The Lost Prince (51 page)

They were told upon arrival, as they would be at each such hospital, that the casualties had been high, staggering in number actually, too much for the system to handle, and that the suffering and death had mostly gone unnoticed and uncelebrated by the vanquished military of
any country. Many of the patients were abandoned and nameless, hopelessly unable to find their way home. The task was impossible, the patients unrecognizable.

Countless boys had died with no one knowing where they were or where they belonged, “unknown soldiers,” they would be called later, each one representing a soul dear to someone back home, someone who would perhaps never know the fate of the young man full of promise who had left for war months, maybe years before, maybe even with a sense of adventure. “Some of these are deemed too ill to move,” one Sister of Mercy said to them, “but most are the great unknowns. No one knows where to move them. No one cares anymore for which side they were fighting.”

As they moved among the beds, surrounded by the suppressed moans of the wounded and dying, Jodl allowed Eleanor to walk in the lead, following behind her at a respectful distance. They both knew her task, to approach each soldier and make what she could of eye contact, to search each contorted face and to leave no face unexamined. Occasionally, when she would come to a face so completely bandaged that it made recognition impossible, she would ask for a name.

Each young man would react to her, some appealing for help, some in a form of anger, some just grateful for the receipt of a warm maternal smile. As she approached one young man sitting on the edge of his bed, he tried in vain to rise on his one good leg. “Oh please, do not rise,” Eleanor said.

The nurse said something to him, and held out her hand. The soldier responded by sitting back down.

“He does not wish for anyone to see him like this,” she said to Eleanor. “He says he used to play football.”

“And I am sure you were quite good at it,” Eleanor said. “I hope you will soon be going home.” The nurse translated for her.

“He has no home,” the nurse said. “He wishes for no one to think ill of him.”

“Please tell him that I am sure he has loved ones who are awaiting his return,” she said.

“I wish that were true,” the nurse said on her own without translating as they walked away from the bed. “I intend no offense, madam. But such thoughts are from a world very far from this one.”

“I know it is true,” Eleanor said with conviction. “I know he will be
going home again.” And she turned and left the soldier sitting as he had been on the bed.

“It is heartbreaking,” she whispered to Jodl. Her companion did not speak. He looked back at the boy on the bed, and perhaps thought of his two sons.

They moved on to the next room, a spacious one, the grand salon of the palazzo, in which the windows were stained glass. With great purpose, Eleanor walked up to each patient, looked into each face, searching for some strand of recognition, some hope that the blank stare or anguished brow or expectant returned gaze might have the slightest resemblance to the face she so longed to see. When she came to a missing limb or a heavily bandaged upper torso or face, she passed on quickly, remembering Freud’s ironclad logic: Arnauld would emerge, if he emerged, without any physical signs of his desperate plight. And yet, with each new soldier, young or old, no matter how wounded, she began with hope before passing on in disappointment, only to come upon another face and another resurgence of hope.

At one moment in the first minutes, she would falter, obviously overcome and light-headed. At those crucial moments Jodl would simply step forward without sound or ceremony and support her arm, holding her firmly until the moment passed and she could continue. In those instances, as if following a predesigned choreography, she would turn and look him in the eye, signaling wordlessly her ability to continue.

As they reached the far end of the room, a sudden and loud explosion shook the windows, and they could hear the sound of breaking glass, and then a deathly silence. Everything in the palazzo hospital stopped. “The bomb squad,” the nurse said, laying a firm grip on Eleanor’s arm, for a moment reassuring even herself, unable to hide her concern, this woman who had seen so much in the past two years. Then she pulled herself back to calm control. “This is not good.” She looked around at her patients, who had flown into wildness, and then she rushed to the window. “Oh, no,” she said with despair, and hurried out of the room.

The explosion had caused an immediate eruption of moans and cries from the wounded, startling the two visitors. Men who had been sitting quietly on their beds or in nearby chairs were now on their feet, dashing about, most of them with looks of wild agitation on their faces. An older nun and a male assistant had entered the room in haste and were grasping
at patients, trying to restore order. “We apologize,” the older nun said to the visitors, barely pausing beside them as she rushed past. “It will take time to regain our calm.”

When they reached the room of the “disturbeds,” it was clear that the explosion had created more than a little turmoil, and some of the patients had run about, a few even fleeing the room.

“This is exactly what these poor souls do not need,” another nurse said, as she rushed past.

“These especially do not wish to hear explosions,” Jodl said, pulling Eleanor away. “And the raining of the shrapnel,” he added with concern. “Once you have heard the sound, you never forget it.”

Then, calm restored, Eleanor stepped forward to continue, having done what she could to calm even her own panic. She walked slowly up to a few stationary patients, the ones who had returned to their places, and made eye contact, smiling at each with motherly concern, examining each face, exchanging a word or two. But obviously their visit was ruined.

As always, Jodl stood silently behind her, at the ready to step forward if there appeared the least sign of need or threat. “These are not the best conditions for your task,” he said as she turned from the last patient. “I am not certain it is wise to continue.”

“It is as good as can be expected,” Eleanor said, now visibly pale and shaken. “And I think we have seen enough.”

As they were leaving the palazzo, in the last room there was great commotion. One of the wounded men from the garden had been brought inside and transferred to one of the beds near the door they would pass through. There was a flurry of activity. One tall thin doctor and two nurses were huddled over him, working feverishly, trying to stop the bleeding. To leave, they could not help walking close to the bed.

From what Eleanor and Jodl could see at their distance, the man’s arm was gone along with much of his shoulder and fragments hung off the edge of the bed, and his face was bloody and much of one side torn away. His one good eye was open, frozen in terror. One of the nurses was leaning close to the distorted face, speaking words of encouragement to him as the others worked. None of the group looked up as the two guests passed through the room into the hall leading to the reception area.

The nurse who had been on duty when they arrived spotted them and
left the side of the injured man, rushing toward them. She had blood spotting the front of her white uniform.

“This has been terrible for your visit,” she said. “The war continues its destruction.”

“We did not wish to be in the way,” Eleanor said, even more pale, obviously disappointed in herself but also obviously in a hurry to get outside.

“I hope you saw what you needed to see.”

“We did, and we thank you,” Eleanor said quickly.

“Do you know of another such hospital?” Jodl would always ask, and Eleanor and her companion would take careful note of the responses, always leaving with another destination in mind.

“Arnauld is not here,” she said quickly as they departed, with a fateful certainty.

Then, when they had passed out of sight of the hospital staff, Eleanor stopped and leaned over, pulling her long skirt out of the way, and retched violently. Showing not a trace of surprise, Jodl stood as if at attention beside her and reached out a hand to her arm until she had finished and signaled with a nod that she was ready to continue. They moved on to the waiting auto.

GONE TO UDINE

T
hey were directed to the large Franciscan monastery only a few kilometers to the north, out away from the destruction of the city, where the imposing mountain range rose sharply beyond the valley, beyond the piles of rubble and the treeless plain and the river, still clear and aquamarine. “It has been heavily damaged by shelling,” their driver said as they approached the ancient monastery, “but it still serves as a hospital, I believe.”

They drove up a winding road to the large tile-roofed structure. It was sprawling and comprised a number of separate buildings, one of which was nearly demolished.

A number of brown-robed monks were walking around the front of the largest part of the complex of buildings, and one greeted them as they moved away from the automobile. “We are looking for a missing soldier,” Jodl said after they had introduced themselves, “an Austrian officer.”

“The hospital has moved,” the monk said. “We used to have quite an operation here, but it has been moved to Udine.”

“Would the wounded from Caporetto have been here?” Eleanor asked.

The monk paused to think. “Yes,” he said, “we had many wounded from last October, especially the badly wounded.”

“Austrians?” Jodl asked.

“Austrians, of course, and Czechs and Romanians and Hungarians, and then later Italians. And many of those who could not identify themselves and could not be identified. There was much confusion, especially
among the severely wounded, those who needed surgery especially. We were supposed to treat the Italians as prisoners, but no one paid much attention to that.”

“And there were many of those unidentified?” Eleanor asked.

The monk looked at his two guests as if they were from another world. “Oh my, yes.” He stopped and examined the American woman before him. “There were twelve battles here, thousands and thousands of dead and dying. This damage was done in the sixth of those battles, the Battle of Gorizia, it has been called.” Then he paused and looked around. “Now it is so peaceful,” he said, gesturing to the large monastery building and its now-quiet surroundings. “It is difficult to recall the horror. God’s peace has returned.”

“And what of the wounded?”

“Little by little, they were shipped elsewhere, those who survived. Some were fortunate and were transported home by train. Some to Udine.”

“To Udine?” Jodl said. “You will direct us?”

“Yes, signor, there is a large hospital near the command headquarters. I believe it is still open and still holds many wounded, especially the severely wounded.”

That first night, the travelers found a hotel that Contessa Carolina had mentioned being not far from the edge of the city. “Their restaurant still has a well-stocked larder, I am told,” she said, “a rarity in these times.”

They were happy for a place to stay with a bed and a meal, arriving late in the evening as would become their pattern, too tired and weary to enjoy a glass of wine and informal conversation. Jodl would escort Eleanor to her room, leave her with a word of encouragement and a commitment to awaken her at dawn, which was rarely necessary as Eleanor, having slept lightly, was usually up and dressed before he knocked on her door. “You must get rest,” Jodl would say to her each night, always with a look of concern. “Tomorrow will bring better luck.”

The day following the journey between hospitals the two companions pressed on, neither Eleanor nor Jodl admitting that their hope could be faltering. During the days, they would spend much time together, and Jodl would explain the conditions. “This is a near-impossible task,” he said
to her. “This whole area was ravaged by war, and everyone with any sanity moved out. When the Italians occupied territory, they suspected many of the local people of being spies, and there were many arrests, often for no offense at all. Many people suspected of disloyalty have been deported to concentration camps in Italy.” There was an unmistakable bitterness in his voice. “For little more than a drunken public statement that Italy might lose the war. The Italians do not trust anyone Slavic, and they use the term loosely.”

The whole length of the Isonzo River was the scene of most of the fighting on what was called the Italian front, the battles in the area having raged for nearly the full duration of the war, from 1915, when the Italians entered on the side of the Allies, to the present armistice. Evidence of the enormous toll was everywhere in razed buildings and land now barren of foliage, no trees, no shrubs, no undergrowth.

“The war is over,” one town official said in Italian. “Because both sides have lost their will to fight. This town was Austrian. Our young men were conscripted to fight and die for the empire, shipped far from here to fight the Russians in Galicia. Few came back. Few of those came back healthy or unmaimed.”

It had been policy in the Austro-Hungarian army for centuries to ship recruits far from their homelands, to areas where theirs was not the native language, to discourage fraternization and desertion. “But the Austrians have lost,” he said with no form of joy, “and now we are to be Italian again.” He stopped and gave a rueful smile. “Such is fate. Everyone here is too weary to care.” Very few of the towns and villages along the river remained untouched or intact. Some of them were destroyed, their important buildings razed by artillery shells from both sides. What had been beautiful, wooded rolling hills were now open treeless, barren land, filled with craters and exposed rock that looked more like the surface of the moon than the former bucolic countryside.