15 April 1943
Robert’s 65th birthday!
Long conversation with Dr. H. O. Pfister, the head doctor of the sanitarium, on Robert’s physical state. In the middle of March he had to be moved to the regional Herisau hospital due to instestinal paralysis; the doctors suspected a cancerous ulcer in the colon, which could only be removed through a risky operation. Robert has accepted the presence of the illness as calmly as if it were happening to someone else. However, every attempt made by the doctors and his two sisters try to get him to agree to the operation has met with an obstinate “no.” All the paralysis improved after a few days in the hospital, Robert had to be sent back to the sanitarium, where he has visibly recovered. In the morning, he helps the nurses in cleaning the ward, and in the afternoon, during the regular work shift, he gathers lentils, beans and chestnuts, or glues paper bags. He tries to stack them as high as possible, and grunts when he is bothered. In his free time, he likes to read yellowed magazines and old books. He has never showed any initiative in artistic creation, says Dr. Pfister. He has profound distrust towards the doctors, the sanitarium personnel, and his other patients; a distrust which still ably tries to hide behind ceremonial politness. Those who don’t keep away from him risk being scolded abruptly.
I bring Robert some birthday presents, which he coldly puts aside. We have hardly left the sanitarium grounds when he asks me what I was doing so long with Dr. Pfister. I tell him that we were talking about common friends among the Zurich doctors. This explanation appears to calm him, but even so the morning walk to Degersheim and Mogelsberg, in the low Toggenburg, is rather monosyllabic. He doesn’t answer my cautious question about the operation, so I immediately change the subject so as not to irritate him any further. After lunch we go up in elevation in the Herisau suburbs and sit in the sun with three bottles of beer on a terrace, where he is more comfortable and chat with the almost mechanically clattering innkeeper. To finish up we go to a tea house, where he devours eight little tortes with gusto. When we part, he says, most likely in reference to his sickness:
“There have to be unpleasant things in life, so that the beautiful things stand out better. Worries are the best teachers.”
[trans. Smyth & Rosi]
Sam :: May.02.2008 :: Uncategorized :: No Comments »
