III
Anna makes her way into the kitchen where Agathe stands in front of the wood stove with her hands on her wide hips and watches Anna bringing the sheets in to dry. Agathe, the cook, is a large woman, from Triest, with a low, raspy voice that sounds more suited for a man. She’s older, and looks worn down, with endless wrinkles that line her face like it was a faded piece of crumpled up paper. Her dark hair is tied behind her head, under a kerchief, but there are grey wisps hanging down and they stick to her sweaty face. The kitchen smells of boiled cabbage, potatoes, garlic and herbs. There is no meat.
“Why do you insist on hanging the sheets outside where you know they’ll freeze?”
“Because if I hang them in here first, you’ll have water all over the floor. At least this way, most of the water drips out. Do you want the floor to freeze overnight?”
“It does anyway,” Agathe says
“But not as much,” Anna’s quick to say.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter? It mattered last week—and the week before. What makes it so different today?”
“Today’s today. Every day’s the same, isn’t it? I tell you to wring the sheets out before you bring them in, and you still hang them up outside—as if it’s still summertime. They freeze before the water drips off out completely. It’s the same argument every week.”
“But it gives me time to do other things,” Anna says.
“What other things? Do you mean help me?” Agathe asks this with a coarse laugh, and her large body shakes. “You didn’t do anything but sit out on that cold block of wood hugging the washtub to keep you warm.”
“I can think of letters to read to the soldiers,” Anna says.
“Did you?”
“Or maybe write a letter home for someone?”
“Again, did you?”
“There’s always something to do for them. And I can always clean bedpans if I have to.”
“Yes, you can. But today all you did was sit out in the snow with your one cigarette. You’ve proven yourself a real comfort to the soldiers,” Agathe adds dryly.
“They deserve that much at least.”
“At least,” Agathe agrees
“We have to do something for them,” she insists.
“Says who?” Agathe asks.
“It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” Agathe says, and turns back to the cabbage on the large stove.
“It’s our duty to do something for them. There’s a war going on, in case you haven’t noticed,” Anna says, and looks at Agathe from overtop of the sheets.
“And your working here has nothing to do with the food you take home to your family every night?” Agathe says over her shoulder, speaking into the emptiness.
Anna’s silent for a moment, her silhouette visible through the sheets, unmoving.
“I’d be here just the same,” she says.
“I’m sure you would,” Agathe laughs. “I can see you’re a true patriot.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Me? There’s a war going on,” she says with a laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed?” she adds.
She’s silent for a moment, and Anna thinks that maybe the woman’s just being cynical. She doesn’t want to take a chance and look at her from behind the sheets. There’s no point, she tells herself. She thinks she’s just as patriotic as I am, and maybe she is. She might have even been through as much as I have—lost as much, or maybe seen more than I have—and maybe that’s the reason she’s like that. She’s probably one of those women who believed in the Empire once upon a time, like Poppa did. She was probably a child when Hungary became part of the Empire. It wasn’t that long ago—fifty years isn’t all that long ago, is it?
“I do what I have to do in order to survive,” Agathe says finally. “I told you, my husband died years ago, and then my son left me as soon as this damned war began. Didn’t think life in the big house was exciting enough, I suppose. He said he’d be back in six months, but that didn’t happen, did it? I heard they all said that though, and they believed it, too. I wonder if they still do?” she asks in a tiny voice. “They should’ve considered the Winter,” she added.
“The Cossacks’ll chew ‘em up all up! That’s what the French and British both said. That didn’t happen though, did it? Paris’ll fall in six weeks, the Kaiser said. That didn’t happen either.” And all the while she’s talking, she’s peeling old, wrinkled potatoes, and stirring the cabbage. “Now they’re saying the Americans are coming. The Americans? That’s the end of it now then; that’s what they’re saying, isn’t it? But we’re still fighting, aren’t we? Besides, if I didn’t cook here, where else would I go?” she said. “We lost everything once the Italians entered the War. We were one of the lucky ones to make it through the Pass before the snows came. We left just before they came over the mountains. Can you imagine fighting a war in the mountains?”
A surgeon enters the kitchen and looks at Anna and Agathe, who both stop talking. Agathe looks at him briefly—almost dismissive—and then turns her attention back to the food she’s preparing. The doctor’s smock is stained with dried blood that looks more like brown paint. He has a worn, haggard expression on his face that may have once been compassion, but now looks like indifference. His eyes are sunken, his cheeks hollow, his skin pale, and pasty. He has a long shock of blond hair hanging in front of his face and he brushes it out of his eyes with a boney hand.
“Anna quick, there’s been a crash, a horrible crash. The train—oh my God, all those people—we have to get as many ambulances out to the site before the survivors freeze to death.”
“I can’t drive.”
“I know. But we still have that sled out back, don’t we? And that old nag that refuses to die?”
“I can’t drive that thing—”
“Of course you can! There’s nothing to it.”
“She’s a good horse! The fact she’s so old is the only thing that’s saved her from this war,” Agathe says. “Like me. They leave us old ones to starve to death, or else we freeze at home, which is a lot better than starving, I suppose, or freezing to death on top of some mountain you’d never be on in the first place if it wasn’t for this damned war.”
“Must you always?” the surgeon says with a slow sigh. There are equal amounts of fatigue and annoyance in his voice. His cadaverous body looks like it’s being squeezed by an invisible hand, and he shrugs his thin shoulders as he turns to look at Agathe. She sees the emptiness of his eyes for the first time, and tries to smile at him, not letting his worn and pallid expression beat her down.
“Always what?” she asks without remorse.
“I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, or anyone else for that matter. Your constant reminders of what brought you here—or why you’re here at all—are getting tedious.”
“What brought me here? You don’t know what brought me here, you son of a bitch! How dare you presume to know me—or even think you know me?” she says, the anger rising in her voice. “I don’t see you when I walk through the wards at night, praying I don’t find my son, or if I do, that at least I’ll be a comfort to him in his last hours.”
“I’m sorry you haven’t been able to find him,” the surgeon says softly, without any emotion, an obvious lie Anna thinks, “but that might be for the best, after all, don’t you think? I’m sorry if it sounds like I have no feelings towards you, or no sympathy—but I have none left to give."
“Yes; coming here’s just another place to die, isn’t it?” Agathe says.
“We do what we can, under the circumstances.”
“I’m sure you do, but it’s always circumstances with you people, isn’t it? You’ve all given up, haven’t you?”
“We haven’t given up! If that were the case, why would we be going out in the middle of a snowstorm to rescue the survivors of a train wreck? We do what we can because we have to. That’s what doctors do. That’s what more people should do, and if more people did the same, maybe we wouldn’t be here?"
“But anyone I bring back is going to freeze to death,” Anna points out.
“They might, and they might not, but they’ll certainly freeze to death if you don’t try,” the surgeon says testily. “Why don’t you ask her if it’s worth doing? It might not be her son, but it’s someone’s son.”
“I’ll help find some blankets for you,” Agathe says defiantly. She’s not about to apologize to the doctor, and Anna knows it. Agathe is not the sort of woman to let herself be intimidated by any man: doctor, soldier, priest, it doesn’t matter. Anna has seen Agathe in confrontations with several of the doctors and nurses here, as well as the priest. She’s always been an intimidating factor because of her size. “I'm sure there must be some somewhere. And then I’ll help you with the sled,” she added, taking the pots off the stove.
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