The Furies (37 page)
Authors: Irving McCabe
To: Dr Elspeth Stewart, Bruntsfield Hospital, Edinburgh, Scotland
Sender: Sylvia Calthorpe, Leskovac Orphanage, Leskovac, Serbia
3 August 1919
Dear Ellie,
I'm really sorry I haven't written for so long but in the six months since Vera and I arrived back in Serbia, we have been hugely busy with the task of setting up our orphanage.
But the good news is that â after a lot of searching â we finally found a suitable location and we opened our doors to the first children four weeks ago. It was distressing to see these ragged, half-starved waifs, but we've now got ten orphans â three boys and seven girls â aged from four up to twelve. The farm we bought has suitable space and buildings that will, in time, allow us to care for up to fifty orphans. It is so very satisfying to help these poor children. I am sure that this is what I was meant to do, and I know Vera feels the same.
Of course our work was badly hampered by the influenza that swept through Serbia this spring. After all that this country has gone through during the past four years, it seemed such a cruel stroke. But I've heard that the numbers of new cases are falling every day, so we are hoping the worst may be over.
Mother and Father were instrumental in helping us buy the farm by releasing some of my inheritance early. But my intention is that we should become self-financing: this was a working farm before we bought it, with plum and apple orchards, goats, chickens, geese, ducks and enough acreage to grow vegetables and some cereals. So as well as a cook, laundress and cleaners, we've hired several farm labourers. Vera loves it here. She says it is good farming country and the soil is better than on her parents' farm in Oxfordshire. She and Anya tell the labourers what to do and they certainly jump to it â I think they're all quite terrified of Anya!
Mother has also been raising funds by holding whist drives and other charity events in London. She seems to have accepted me for what I am, and I think has given up her dream of trying to make me fit in with the âKensington' set. Since the exploits of the Scottish women were reported in The Times, I think she's secretly quite proud of what I've done.
Of course, Vera and I couldn't have done any of this without Anya's help. I don't think either of us expected to see her again: I most certainly did not. When Anya came to Krusevac that day â that awful day when she told me she thought you had drowned â she also told me that she and her Cheta were going to be part of the last stand against the Bulgarians. She didn't expect to survive, but of course she did. She told us that when she heard two English women were trying to set up an orphanage in Leskovac, she immediately thought something as mad as that might be the idea of one of us (!) and so she came over to investigate. I don't think I'll ever forget the expression on Vera's face as Anya rode up to the farmhouse that day. As you might expect, she and Anya are now inseparable.
Talking of which, I hope you are sitting down when you read this, my biggest news yetâ¦
I've met someone!
His name is Sasha: Count Sasha Djermovic. He's a colonel in the Serbian Army, but is also Serbian royalty and his family are distantly related to the Romanovs. He escaped into Albania like you and Vera during the great retreat, but came back last year when the Serbian army routed the Germans before their final surrender. I met him during the armistice celebrations in Belgrade and we instantly hit it off. He did some of his military training in Britain and speaks English fluently. I know it's only been a few months, but I've got a strong feeling it could be serious. He's even talked to me of marriage, and Mother would be as pleased as punch if that came off. He is as âwell connected' as a Serbian can be, and is going to help organise a royal visit at the orphanage from Crown Prince Peter later in the year.
And how are you, Ellie? I hope you're enjoying life in Edinburgh. I do so miss speaking to you. My only other regret is what happened with Gabriel: that we told him that you'd died, and that when we parted in Bludenz I did not think to take his address. God willing he has survived the war. I know you must be so disappointed not to have had any reply to all those letters you wrote, to the Austrians, the Italians, and his father. Are you still planning to visit Austria when the blockade is lifted? I know you feel you can't move on until you know one way or another about him, so you are very much in my thoughts.
I will try to write to you sooner next time, my darling.
All my love
Sylvia
To: Dr Rudolph Fischer, University Hospital, Graz,
Sender: Dr Gabriel Bayer, Westbahnhof, Vienna
18 August 1919
Chief,
I am writing this to you as I sit in a café in the Westbahnhof, waiting for the Vienna-to-Ostend express, which will depart in one hour. I can't believe it's been three years since we last saw each other. I would have written sooner, but there seemed no point when the British naval blockade was preventing any letters from America reaching Austria.
Much has happened since you operated on me three years ago.
The fractures have healed nicely, although I have a slight limp and probably still have some shrapnel in my left leg, from the Italian shell which you will remember also took poor Klaus's life. A month after you sent me home to convalesce, I was reviewed by the Viennese medical board, who considered me unfit to re-join the army and so I was medically discharged.
I had always thought of taking a post as a civilian surgeon after I left the army, but first I went back to Klagenfurt to see my father. After taking the time to think about the things I had seen in the war, I eventually decided I did not want to stay in Austria any longer.
I remember once telling you about Dr Plotz, the young American who was researching a possible typhus vaccine. At that time America had not yet entered the war and Dr Plotz was still at the peak of his fame. My research on wound infection was relevant to other projects at Mount Sinai Hospital, so I wrote to him and he agreed to write a letter of recommendation and sponsor my journey to America.
So I travelled down through Serbia again, but this time I crossed the Greek border into Salonika, where I caught a liner and arrived in New York in September 1916. As promised, Dr Plotz found me a temporary research job at Mount Sinai while I prepared for the National Medical Board exams. I passed the exams, and then got a job as a surgeon at the GermanâAmerican Hospital in Chicago.
It was wonderful at first: Chicago has a large Austrian community and I was made very welcome. But when President Wilson declared war on Austria in December 1917, in view of my history of army service I was ordered to report to a police station. I was formally arrested and then escorted to an internment camp in Georgia, Fort Oglethorpe.
I spent more than a year as an internee, and it was not an easy time: a few months after I arrived, influenza struck the camp. More than half the inmates became ill and many died; the experience was almost as bad as the typhus epidemic in Serbia had been. I worked day and night in the camp infirmary, but this time I escaped infection and eventually the epidemic passed.
The second difficult time came in May of this year: a telegram from a neighbour of my father in Klagenfurt arrived, which said that my father had died from influenza. He had been in bad health for some time, but I was consoled by the fact that at least we had those precious few weeks together before I left for America.
I was released two months ago, shortly after the Versailles treaty was signed. My position as a surgeon in Chicago was still open to me, but first I decided to go back to Austria to settle my father's affairs. So, with other internees released at the same time, I sailed to Marseilles on the SS Pocahontas and arrived in Austria a month ago.
Amongst my father's papers I found an unopened letter. It was dated March 1916, but had been delayed by the naval blockade and only just arrived. The envelope had a British stamp and was curiously addressed â “To Herr Bayer, retired pastry chef and father of Dr Gabriel Bayer, Klagenfurt”. When I opened it, to my amazement I discovered it was from Dr Stewart, the Scottish surgeon I told you about. I had been told that she had drowned, but to my great joy the letter stated she was alive and well, and working in London.
The London surgical conference takes place annually in August, so I sent the organisers a telegram, asking to be allowed to present the paper I was working on before the war broke out. I received a reply last week saying that, in the general spirit of reconciliation, if I could get a travel licence from the British Embassy in Vienna, they would allow me to attend. Armed with their reply and Harry Plotz's papers of endorsement, I approached the British Commissioner in Vienna. Because of my work as a surgeon with the Scottish women and in the Serbian First Reserve Hospital, he agreed to provide a licence to travel to Britain. The meeting starts in two days, which I hope will give me enough time to find her.
Well, the station clock is telling me that I must finish now and post this letter to you if I am to make the train and onward ferry connection to Dover. After the conference is over I intend to return directly to America. Maybe one day you and your family might consider visiting me in Chicago.
Once again, thank you for all your support and help over the years.
Gabriel
âIs it acute cholecystitis, Dr Stewart?'
Elspeth nodded. âWell done, Miss Gillies.' The petite young woman in her short white coat, brown hair tied neatly behind her head, smiled with pride as Elspeth turned to the student standing beside her. âNow, Miss Bruce: please demonstrate Murphy's sign for me.'
Elspeth knew that Miss Bruce was the least confident of the four women in the group, and she watched the slender red-haired girl nervously approach the bedside. The patient â a rotund middle-aged woman with thick blond hair â pulled up her surgical gown to expose her abdomen and then slowly lay back, clearly in some discomfort, thought Elspeth, judging by the expression on her face.
Miss Bruce knelt at the bedside and tentatively placed her hands on the patient's large belly. Elspeth smiled at the young student's timidity: she had a soft spot for Miss Bruce, who reminded Elspeth of how nervous she had been when she had been a medical student more than ten years earlier. Yet here Elspeth was, back at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary and educating the next generation of women doctors.
Miss Bruce's hands were paddling uncertainly on the patient's upper abdomen, and Elspeth stepped forward to gently guide the student's fingers onto the inflamed gallbladder. The patient flinched at the pressure and a look of dismay flashed across Miss Bruce's face. But the patient quickly gave a smile of reassurance.
âOch, dinna worry about that, lassie; when Dr Stewart first examined me, I nearly jumped oot the bed!'
Miss Bruce finished her examination, then stood and thanked the patient before stepping back in line with the other students.
âWell done, Miss Bruce, we'll make a surgeon out of you yet,' Elspeth said, and then turned to Miss Gillies. âSo, Miss Gillies, how do we treat this acutely inflamed gallbladder?'
âSurgical removal, Dr Stewart?'
âCorrect. Mrs Govan needs a cholecystectomy, and as her pain is not settling, the surgery needs to be done in the next twenty-four hours. Normally Professor Thomson or one of his team would perform the operation because, as you know, women surgeons are not ordinarily allowed to operate with the walls of the infirmary. But I am covering for Professor's team who are attending the London surgical conference for the next two days, so I'll be doing the operation tomorrow morning.'
The students' eyes widened with excitement as Elspeth continued.
âNow that's all for today, ladies. Tonight you should read the chapter on biliary anatomy in your surgical texts. Tomorrow you will be able to observe the operation and one or two of you may even be asked to assist. I'll meet you here in the ward operating room at seven-thirty sharp.'
Three of the four women curtsied and walked away; Miss Bruce waited a moment longer to throw Elspeth a final smile of gratitude before following the others towards the ward exit.
As she watched the young woman leave, Elspeth fondly remembered Dr Inglis, who had taught Elspeth when she had also been a timid first-year student ten years earlier. She felt a twinge of sadness at the memory, because two years ago Dr Inglis had died after taking another Scottish Women's unit to Russia.
Elspeth had considered going to Russia with Dr Inglis, but by that stage of the war so many male doctors had joined the army that there was a shortage of surgeons in Britain. So instead of going abroad again, Elspeth had gone back to work at St Mary's in London. And then, when her two-year contract had finished, she'd taken a post as surgeon at the Bruntsfield Hospital for Women and Children in Edinburgh.
As well as her surgical work at the Bruntsfield, Elspeth taught clinical skills to the female medical students. She loved tutoring her students, who were passionately keen about their studies. But she found it galling that the male students and their clinical tutors took priority for most of the learning opportunities: women students were not allowed to attend post mortems or see major surgical operations, and male students had their ward teaching between the hours of nine and five, whereas Elspeth had to teach before breakfast or â as today â after supper.
She glanced up at the clock: half past seven. The new assistant surgeon had told her that there was an acute appendix to do that evening, but first she wanted to post the letter she had written to Sylvia that morning: a letter telling Sylvia that she still hadn't had any response to any of her requests for information on Gabriel's whereabouts. When her contract at the Bruntsfield expired in a month's time, she would travel to Austria to try and locate him. It was something she just
had
to do: find him, and let him know she was still alive. Even though it had been three years since she last saw him, she still thought about him, still could not bear the idea that he might go on with his life â if he
was
alive â not knowing she hadn't died. Because she still had feelings for him.
She went into the doctor's office, hung up her white coat, and from another peg took down her grey outdoor jacket. She left the ward, and at the top of the staircase to the ground floor almost collided with a petite, bright-eyed girl in a white coat had had come running upstairs.
âOops, sorry,' said Dr Main, Elspeth's new assistant surgeon. She looked flustered and was breathing fast. âThe acute appendix is on her way up, Dr Stewart,' she said, breathlessly. âWill you do the operation this evening?'
âWhen did she last eat?'
âNothing since this morning.'
âGood, we'll do her right away then.' Elspeth sensed the young surgeon's nervous excitement. âYou've not done an appendix before, have you, Janice?'
âNo, Dr Stewart.'
âWell, don't worry. I'll show you what to do today, and you can do the next one if you like.'
âThat would be wonderful, Dr Stewart.'
She smiled at her enthusiasm. âI'm just going out to post a letter, so I'll see you back here in ten minutes.'
âThank you very much,' Dr Main said with a smile and then scurried away onto the ward.
As she descended the stairs, Elspeth could not help but reflect on how ridiculous it was that women were not routinely allowed to operate in the Royal Infirmary. It was only two years ago, she recalled, that Dr Gertrude Herzfeld had become the first independent woman surgeon in Scotland, but she had only been permitted to operate at the Sick Children's Hospital. Even now, the only surgery that women were allowed to do were routine procedures like cholecystectomies or appendectomies, and these were generally restricted to the Bruntsfield Hospital. Yet when Elspeth had worked in Paris and Kragujevac, she had performed far more challenging operations than those. She knew the work of the Scottish women had advanced the suffrage cause and forever changed the perception of female doctors. Yet in spite of the recently passed Equal Representation Act, it was clear to Elspeth that there was a long way to go before women, and women doctors, were treated as equals.
She arrived at the ground floor and walked through the wood-lined entrance foyer, past the gold-on-black panels commemorating donations from generous benefactors, her shoes echoing on the black-and-white chequered floor tiles.
âDr Stewart!'
Startled by the call, she stopped and turned around. Behind the reception desk the hospital doorman was holding a small brown paper package. âYes, Jenkins?'
âA gentleman arrived here half an hour ago, asking to see ye, Dr Stewart. He was in quite a hurry, telling me he came up from London this morning but had to rush back to Waverly to catch the overnighter back to King's Cross. He's gone now, but he left this for ye.'
From
London?
Maybe it was one of Professor Thompson's team, back early from the conference? She went across and took the package from Jenkins and then frowned: the parcel was bound with string and her name was written in black ink on the front. There was a knot at one side and as she pulled at a free end to loosen it, Jenkins continued to speak.
âWhen I told him that he couldnae go up to the ward because visiting time was finished, he got a wee bit riled up. So I says to him, “If you don't calm down, Fritz, I'll have to ask ye to leave.” But then he said he had to leave anyway, otherwise he'd miss his train.'
As she was pulling the wrapping paper aside, she suddenly stopped and looked up. âSorry, Jenkins â did you just say Fritz?'
âAye, Dr Stewart. He didn't leave a name, but he sounded like a Hun to me.'
Elspeth looked down again. As the brown wrapping paper fell to the floor she saw grey moleskin. And now her hands began to tremble as she glimpsed, in faded gold lettering, the words “Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare”.
It was the book from the school library in Kragujevac.
The book
he
had shown her four years ago!
âWhenâ¦whereâ¦' she said, faltering with bewilderment. Then she shook her head to clear her mind. âWhen did he leave,' she asked urgently, clutching the book as if her life depended on it.
The porter looked startled. âOhâ¦only a few minutes agoâ'
âWhere did he go to?' she demanded, hurrying towards the entrance.
âTo Waverly, I think, miss. The overnighter leaves at eightâ'
But Elspeth was already through the door, slipping the book inside her jacket pocket as she strode down the steps, weaving a way between several startled-looking visitors and medical students in the infirmary forecourt. She hastened out into the street and turned right, in the direction of Waverly station, her heart hammering hard in her chest as her eyes scanned the pavement ahead.
Twenty yards in front of her, at the top of the narrow lane that led down to the meadows behind the infirmary, was the statue of a Unicorn atop a stone column. As she hurried towards the statue, Elspeth saw that someone was leaning against the column: a man dressed in a grey suit, a fedora hat pulled low over his brow, a walking stick in his left hand. She saw him raise the stick to signal a passing taxi, which swerved across the street and pulled up at the kerb beside him. The man limped forward to open the rear door and turned to speak to the driver.
And as he turned his head, his face came into profile.
Elspeth came to an abrupt halt, and for several seconds she stood motionless with both hands pressed hard against her chest, holding her breath in case he was an illusion and might disappear if she were to inhale. It really
was
him standing there! There were several other pedestrians on the pavement, and one of them â a man with a highland terrier on a leash â glanced inquiringly at her as he strolled by, the terrier sniffing at her shoes. Elspeth could feel her heart pounding so strongly beneath her fingers that for a moment she thought it might burst through her ribs.
âGabriel!' She heard herself shout his name, but it was almost as if she was floating above herself, listening to some other person call to him. She called again, but feared he could not hear her over the noise of the taxi, because he was removing the fedora and bending as if to climb into the back of the cab.
She called once more, and this time he froze and turned towards her: she saw him start with recognition and step back on to the pavement again, steadying himself with the walking stick. As she ran toward him he smiled at her, and when she finally reached him she flung her arms around his neck and felt his arms slip around her waist.
She wasn't sure how long they held each other, but at last Elspeth opened her eyes and drew back from him. As she studied his face, a wave of joy swept through her and she leant forward to hug him again, then pulled away once more, a serious expression on her face as she glanced at the walking stick in his hand.
âHave you been injured, Gabriel?'
But he was shaking his head with happiness and grinning stupidly at her as he stroked her hair. âI thought I'd lost you, Elspeth,' was all he said, through gentle laughter.
âBut you're limpingâ'
âIt's nothing. Just a bit of shrapnel, a souvenir of the war. It's getting better every dayâ'
âHey, pal,' shouted the taxi driver. âDo you want this taxi, or no?'
She turned to look at the driver and only now realised that several pedestrians were gazing curiously at them. She didn't care â he had found her! â but Gabriel took a half step toward the taxi.
âYes, please wait; I'll only be a minute.' Gabriel came back to her, gently leading her behind the stone column so they were less visible to those on the pavement. With his free hand he pulled her close to him.
âIt's wonderful to see you again, Elspeth. When I learned that you were still aliveâ¦' Again he shook his head as if in disbelief.
âHow did you find out?' she asked.
âThe letter you wrote to my father two years ago. It only just arrivedâ'
âI wrote so many letters, Gabriel. When Sylvia said you'd been told that I'd drownedâ¦I fearedâ¦'
He grinned. âWhat? That I might do what Romeo did?'
âNo.' Then she smiled and shook her head. âI don't know. At least you didn't run off with my best friend, as I suggested Romeo might have done.'
He laughed. âI would never have done that.'
She thought her heart might burst with pure pleasure. âOh, it's so wonderful to see you againâ'
âAre ye going tae be much longer, pal,' the taxi driver called across. âOnly, I've plenty of other customers I can take.'
âI'll pay you double the fare if you wait,' Gabriel called back.
âAlright, pal, but you haven't long if you're to make the overnighter.'
âHow did you get permission to come to Britain?' Elspeth asked as Gabriel turned back to her again.
âI managed to get a licence to attend the London Surgical conference, to present the research I did before the war. I arrived late yesterday and went straight to St Marys, where I knew you had once worked. One of the nurses told me you had left for Edinburgh, but didn't know to which hospital. This morning I registered for the conference, then slipped out and caught the Edinburgh train. I got here about an hour ago and tried the City Hospital first, and then the infirmary, but the doormanâ'