‘Of course it’s spread,’ the old man said. ‘Isn’t
that what cancer cells do? Spread?’
‘Ha, ha. Yes, it is.’ Dr Buer brushed an invisible
speck of dust off the desk.
‘Cancer is like us,’ the old man said. ‘It just does
what it has to do.’
‘Yes,’ Dr Buer said. He looked relaxed in a
forced way, in his slumped sitting position.
‘Like you, doctor. You just do what you have to
do.’
‘You’re so right, so right.’ Dr Buer smiled and
put on his glasses. ‘We’re still considering
chemotherapy. It would weaken you, but it could
prolong . . . um . . .’
‘My life?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have I got left without chemo?’
Buer’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘A
little less than we had first assumed.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that the cancer has spread from the
liver via the blood stream to —’
‘For Christ’s sake, will you just tell me how
long.’
Dr Buer gaped blankly.
‘You hate this job, don’t you?’ the old man said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. A date, please.’
‘It’s impossible to —’
Dr Buer jumped in his chair as the old man’s fist
hit the desktop so hard that the telephone receiver
leapt off the cradle. He opened his mouth to say
something, but stopped when he saw the old man’s
quivering forefinger. Then he sighed, took off his
glasses and ran a tired hand over his face.
‘This summer. June, perhaps earlier. August at the
latest.’
‘Great,’ the old man said. ‘That’ll do fine. Pain?’
‘Can come at any time. You’ll be given
medicine.’
‘Will I be able to function?’
‘Hard to say. Depends on the pain.’
‘I must have medicine that enables me to function.
It’s important. Do you understand?’
‘All painkillers —’
‘I can take a lot of pain. I simply need something
to keep me conscious so that I can think and act
rationally.’
Happy Christmas. That was the last thing Dr Buer
had said. The old man stood on the steps. At first
he hadn’t understood why the city was so full of
people, but once he had been reminded of the
imminent religious festival he saw the panic in the
eyes of people dashing along the pavements in
search of last-minute Christmas presents. Some
shoppers had gathered round a pop group playing
in Egerstorget. A man wearing a Salvation Army
uniform was going round with a collection box. A
junkie stamped his feet in the snow, his eyes
flickering like stearin candles about to go out. Two
teenage girls, arm in arm, passed him, rosy-
cheeked and bursting with stories to tell about boys
and expectations of their lives to come. And the
candles. There were candles in every damned
window. He raised his face to the Oslo sky; a
warm, golden dome of reflected light from the city.
My God, how he longed for her. Next Christmas,
he thought. Next Christmas we will celebrate
together, my darling.
Part Three
URIAH
23
Rudolf II Hospital, Vienna. 7 June
1944.
HELENA LANG WALKED WITH QUICK STEPS AS SHE
PUSHED a trolley towards Ward 4. The windows
were open and she breathed in, filling her lungs
and head with the fresh smell of newly mown
grass. No smell of death and destruction today. It
was a year since Vienna had been bombed for the
first time. In recent weeks, when the weather had
been clear, they had been bombed every single
night. Even though the Rudolf II Hospital was
several kilometres away from the centre, raised
aloft from the war in the green Viennese woods,
the stench of smoke from the fires in the city had
smothered the scents of summer.
Helena swung round a corner and smiled at Dr
Brockhard, who appeared to want to stop and talk,
then hurried on. Brockhard, with those rigid staring
eyes of his behind glasses, always made her
nervous and uncomfortable when they came face to
face. Now and then she had the impression that
these meetings in the corridor were not accidental.
Her mother would probably have had respiratory
problems if she had seen the way in which Helena
avoided the promising young doctor, especially as
Brockhard came from a particularly distinguished
Viennese family. However, Helena liked neither
Brockhard nor his family, nor her mother’s
attempts to use her as a ticket back into the upper
echelons of society. Her mother blamed the war
for what had happened. It was to blame for
Helena’s father, Henrik Lang, losing his Jewish
lenders so abruptly and thus not being able to pay