The guardian angel
The floor is as cold as ice and as hard as stones. Snow is banging harshly on the door of the little wooden hut. I am surrounding my arms around my granddaughter, as she cupped her bare hands near the fireplace and shivered. At the centre of it a weak flame was flickering in the dark. As if breaking the silence, she asked me to tell her a story. "Sure." I nodded. "Sure..." Gazing at the flame, I heard my own low voice speaking. It wandered into the chilly air, and it brought me back to the piece of memory that was locked somewhere deep in my mind...
***
It was about fifty years ago when I first met him. At that time, the First World War had just ended for a few years. He had golden, tidily slicked hair, as well as a pair of deep blue eyes. His white long coat that identified him as my new doctor was turned orange as the candle shone on him. "Hello," He spoke, giving me a professional smile. I twitched in my bed as I heard the greeting—not because of the greeting itself, but the accent. He had a thick German accent.
A German doctor for a Russian?
I had tried seeking help from five or six doctors through my friends' recommendation because of my immobile left leg. It was not completely immobile, but pain would strike me like thunderbolts every time I tried to move my hip joint. None of the doctors really healed my body. Honestly, it was time I tried seeking help from another doctor. But to think of a German doctor! Germans were supposed to be our—Russians' mortal enemies. Just think of the lost of the Battle of Tannenburg, when troops and troops of Russian soldiers are forced down the river to be drowned! Many of them preferred suicide with their own guns instead, and the German generals just stood there and watch......
I bet it was the hostility shown on my face that betrayed me. The German doctor seemed to see through my mind. He laid his palm on my shoulder, asking me how I hurt my leg. Ironically, as long as I could remember, no doctors had ever asked me this question. Instead, they all claimed their painkillers are the most magical and then I wouldn't feel a thing afterwards. Of course those were all lies.
I told him that I hurt my leg by carelessly tripping down the stairs. Without further hesitation, the German carefully pulled up my blanket. I took a book from the bedside to cover my face, frequently peeking from behind. I saw, and felt him laid his hand on my legs, probably checking. I studied his deep blue eyes. There was something in them which somehow had a calming effect on me. But Germans are wicked, you know. I was convinced not to trust them wholeheartedly. "Are you going to give me any medicine?" I inquired. "No, I shall give you a constant massage on your leg, but the treatment is going to be a long and painful process...if you allow me." I tried hard to hide my distrust, but how could I reject and say that I was afraid of pain? "Go ahead," I muttered, "Just make sure you aren't going to break it."
He came to my bedroom every other day since then. He would start by checking my leg, ask if I had felt better or not, and start a new session of massage. His arms were strong and stable. Every rhythmic press he made was like a hammer on my hips—I even had to control my gasps. I bet he noticed that as well, but covered this shame of men for me skillfully by chatting with me on casual topics. So casual that once it was about the difference between German and Russian methods of sweet-making, which happened to turn my gasps into saliva. "Here you go," He stuffed something into my mouth, it was something sweet. "German sweets?" I choked. "They taste terrible!" I joked. "Stupid, they are Russian sweets that I bought on my way here. It must have been a long time since you've had something good inside, hmm?" Instead of feeling embarrassed, I thought my view on this German has shifted a bit away from wickedness.
At one winter night several years later it was deadly cold outside. The German doctor came as usual. Due to constant treatment, I was already able to get of my bed and stagger around my room. I proudly presented a cup of tea that I made for him as a sign of triumph against immobility that had long locked me on my bed. He held my wrist instead and sat me on the couch. "New place for you, you are not on the bed anymore. Look, this is something I worked out recently. I believe it works." I stared at the tiny glass container in his hand. It was some kind of ointment. "Well...You have to take that off." The German blushed when pointing at my pants and I tried hard to hide my laughter due to his awkwardness. Things started going on as usual except I could clearly feel his bare, warm hands spreading the ointment and pressing against my leg alternately. "Haa-chee." I sneezed, not really being accustomed to the feeling without any covers. "Aren't you cold?" I asked, trying to turn my head around for the first time.
