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49
When Paul was about to cross a green square to reach the
hospital he saw the police car at the entrance. The blue
light revolved silently and there was a strange atmosphere,
a mixture of seriousness and awe, a feeling that I’d have
many years later when my mother had to decide whether I
– for her – had survived or not. I’ll come to this later. One
thing at a time.
A dark-haired man with an oversized nose and jutting chin
stood next to the police car, gesticulating as he spoke with
one of the policemen. I was still screaming. Paul started to
run. The inspirational fire in his chest held for a few more
seconds, almost blasting him across the street before
regressing back into the old anxiety, which, like a hard
landing, threatened to pin him down on the sidewalk. A
nurse held me in her arms as a doctor examined my neck,
back, pelvis, legs. The woman from reception huddled in
shared mute shock with the kiosk owner, the cleaning lady
and another policeman. Only when the doctor gave a
confident she’s-okay nod did a murmur ripple through the
group.
“Chwała Bogu”
, muttered the Polish cleaning lady.
“Allaha Şükür”
, said the Turkish kiosk owner.
“Thank God!” cried Nurse Marianne, plugging a bottle of
milk into my mouth so I could finally relax and, slurping
and sucking, unconcernedly enjoy my first dinner.