Bertha witnesses an operation on her father
From guises of desire, chapter 4
Bertha stood at the foot of the bed with her mother and Willi while the doctors examined her father. Like twin vultures, Bertha thought, as they bent over him, bald heads rising out of hunched black-clad shoulders, beaky noses pointing out from broken-veined rough-skinned cheeks, withered eyelids fluttering as they gave each other knowing looks. Hands, a tangle of ropy purplish veins, as spare of flesh as talons, explored her father’s chest, tapping it to assess the quality of the sound, applying the stethoscope front and back. They murmured to each other, their exchanges peppered with unfamiliar terms. Pleura. Axilla. Expectoration. Intercostal. Surely if it was something straightforward they would use ordinary words like ‘chest’ and ‘cough’ and ‘lungs’. Oh dear God, now they were pushing a needle into him, between his ribs. Professor Aschenbach was drawing something out. The syringe was filling up with a yellowish fluid. Bertha turned her head away. She caught Willi’s eye. No, she mustn’t let him see her flinch. She turned back again. Professor Aschenbach had emptied the fluid from the syringe into a bowl. He swilled it around, eyeing it keenly, then lifted it to his nose, sniffing as if savouring the bouquet of a freshly opened bottle of claret. How could he bear to inhale such a noisome odour? Even from where she stood Bertha was almost vomiting from it.
‘As I thought.’ Professor Aschenbach laid the bowl down on the bedside table.
The examination had confirmed Doctor Bettelheim’s original suspicions – a subpleural abscess. The doctors were now going to proceed with the drainage. Professor Aschenbach explained what was involved. Dr Bettelheim would anaesthetize Mr Pappenheim – they had brought all the necessary equipment – and he himself would perform the operation. A small opening in the chest, the insertion of a tube, aspiration of the purulent matter. It would all be over very quickly and Mr Pappenheim would already be greatly relieved by the time he recovered consciousness. Would the family members like to remain in the room? Willi begged to be excused. He had an engagement in town; in any case he would only be in the way. Selfish milksop! Bertha had seen how he had kept his eyes averted throughout the examination, passing his hand constantly over his nose, trying to ward off the fetid odours. So much for all his cosy confabs with Papa about politics and business. What use was he when he was really needed?
Willi backed out of the room, muttering something incoherent.
Mrs Pappenheim, apologetic and indulgent, excused him. ‘He’s still only a boy.’
Dr Bettelheim had raised the lid of a black case and was removing a rubber bag with tubes attached to it. Professor Aschenbach had opened his bag, revealing a set of knives and other sharp and pointed instruments.
Bertha moved over to the window. She would not watch this. She looked out. A beautiful summer’s day. The Kohn family next door were preparing to set off for a picnic. An open carriage stood ready for them in the street. The coachman was helping the maid to load the hamper. The two little girls ran out of the house shrieking, chased by their black spaniel. Their mother, shielded from the sun by a pale pink parasol, shooed them into the carriage. Their father, following behind, scooped up the dog and handed it in after them.
The room was filling with a strange odour. Sweet and sickly. Like rotten pears. She half turned. Dr Bettelheim was administering the anaesthetic. Her father was already unconscious, a rubber mask over his nose and mouth. Professor Aschenbach was selecting an instrument. Bertha looked quickly away again. Willi had just come out of the house, straw boater perched jauntily on the back of his head. He started to walk down Kaltenbachstrasse, twirling his cane, as insouciant as a spring lamb. How dared he!
That horrible smell. She was feeling faint. The ether must be leaking somewhere. They could all fall unconscious. She looked round again, for reassurance. She could see only the two doctors huddled over her father’s body. Suddenly there was a faint gurgling and a swooshing and a stench which swamped the ether smell. Professor Aschenbach was holding a large bowl to the side of her father. It was filling up with a thick, frothy liquid. The bile rose in her throat. She averted her eyes, looking towards her mother. How could Mamma sit there, impassive, observing this vile butchery without a flicker of fear or disgust?
She looked down into the street again. She must think about something else, anything but the scene in the room behind her. The Kohns’ carriage had gone. She wondered what Willi was doing. With his stupid friends, probably, those cocky young men he spent all his time with, giving each other knowing looks, laughing at things she didn’t find amusing.
A sharp, clean smell cut through the putrid emanations of ether and pus. Professor Aschenbach was washing out the cavity with antiseptic solution, explaining to her mother that this would have to be done regularly over the next few days. Dr Bettelheim would visit daily, he was saying, but Mrs Pappenheim might also like to engage the services of a nurse. A drain would be left in place, with a dressing on top of the wound which would need to be changed several times a day.
‘There is no need,’ Bertha heard her mother say. ‘My daughter and I will do the nursing. If you could just tell us what is required.’
Bertha listened, aghast, to the doctor’s instructions. Again she felt bile rise in her throat. Why couldn’t Mamma have agreed to hire a nurse?
A bell sounded in the street below. The local dairyman was coming up Kaltenbachstrasse with his cow. He stopped outside the house as Ilse came out with a jug. Bertha watched as they stood in laughing banter, then the dairyman squatted down by the swollen udder. Seizing a teat, he propelled a jet of milk into the jug. Bertha heard again the gush of infected matter from her father’s chest, smelt the noisome odour. She closed her eyes, revolted at the thought of drinking the milk, revolted at the thought of ever eating or drinking anything again.
‘As I thought.’ Professor Aschenbach laid the bowl down on the bedside table.
The examination had confirmed Doctor Bettelheim’s original suspicions – a subpleural abscess. The doctors were now going to proceed with the drainage. Professor Aschenbach explained what was involved. Dr Bettelheim would anaesthetize Mr Pappenheim – they had brought all the necessary equipment – and he himself would perform the operation. A small opening in the chest, the insertion of a tube, aspiration of the purulent matter. It would all be over very quickly and Mr Pappenheim would already be greatly relieved by the time he recovered consciousness. Would the family members like to remain in the room? Willi begged to be excused. He had an engagement in town; in any case he would only be in the way. Selfish milksop! Bertha had seen how he had kept his eyes averted throughout the examination, passing his hand constantly over his nose, trying to ward off the fetid odours. So much for all his cosy confabs with Papa about politics and business. What use was he when he was really needed?
Willi backed out of the room, muttering something incoherent.
Mrs Pappenheim, apologetic and indulgent, excused him. ‘He’s still only a boy.’
Dr Bettelheim had raised the lid of a black case and was removing a rubber bag with tubes attached to it. Professor Aschenbach had opened his bag, revealing a set of knives and other sharp and pointed instruments.
Bertha moved over to the window. She would not watch this. She looked out. A beautiful summer’s day. The Kohn family next door were preparing to set off for a picnic. An open carriage stood ready for them in the street. The coachman was helping the maid to load the hamper. The two little girls ran out of the house shrieking, chased by their black spaniel. Their mother, shielded from the sun by a pale pink parasol, shooed them into the carriage. Their father, following behind, scooped up the dog and handed it in after them.
The room was filling with a strange odour. Sweet and sickly. Like rotten pears. She half turned. Dr Bettelheim was administering the anaesthetic. Her father was already unconscious, a rubber mask over his nose and mouth. Professor Aschenbach was selecting an instrument. Bertha looked quickly away again. Willi had just come out of the house, straw boater perched jauntily on the back of his head. He started to walk down Kaltenbachstrasse, twirling his cane, as insouciant as a spring lamb. How dared he!
That horrible smell. She was feeling faint. The ether must be leaking somewhere. They could all fall unconscious. She looked round again, for reassurance. She could see only the two doctors huddled over her father’s body. Suddenly there was a faint gurgling and a swooshing and a stench which swamped the ether smell. Professor Aschenbach was holding a large bowl to the side of her father. It was filling up with a thick, frothy liquid. The bile rose in her throat. She averted her eyes, looking towards her mother. How could Mamma sit there, impassive, observing this vile butchery without a flicker of fear or disgust?
She looked down into the street again. She must think about something else, anything but the scene in the room behind her. The Kohns’ carriage had gone. She wondered what Willi was doing. With his stupid friends, probably, those cocky young men he spent all his time with, giving each other knowing looks, laughing at things she didn’t find amusing.
A sharp, clean smell cut through the putrid emanations of ether and pus. Professor Aschenbach was washing out the cavity with antiseptic solution, explaining to her mother that this would have to be done regularly over the next few days. Dr Bettelheim would visit daily, he was saying, but Mrs Pappenheim might also like to engage the services of a nurse. A drain would be left in place, with a dressing on top of the wound which would need to be changed several times a day.
‘There is no need,’ Bertha heard her mother say. ‘My daughter and I will do the nursing. If you could just tell us what is required.’
Bertha listened, aghast, to the doctor’s instructions. Again she felt bile rise in her throat. Why couldn’t Mamma have agreed to hire a nurse?
A bell sounded in the street below. The local dairyman was coming up Kaltenbachstrasse with his cow. He stopped outside the house as Ilse came out with a jug. Bertha watched as they stood in laughing banter, then the dairyman squatted down by the swollen udder. Seizing a teat, he propelled a jet of milk into the jug. Bertha heard again the gush of infected matter from her father’s chest, smelt the noisome odour. She closed her eyes, revolted at the thought of drinking the milk, revolted at the thought of ever eating or drinking anything again.
