstairs to the operating room and would be able to get some sleep. She had been asleep for three hours when Nastya, a nurse’s helper, barged in.

“So sorry to wake you…”

“What is it, Nastya?”

“They just brought in a brutal gangrene, and Pyotr Vasilyevich desperately needs some rest. He is asking for you to operate.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in two minutes. And how many times have I told you not to repeat what Pyotr says word for word, like a parrot. You don’t even know what ‘desperately’ and ‘brutal’ mean.”

Poor, harmless Nastya closed the door.

Why did I have to take it out on this well-meaning woman?

Lana promised herself to apologize. She rushed downstairs. After all her time at this hospital—Lana had been a surgeon there almost since the hospital had been initially formed in Ryazan4 during the winter of 1942—she could never get used to the volume of wounded the hospital had been getting from the front.

The official name of the hospital was Hospital for Selecting and Evacuation No. 1186. The hospital was presently moving toward Smolensk5 to catch up with the front. They received wounded who could not be helped at field hospitals that were located directly at the front line. From the time of its formation, the purpose of the hospital had never changed. It was designated for, but not limited to, cleaning wounds, putting on dressings, immobilizing injured limbs, and if necessary, performing surgeries.

After the wounded were fit enough to be transported, as their condition became more stable, they were sorted according to the profile of their wounds and severity of their injuries, and sent for further treatments to other stationary, better equipped hospitals, closer to the rear. The other wounded were forwarded from the front without any breaks. The work went on nonstop, in shifts, more often regardless of shifts, day and night.

It was one of the major front hospitals with twelve departments—wounds of scull, chest, upper and lower limbs, and others, depending on the nature and location of the wounds. Lana’s was a lower limbs ward—for patients with leg wounds. She was in charge of the main dressing unit and had doctors and nurses under her supervision.

Lana passed the dressing unit, an enormous room with a lot of tables. She automatically checked if her assistants were there. They helped doctors to deliver first aid and wash out wounds. Sometimes assistants...