SAVED IN OSIJEK
by
phoenix
If he stayed low, made sure the moon wasn’t
full, and moved with utmost care, Luka could sneak up to ground
level for a breath of fresh air. He and the other residents of
Osijek had been forced into mole-like existences since the
Yugoslav Army (JNA) began relentlessly shelling the city in June.
Now, the majority of the population lived underground, many of
them seeking shelter in the modern mall which had been built
under the town’s main square. Not far away from the center
of town, Luka and his colleagues continued their work in the long
dark corridors beneath the shell of what had once been Osijek
Hospital.
As they had in the Vukovar Medical
Center, Osijek Hospital’s medical staff was forced to move
operations into the basement and subbasement of the complex.
Vukovar was gone; an entire city leveled, but Osijek was still
alive. This fact should have brought him joy, but Luka felt none,
especially when his eyes met those of the victims as they poured
into the triage area. Osijek’s resident’s eyes always
told the same story; these human beings were malnourished, pale,
anemic, dehydrated, and fully traumatized citizens trapped in a
besieged city. Luka often turned away for fear his eyes would
betray him and relate the horrors he had witnessed in Vukovar
after its surrender; Osijek’s victims were frightened
enough, they didn’t need his memories from Vukovar’s
fall to further burden their beings.
He crawled up to a sheltered scrap of
ground, sand bags in front and big chunks of cement from the
hospital’s shattered walls on each side of him. There they
were, the bright red glow from multiple JNA soldier’s
cigarettes; if Luka closed his eyes, and the wind was right, he
could smell tobacco smoke as it eased across the void between
himself and his enemies. After all, the JNA was garrisoned a mere
fifty meters away from the medical facility, its leaders fully
aware this area housed a civilian hospital, and still the
mortars, howitzers, rockets , and small weapons pounded down on
them.
Luka didn’t want to think about the
JNA soldiers and he didn’t care if one of their snipers had
him scoped; instead, he took long deep breaths and turned to look
toward the eerily dark former sight of the Drava River Bridge.
The JNA destroyed the magnificent bridge in September of 1991 to
stop the incessant flow of refugees fleeing Croatia. The lack of
medicine, nutrition, and clean water in Osijek was hampering Luka’s
recovery from the severe injuries he sustained while a prisoner
of the JNA. In an effort to keep his mental and physical demons
under control, which in turn allowed him to function in Osijek’s
underground medical world, he risked coming here merely to gaze
across the river to another country, Hungary.
When he was young, Luka spent numerous
vacations visiting with his mother’s family in her native
Budapest. Mira Hezser Kovac was a marvelous musician. If she had
lived outside communism’s grasp, there was no doubt Mira
would have had the opportunity to pursue her talent, but Hungary
still languished under Moscow’s stranglehold when she was a
young student. Just as Croats struggled under Belgrade’s
strong hand, Hungarians watched as Russians ran their country,
then gave the educational and employment opportunities to native
Russians only. He laid his head back and closed his eyes; happier
thoughts, he needed to concentrate on happier thoughts.
As he concentrated, Luka could easily see
them; his parents meeting as students at the University of Pest.
Before WWII, Budapest had been second only to Berlin as the
center of European culture. After the war, Budapest continued its
pursue of cultural excellence despite the shackles of communism.
Luka’s father arrived in Hungary after winning a coveted
scholarship to study at the university with a world famous art
professor. He had been excited to study in Budapest; this was an
exceptional artistic opportunity, plus he was returning to his
roots since the Kovacs had only lived in Croatia for two
generations.
Viktor Kovac was eighteen and a truly
starving student so not long after arriving in the city he began
making extra money as an accompanist for students in the music
conservatory. One day, he reported to his assigned rehearsal room
and began to warm up on the piano, then a beautiful cellist
entered the room and his life changed. Sparks flew and four
months later Luka’s parents were married; seven, nearly
eight, months after the wedding, Luka’s brother was born in
Split.
Luka stared at the darkness which was
Hungary and let himself lounge into the sensations of his mother
these visions and memories brought with them. Mira was their
world; he, his brother, and his father unashamedly worshipped the
ground under her feet. How he loved her; how Mira had loved him.
A brief flash of Danijela and their children tried to break into
his wide-awake dream, but Luka successfully fought to focus on
his life in Split, his life before Vukovar’s insanity. He
made himself think about his parent’s strength and their
determination to carve out happiness despite the circumstances
surrounding them.
Mira and Viktor moved to Split after
their wedding, neither of them had the opportunity to finish
their educations, and they lived in Viktor’s parent’s
overcrowded home until he finally acquired employment on the
railways. On their first anniversary, they moved into an
apartment; he pursued his art at night while Mira gave music
lessons during the day. Luka and his brother assumed from their
birth that everyone knew how to sculpt, draw, paint, and play
multiple musical instruments.
Over the years, Luka became aware of the
fact the outside world assessed the Kovac family as poor, worse
than poor, but they couldn’t have been happier. Luka couldn’t
remember one time when he didn’t understand that he was
loved and wanted. He smiled and looked up at the sky, then
whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to his parents for so many
priceless gifts. In his mind, Luka saw them walking hand in hand
down the street outside their apartment; he couldn’t
remember witnessing a moment in their marriage when they didn’t
also give the gift of love to one another.
Luka closed his eyes and prayed that even
a dash of his parent’s strength and ability to endure had
passed from them into his being; when this war ended, and surely
it must end, he had a long road to travel before Luka would be
well. His mind continued to drift to thoughts of the war’s
end, then Danijela began to call Luka’s name.
“Luka?”
He tried to get up, but Luka couldn’t
move. When he tried to call out or open his eyes, his body
refused his commands.
“Luka?” She touched his hand
while watching the monitor for his latest blood pressure and
heart rate readings, “Try to open your eyes. It’s time
to wake up.”
He was fighting, but failing. Suddenly,
Luka realized his left side was on fire and his guts were reeling
wildly. He fought his heavy eyelids, then felt his head flopping
around, but he was trapped in the darkness. Fear, panic, and
intense pain were suddenly mixed with an overwhelming desire to
vomit. Luka sensed quick movement around him as voices and hands
suddenly turned his entire body to the right.
“Slow down, Luka. Try to take a deep
breath and hold it.”
The pain wouldn’t stop, but he was
mesmerized by it. This pain was familiar; this exact pain and
Luka were old enemies. He took a moment and tried to identify the
pain.
“Good. Now, try to keep slowing down
your breathing so your stomach can settle.”
Another calm female voice entered his
world while hands continued to hold him on his side. Someone was
sticking a hard tube or straw in his mouth; Luka fought to move
his head away, but the tube was persistent.
“Don’t fight, Sweetheart, let
us clean out your mouth.”
Before he could try to decipher that
comment, another round of nausea came up from his toes and
overtook his entire world. The pain in his left side felt as if
hot irons were rattling around with his guts; Luka’s world
went black.
XXXXX
The patients were lying toe to toe on the
hard cement floor. He looked around at the absolute carnage
surrounding him. How was Luka supposed to triage these latest
casualties? Everywhere he looked there were missing limbs, active
seizures, visible bones, oozing brain matter, and there were no
supplies. They began washing out dressings and reusing them weeks
before. Over a month ago, they had used the last drop of ether
after the modern anesthetic supplies had run dry. They didn’t
even have any wood or a safe place to build a fire to boil water;
in fact, they rarely had water.
He had felt useless before this moment,
sadly it wasn’t a new sensation. When he arrived in Osijek
after the POW exchange, Luka’s extensive injuries kept him
from heavy duty. He limped around, barely in better shape than
his patients, but always pushing to contribute to the medical
team. There was nothing wrong with his eyes, ears, or mind so
Luka was regularly assigned to the triage center. He worked fast
and did his best to keep the often overwhelming influx of victims
organized. The team’s efforts had worked for weeks longer
than was logical; courageous simply wasn’t a big enough word
for his colleagues as Luka watched their world become a bad
statistic in the chaos of war.
Luka was there when Vukovar fell; he had
hope then, hope their conquerors would act humanly. He no longer
had hope. The end of Osijek was near and the reality of what was
to follow weighed heavy on him. Luka suddenly needed air, fresh
air. The moon was full, which would please the JNA snipers
positioned around the hospital, but Luka didn’t care. He
dragged himself through the unending humanity, then began the
climb towards the world beyond the hospital’s bowels. A few
meters from a hole, which appeared to lead outside, Luka dropped
flat on the ground and began to crawl.
He was disgusted, depressed, and
traumatized, but not afraid and surprisingly not suicidal. Luka
made a quick decision to pursue his mental health break, take a
last look at a free Osijek, then return to stand proudly with the
people underground as the JNA arrived. Having made his peace with
what was coming to Osijek with the dawn, Luka relaxed and felt
amazingly calm as he took deep breaths of the first fresh air in
his nostrils for three long days.
There was a flash, sudden intense heat,
then confusion took over his world. The air took on the acrid
smell of exploding artillery shells. Eighty percent of the
hospital had already been obliterated; what could the JNA
possibly gain from shelling the facility, again? Luka strained to
move backwards, to reenter the hole only meters behind him, but
his body wouldn’t move period. He looked around as shells
continued to land nearby. Luka’s thick haze lifted slightly,
long enough for the pain to grab hold, then he realized shrapnel
had made a home for itself inside his being. His world was filled
with new realities; he couldn’t make his body move back to
the hole, and possible assistance, and he couldn’t stay
alive in the midst of an artillery attack.
“There you go, Luka. Rest back into
those pillows. Let us help you.”
Luka felt hands adjusting him backward
into a wall of pillows. His mouth was tingling from the strong
rinse it had been given. Luka’s face, back, hair, and chest
felt better, cooler, after the washcloths moved their way; was
somebody giving him a bath? He strained to open his eyes and find
out what was happening to him.
“Well, now, it certainly is good of
you to join us.” The PACU (recovery room) RN smiled and
leaned in so Luka could see her clearly, “Can you squeeze my
hand?”
Luka clung to the hand which entered his, then made the mistake
of trying to move. He arched back into the bed and took in a
large gulp of air.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting.
We can’t give you anything more for pain right now; when we
gave you an anti-emetic (anti-nausea) a while ago, your blood
pressure dipped too low.” She smiled and tried to make him
focus, “Let’s work on your breathing; you need to slow
way down, Luka, or you’ll be sick, again.”
He nodded and tried to follow her lead as
the RN took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. Luka
knew the pain would improve if he wasn’t out-of-control, the
nausea would die down, too, but understanding his medical
situation and making himself master it were two very different
beasts. He continued to do the familiar breathing exercise while
the RN got a wet washcloth and began wiping off his perspiration
soaked face and arms.
“Do you know where you are?”
He forced his eyes to look past her to assess his environment,
“Bolnica.”
She shook her head and smiled, “Let’s
try another question. What’s your name?”
“Kovac, Luka Hezser Kovac.”
“That’s correct, Luka. Two deep
breaths with me ... Now, let’s try another question.”
Luka momentarily closed his eyes, fought
back a round of searing pain flashing across his back and
abdomen, then returned his focus to the woman beside his bed. She
held his hand tighter and waited for his attention.
“What is your job around here?”
He managed a weak smile, proud he was
sure of this answer, “Lijecnik.”
Shock registered on his face when his
friend shook her head in a negative reply.
“Try to find the English words,
Luka.”
“How’s it going here?”
A familiar face came into his view; Luka
instantly smiled at Elizabeth Corday.
“His pressure is coming up, but his
temperature is, too, and I know he is hurting. I’m also
having a slight problem deciphering a neuro (neurological) status
since Luka isn’t speaking in English at the present time.”
Elizabeth moved closer and took his hand
from the RN’s; she left to get the chart.
“I know it’s hard, Luka, this
must be terribly confusing for you.”
He nodded while trying to figure out why
Elizabeth Corday would be in Osijek. Perhaps this was another one
of Luka’s nightmares, but he had never placed anyone from
Chicago in a Croatian memory before. So where was he; Luka
realized he was truly lost, was this Osijek ... No, wait, that
was a long time ago. Wasn’t it?
“Do you remember what happened?”
Luka took a moment to think; he thought he knew what happened, he
went up to get some fresh air and ended up with shrapnel wounds.
That would make perfect sense if Elizabeth wasn’t staring
into his eyes. She let go of his hand and began to check his left
side and abdominal dressings. He fought the grimace that covered
his face; Luka knew she was trying to be gentle, but the searing
pain forced a weird noise from his being. Luka listened to the
sound; the world seemed in slow motion and he wondered if the
screech was his own or from another bed.
“Meperidine 25mg IV push.”
Elizabeth finished poking around his belly and took back his
hand, “Let’s take the edge off, then see if the world
seems more amicable. We’ll switch to morphine when he is
able to tolerate it, but I want to give him something now, too.”
“Right away, Dr. Corday.”
“Remind me to write a morphine order for titration with his
blood pressure as it begins to hold for us. For the next few
days, Luka is going to feel like he has been hit by a tank; I don’t
want him unnecessarily uncomfortable.”
He would have returned her smile, he
wanted to, but Luka found himself losing control of his conscious
thought processes instead. Elizabeth continued to talk with the
other people by his bed, but they seemed distant. He closed his
eyes and tried to listen to the various voices around him, then
Luka began to float away. He was so tired; he eased into the
sensation of weightlessness overtaking him and the pain lessened
as he relaxed.
“Otac?” Luka forced his eyes
open and grabbed for Elizabeth’s hand, “Telefonirati,
Otac.”
“Telephone?”
He rested back into his pillows, thankful Elizabeth understood
what he said. She would call his father and Viktor would come to
straighten this all out. He came to Osijek before and helped Luka
get well; badgered would be a better descriptive term for Viktor’s
behavior in Osijek, but he was too tired to discuss word choice
with Elizabeth.
“You want us to call someone, Luka?”
Luka nodded, the haze was getting thick
in his head, “Hvala.”
“That’s thank you,” Kerry
Weaver stopped on the other side of the PACU stretcher; she was
behind Luka, and he wouldn’t have been able to see her, but
it didn’t matter since he had fallen asleep.
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth nodded
her gratitude for the interpretation, “I only wish I knew
what he was thanking me for. I believe I’m to call someone
on the telephone.”
“What did he say?” Kerry’s
mind was reviewing the short list of Croatian words she had
learned since Luka’s employment in her emergency department.
“What was it, Nancy, ‘oh-taak’?”
“Yes, that sounds about right.”
Kerry nodded and patted her sleeping colleague’s shoulder,
“Father. Luka was asking us to call his father.”
XXXXX
The physician inside Luka did a quick
assessment of his injuries. The shrapnel entered his left side
from behind and probably bounced off bone, maybe a rib or two,
then ended up rattling around in his abdomen. Damn! Belly wounds
were the worst and they had no antibiotics to fight the ... Wait!
They had no anesthetics, no way to do surgery, and Luka was in
obvious need of an exploratory lap (laporotomy) to diagnose the
damage and repair the shrapnel’s trail of destruction. He
laid back and didn’t even blink when the next round crashed
into the ground nearby. Luka was a dead man; why waste time being
frightened, he needed to try and gather his thoughts before he
lost consciousness for the last time.
Suddenly, when his fear of the bright
flashes of light surrounding him ebbed, Luka began to watch the
light show and think of it as quite beautiful. Nice of the JNA to
put on such a massive demonstration in honor of one disabled and
dying Croat physician. He listened to the various sized pieces of
shrapnel crash into or bounce off of the rocks, boulders, and
remnants of building. If he concentrated, there was music in the
rhythm of the noises; during his years of siege living, Luka
found it interesting he had never truly listened to these crashes
before. He supposed he had been too busy trying to live through
the attacks to sense humankind’s symphony of hatred and
death playing out right before him.
He smiled and decided only the child of
two artists would be having this morbid conversation with
himself. Luka had mixed feelings about dying this particular
evening; after all, he had survived the siege of Vukovar and
nearly survived the siege of Osijek, but he wasn’t going to
have the chance to see how this vulgar war ended. Poor Croatia,
she was such a tiny, mixed-up, little country; Luka felt sorry
for his homeland, it would have been nice to die with the
knowledge she was finally free.
Luka felt something on his face, then
looked around at the artillery bursts in the moonlit sky.
Filament papers, the tiny shiny strips released by planes to
confuse radar devices, were well-known items to anyone on the
ground during this war. At first, civilians were panicked by
these metallic slivers dancing down from the sky and covering the
earth. The medical community reported unknown substances in the
air, the International Community immediately sent representatives
to rule out gas attacks, then when it was discovered these were
standard air force issue filament papers, everyone relaxed.
He began to laugh despite the pain
shooting through him; imagine, the International Community
actually left once the threat of gas attacks was ruled out. Luka
still found it interesting to think this proved it was evidently
okay with the rest of the world if the JNA shot, tortured,
maimed, starved, or blew up every man, woman, and child in
Croatia ... Just don’t gas them!
His eyes returned to the light show and
the burst of filament strips raining from the sky; it was
beautiful, truly breath-taking to see. The music in Luka’s
head beat to the rhythm of the guns, blasts, booms, and
clattering shrapnel while he smiled up at the marvelous colors;
the beauty reminded him of his mother. Warm thoughts of Mira took
over his mind and comforted him as Luka prepared himself for
whatever lie ahead; he accepted the fact he was about to die.
XXXXX
“Are you sure?” She smiled when
his eyes appeared to focus, “If we get another cup of these
ice chips down you before Dr. Corday returns for afternoon
rounds, I bet she’ll let you try a bit of tea or apple juice
this evening.”
“Pardon?” Luka shook his head and blinked his eyes a
few times.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like
another spoonful of ice before I leave the room?”
“No, thank you.” He pulled himself up further in the
chair and looked around, “I’m not sure where I am.”
“Don’t worry, Luka, you are
safe.” The RN dropped to one knee, met his eyes, and took
his hand, “Once Dr. Corday found out you had a history of
bad reactions to opiates, we switched you to a regular schedule
of Tegratol shots and Meperidine IV for pain. You’ve been
confused by the morphine for a few days, but the fog will be
lifting soon; give it time.”
Luka nodded, morphine did tend to leave him severely confused,
but where the heck was he? He watched her leave, then looked
around and easily recognized the hospital room as part of County.
Turning to the source of loud snoring, he noted a roommate who
appeared to be in a deep drug-induced sleep. The television was
quietly filling the room with noise and there were people
bustling by in the hallway outside. Luka was in a recliner
surrounded by pillows and a million tubes, electrodes, and lines.
He guessed he had been ill, seriously ill, but couldn’t
remember anything happening.
Luka reached for the cup of ice on the
nearby bedside table, then quickly retreated and sat perfectly
still. He was thirsty, his mouth felt like sandpaper, but it wasn’t
bothering him enough to feel pain like that shooting up and down
his spine, chest, and abdomen. After a few deep breaths, Luka
slowly reached his right hand around to touch his side and
stomach. He was stunned as he found a chest tube with a stapled
incision line in the same area, plus a new suture line right over
the midline abdominal scar from his surgery in Croatia.
Thoroughly confused, he flopped back in
the chair and tried to make his mind work. How could he forget
being this sick, having surgery, and the placement of the
obnoxious chest tube which was presently making itself known with
thunderous throbs of pain? Luka had no idea how large the hole in
his memory was, but he didn’t like the sensation of losing
himself; it made him feel vulnerable and out-of-control.
“Your RN, Mary, says you should be
ready to head back, Dr. Kovac.”
Luka watched the large orderly cross the
room and begin to peel the layers of blankets off his elevated
legs, “Call me Luka, please.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Back where?”
The orderly stopped and made eye contact with his patient, “Say,
the nurses have been telling us you were going to be less
confused. They changed your meds or something. How are you
feeling, Luka?”
“I’m not sure,” he returned the kind man’s
smile, “I feel as if I’m somehow missing a few days. I
don’t even know where I am.”
“County General’s surgical
step-down unit; this is your first full-day here on the eighth
floor, but you were in SICU for a while after your surgery.”
“Was I in an accident?”
“Heck, ya!” The orderly heartily laughed and shook his
head indicating Luka’s question had understated whatever was
going on, “Emergency is finally reopened, but I stopped down
on one of my breaks and the place still looks like a big mess to
me.”
“Oh.”
Luka accepted the assist as the large man
helped him stand, then pivoted him into a sitting position on the
side of his bed.
“We’ll stop here for a minute;
I need to be sure we get your lines and tubes moved to the right
spots around your bed.”
“Okay.”
“Will you be all right sitting there
for a minute?”
Luka realized he was clutching the mattress with all his
strength, but he leaned over and let his right side rest on the
elevated portion of the bed. Taking a brief moment to assess if
he felt balanced, Luka smiled and nodded to his caregiver, then
watched as the man scooted around moving lines, tubes, and
machines. He was hooked up to a ton of medical equipment, but now
Luka really took note of the IV machines, chest tube canister,
and various equipment his mind associated with severely injured
patients. He saw these things, understood their purposes and
implications, but was having trouble associating them with
himself.
“Wow, Dave, you’ve almost got
him back in bed by yourself this afternoon.” Luka’s
nurse put some papers down on the overbed stand and quickly moved
to help, “I can’t believe how much better Luka is now
that we switched around his meds. It took three full-lifts to get
him in bed this morning.”
They were talking as if he wasn’t there, but Luka didn’t
care. He was exhausted from sitting on the edge of the bed; he
would pursue information on her comment, but he would pursue it
later. He felt bad, worried he had been a troublesome patient and
knowing he had obviously been confused, but Luka would apologize.
They lifted him back, then up, and managed to wrangle Luka into a
comfortable position. He had rarely been more grateful to feel a
mattress under him in his life.
“Hvala.” He smiled when they
both shot unsure looks his way, “It means ‘thank you’
and I hope I’ve been saying that quite often the last few
days. I am grateful for your help and I’m sorry if I’ve
been any trouble.”
His caregivers laughed and Dave shook his head. Luka smiled up at
them and felt better examining their eyes; they wouldn’t
look like that if he had been too wack-o.
“You haven’t been any trouble,
just terribly ill. We have spent a lot of time wishing one of us
knew Croatian, but Hilda from housekeeping got you talking to her
in German and it all worked out.”
“Good.” Luka ran out of strength and let his head sink
into his pillow, “Maybe I should be grateful no one around
here speaks Croatian. Who knows what crap was splurting out of my
mouth, especially if my chest, back, and stomach felt as they do
right now.”
Dave chuckled and left, but Mary moved
around and took his hand, “I gave you something for pain
forty-five minutes ago; I didn’t want you to hurt too much
moving back into bed. Try to sleep and I’ll call for
something stronger if you can’t get comfortable.”
“Deal,” Luka nodded and
returned her smile, “but I’m sure I can sleep.”
“Good.”
“What’s up in here?”
Elizabeth Corday crossed the room, “The scuttlebutt at the
desk is that we have an alert patient this afternoon.”
“Possibly,” Luka threw a look
in his roommate’s direction, “but we’ll have to
wait for him to wake up for a true neurological assessment.”
Elizabeth and Mary broke into a loud round of laugher; Luka
smiled, but was too tired to laugh at his own joke.
“Wait until the folks downstairs
find out you’re making jokes up here, Luka. I won’t be
able to stem the tide of visitors streaming to the eighth floor.”
He nodded and continued to smile. Mary
slipped out to get Luka’s chart and Elizabeth moved closer
and took his hand.
“How’s the pain?”
“It’s there, Elizabeth, but I have the distinct
impression I should be grateful I’m feeling it.”
“It was close, Luka, very close.”
“What happened?”
“You have no memory?”
“None.”
“You were working nights last Thursday when a crazed tow
truck driver smashed his vehicle through the department; he was
going more than eighty-miles-per-hour when he hit the doors. We
found you buried in the debris without much of a pulse. I
repaired the damage from two crushed ribs and sutured your
diaphragm while Ligouri worked his magic repairing the tears in
your lung. Since the diaphragm had been compromised, I irrigated
the peritoneal cavity, then ran your bowel. When I saw the state
your abdomen was in from your previous surgery, I proceeded to
release numerous adhesions.”
Luka couldn’t hold in a chuckle;
after his surgery in Osijek, what was left of his guts would be
any surgeon’s worst nightmare, “Never have major
surgery in the middle of a war zone, Elizabeth. The UNPROFOR
(United Nations Protection Forces) field hospital teams assigned
to what was left of Osijek were highly capable, but I severely
challenged them.”
“I have no doubt about that, Luka,”
Elizabeth winked and clutched his hand in both of her hands.
“I am truly grateful, Elizabeth,
especially regarding those adhesions. They have been getting
worse every year. You saved me a nasty bit of elective surgery in
the near future.”
Elizabeth smiled while continuing to improve the thoughts she had
been having regarding Luka’s original surgeons; she couldn’t
imagine doing a spleenectomy, plus patching multiple holes in a
patient’s gut in war-time conditions, “While I had you
under anesthesia, I also reconstructed that messy midline
incision and removed a ton of scar tissue. How much did you weigh
when that incision was placed?”
“Not much,” he flushed and tried to make his mind bring
forth the number in pounds not kilos, “I know the first time
the UNPROFOR team got me on a scale, after I’d been
recovering in their camp for almost a month, I weighted around
one hundred pounds.”
She merely smiled and nodded; this
information fully explained the amount of tearing and retearing
Luka’s midline incision had undergone over the years as his
weight normalized. Elizabeth felt even better about her decision
to fix the situation for Luka without asking his permission; he
would undoubtedly be more comfortable in the future due to her
efforts.
Mary came back in with the chart. The two
women stepped to the bottom of the bed and began discussing
numbers and orders. Luka closed his eyes and fell into a deep
sleep feeling completely confident in their care.
XXXXX
He was terribly cold, but still couldn’t
move toward help. There was no possible way anyone would come
look for him here; Luka hadn’t told anyone where he was
going. He watched the filament paper begin to trickle off, along
with the amount of fire coming from the JNA batteries. Why would
they waste ammunition when the entire city was buzzing for days
about its surrender; they had won, what more could they possibly
want? It was as if the JNA High Command had decided this was
their last night to complete Osijek’s transition from a
noble old world city into a barren field of nothingness.
Feeling anger taking over his heart and
mind, Luka decided he didn’t want his last thoughts on earth
to be of hatred and anger. He forced himself to switch back to
thinking of his mother, Mira. She was so different than Danijela,
but both women had made the mistake of loving him and now they
were both gone.
He quickly moved from those thoughts and
made himself concentrate on a Kodaly piece his mother loved to
play. Zoltan Kodaly was a Hungarian composer, rarely played
outside of Eastern Europe, but Mira loved his scores. Luka felt
his fingers begin to move on an invisible piano as he remembered
the notes; there was such comfort in music, it truly was mankind’s
universal language.
“Don’t rush, Luka, play all the
notes. Why must you always hurry?”
“Majka?” He hadn’t heard her voice in far too many
years.
“No talking; concentrate, Luka.”
Luka strained to look around, but the pain hampered his efforts,
“I’m trying, Majka, but my mind feels muttled. I’m
sorry to disappoint you, but I’m very tired.”
“I know you are tired, My Dijete,
but you must not rush. Slow down and fight.”
“Can I see you, touch you, perhaps?”
“No,” Mira’s gentle chuckle filled the air, “it
isn’t time for you to see me. Always in a hurry; that’s
my boy!”
“But I want to see you; I’m
tired of this world, everything reeks of hatred and suffering.”
Mira began to play the piano; bowing to Luka’s musical
preferences, she played a Liszt score. He immediately recognized
the piece and felt warm all over; she normally only gave in and
played this on special occasions since Liszt was not her favorite
composer.
“Rest back and concentrate on the
score, Luka. Don’t rush and fall asleep before the end; help
is near, you must hold on for me.”
The music played, Luka slowed himself
down and imagined each note. He could see his mother at the piano
in their living room in Split; Mira’s long slender fingers
working their magic and making each complex movement look easy.
Suddenly, Luka heard voices and his dream of home vanished into
thin air. He called out, but only a hoarse moan exited his dry
throat. A moment later, a UNPROFOR rescue team member spotted him
and rushed to his aid. Luka remembered smiling at the man, then
everything fading to black.
XXXXX
Luka opened his eyes with a start. He
turned toward the blast of music bursting across the room and
made eye contact with his newly wide awake roommate.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed
you.” His roommate offered a weak smile, “I’ve
never been good at adjusting the volume on this hospital room
equipment.”
Luka smiled and nodded; the radio was
tuned to a classical music station. He took a moment to identify
the score being played while his roommate fussed with the volume.
“Please,” their eyes met once
more as Luka offered, “that’s Kodaly; don’t turn
it down.”
“Yes, Young Man, it most certainly
is Kodaly.” A bright smile broke out on his roommate’s
face, “I am George Verstig. I teach music theory at the
Chicago Music Conservatory.”
“Luka Kovac, I work downstairs.”
“Nice to meet you, Luka.”
George took a moment and listened to a portion of the score with
his new friend, “Beautiful piece, but it isn’t played
often.”
“Folszallott a pava - Valtozatok egy
magyar nepdaira.” He rested into the music, adding, “My
mother loved ‘The Peacock - Variations on a Hungarian
folksong’ score. In fact, Zoltan Kodaly was her favorite
composer. She played the cello, any stringed instrument, plus the
piano like an absolute angel.”
“May I assume from your accent and
excellent pronunciations that you are from Hungary, Young Man?”
“No.” Luka smiled at the surprised look on George’s
face, “I’m was born in Croatia, but my mother grew up
in Budapest.”
The two men talked for a while longer, but Luka tired and excused
himself. He turned to rest while George picked at his supper
tray. The radio station George selected continued to play
marvelously soothing music; Luka felt his mother’s spirit in
the room with him.
“Hvala, Majka, hvala.” He
silently spoke to her while watching snow drift down outside his
window; Luka let himself imagine the flakes were moving in unison
to the music George had selected, “You were right; why does
that fact not surprise me? I wasn’t ready then and I’m
not ready now. When I get better, I promise to slow down and
start enjoying my life. Who knows, I may even buy a used piano
and return to my playing.” Luka chuckled to himself as sleep
eased across his being, whispering, “Do they have earplugs
in heaven, Majka? I certainly hope they do.”
XXXXX
Thank you for reading my story. Please
address any questions and/or comments to
phoenixbv@yahoo.com