Jew.
Marthe’s father had been a doctor, Felix’s teacher. And Marthe had been beautiful and rich. “Rich,” thought Felix sadly. So he had married the daughter and gotten the father’s practice as well. Until the war: Hitler, and everything had changed. Felix tried not to think about Marthe, but the more he tried not to think of her, the more she came into his mind. Finally, he saw himself pushing her away and leaving Vienna, where he had spent so many happy and lucrative years. Felix, leaving the day after Marthe had been taken, had packed hastily. From the medical practice, he took only the photographs, but there was a special trunk of research equipment, microscope and slides and jars, which he packed and took with him as well.
Scooping up Schatzie, Felix had stood beside the train that was to carry them both away from Europe. Mentally, he made a photograph of himself at that moment. In the foreground, he placed the large trunk. Next to it in the station, Felix himself, a small man, with Schatzie squeezed, unprotesting, under his arm. In his eye, the monocle glared, a manic disk. Felix bit down fiercely on his cigar, and with his free hand, he fingered the gold watch, the one Marthe’s father had given him when he had entered practice with the older physician. Then the train came; the doors opened, and Felix and Schatzie had to be helped in. It was only then that emotion overcame him, misting the monocle, which he removed, putting it into his vest pocket, where it rested beside his stethoscope for the rest of the long journey.
Now in Manhattan, a new life, an empty life. But the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the first of the children. It was tonsils; Felix already knew that. “Come, Schatzie.” He sighed, putting the dog down. He went down the long hall to the large carved door, opening it slowly. Schatzie lumbered behind him.
“Guten Morgen,”
Felix said, opening his door to the small patient, who stood solemnly beside its mother.
“Oh, Herr Doktor, we are so grateful!” The mother, upon seeing Felix, immediately began to gush with relief.
“Not at all, dear lady, not at all.” Felix forestalled her with a warning gesture. He moved closer to the little boy, who was just his height. “Well,” demanded Felix suddenly, lifting one bushy eyebrow, “have you been a bad boy, hmm?”
The little boy shrank back, clutching his mother’s hand tightly. “Noooo,” he ventured tentatively.
“No, Uncle Felix,” said Felix, immediately correcting the child. The boy complied. “Good,” said Felix, leading the way into the examining room. “
Komm,
Schatzie,” Schatzie trotted behind obediently. The child and his mother followed.
Felix staggered suddenly. “Ach,” he cried. “Bad child, bad child! What have you done to Uncle Felix?” The boy cringed, but the mother smiled down at him indulgently. “Don’t be afraid, Hans,” her smile seemed to say.
“You see, you are breaking my leg!” cried Felix to the child in a fierce voice. “Now it is I who am sick! Are you going to fix my leg, hmm?” Hans pressed back against his mother, all of his own physical suffering forgotten as he contemplated the figure of this contorted man, sagging to the ground, clutching Hans’s body and gibbering, tongue lolling, as he staggered against him.
“Now you must help Uncle Felix, bad boy,” Felix said. “Ach, ach, how it hurts!” Felix fell on the floor of his examining room, his leg cramped against him. Schatzie nuzzled her master’s prone body, bewildered. She licked him a couple of times. Hans watched this, his round eyes even rounder. “It hurts!” Felix cried. “Now, Hans,” he commanded the boy, “you must help your poor old Uncle Felix.” He stretched out a hand to Hans, who, terrified, refused to take it. “Come, you bad boy,” Felix cried. “It is you who broke my leg. Now you must fix it.” The boy, pushed forward by his mother, tentatively touched Felix’s arm. “Ach!”
Marthe’s father had been a doctor, Felix’s teacher. And Marthe had been beautiful and rich. “Rich,” thought Felix sadly. So he had married the daughter and gotten the father’s practice as well. Until the war: Hitler, and everything had changed. Felix tried not to think about Marthe, but the more he tried not to think of her, the more she came into his mind. Finally, he saw himself pushing her away and leaving Vienna, where he had spent so many happy and lucrative years. Felix, leaving the day after Marthe had been taken, had packed hastily. From the medical practice, he took only the photographs, but there was a special trunk of research equipment, microscope and slides and jars, which he packed and took with him as well.
Scooping up Schatzie, Felix had stood beside the train that was to carry them both away from Europe. Mentally, he made a photograph of himself at that moment. In the foreground, he placed the large trunk. Next to it in the station, Felix himself, a small man, with Schatzie squeezed, unprotesting, under his arm. In his eye, the monocle glared, a manic disk. Felix bit down fiercely on his cigar, and with his free hand, he fingered the gold watch, the one Marthe’s father had given him when he had entered practice with the older physician. Then the train came; the doors opened, and Felix and Schatzie had to be helped in. It was only then that emotion overcame him, misting the monocle, which he removed, putting it into his vest pocket, where it rested beside his stethoscope for the rest of the long journey.
Now in Manhattan, a new life, an empty life. But the doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of the first of the children. It was tonsils; Felix already knew that. “Come, Schatzie.” He sighed, putting the dog down. He went down the long hall to the large carved door, opening it slowly. Schatzie lumbered behind him.
“Guten Morgen,”
Felix said, opening his door to the small patient, who stood solemnly beside its mother.
“Oh, Herr Doktor, we are so grateful!” The mother, upon seeing Felix, immediately began to gush with relief.
“Not at all, dear lady, not at all.” Felix forestalled her with a warning gesture. He moved closer to the little boy, who was just his height. “Well,” demanded Felix suddenly, lifting one bushy eyebrow, “have you been a bad boy, hmm?”
The little boy shrank back, clutching his mother’s hand tightly. “Noooo,” he ventured tentatively.
“No, Uncle Felix,” said Felix, immediately correcting the child. The boy complied. “Good,” said Felix, leading the way into the examining room. “
Komm,
Schatzie,” Schatzie trotted behind obediently. The child and his mother followed.
Felix staggered suddenly. “Ach,” he cried. “Bad child, bad child! What have you done to Uncle Felix?” The boy cringed, but the mother smiled down at him indulgently. “Don’t be afraid, Hans,” her smile seemed to say.
“You see, you are breaking my leg!” cried Felix to the child in a fierce voice. “Now it is I who am sick! Are you going to fix my leg, hmm?” Hans pressed back against his mother, all of his own physical suffering forgotten as he contemplated the figure of this contorted man, sagging to the ground, clutching Hans’s body and gibbering, tongue lolling, as he staggered against him.
“Now you must help Uncle Felix, bad boy,” Felix said. “Ach, ach, how it hurts!” Felix fell on the floor of his examining room, his leg cramped against him. Schatzie nuzzled her master’s prone body, bewildered. She licked him a couple of times. Hans watched this, his round eyes even rounder. “It hurts!” Felix cried. “Now, Hans,” he commanded the boy, “you must help your poor old Uncle Felix.” He stretched out a hand to Hans, who, terrified, refused to take it. “Come, you bad boy,” Felix cried. “It is you who broke my leg. Now you must fix it.” The boy, pushed forward by his mother, tentatively touched Felix’s arm. “Ach!”
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