Dr. Hitzig and I arrived in Poland that spring. It was a pleasure to travel with the doctor, for he was blessed with a razor-sharp mind and a gentle way one generally finds only in the Amish. He was our American medical expert in orthopedic surgery, charged with determining which of the Polish ladies were healthy enough to withstand a trip to the United States later that year. I was along to organize the travel documents and smooth the way.
An official delegation met us and whisked us to the Warsaw Orthopedic Clinic by private car. Once we entered the clinic, Polish doctors surrounded Dr. Hitzig. They pumped his hand, patted him on the back, and escorted him to a conference table in front of a makeshift stage. I took a seat next to Dr. Hitzig as twenty-nine other doctors, Polish and Russian, followed. There were also two members of ZBoWiD there, the Society of Fighters for Freedom and Democracy, an official Polish veterans association, the authority Norman and I worked with to ensure the Rabbits’ rights.
The clinic was much like the Bethlehem Grange Hall, wide open and so drafty we felt the breeze from the windows even in the center of the room.
The first three ladies entered the clinic huddled together, clutching their coat collars to their chins. Each wore a cloth purse over one forearm and the strain of the trip on her face, for simple steps appeared to still be painful for all three. Our translator, a severe young man with a Stalin-like head of hair, took a seat next to Dr. Hitzig, and the women walked to the changing screen behind the stage.
The first Rabbit, a pretty woman in her midthirties with short dark hair and dark eyes, emerged wrapped like a Greek goddess in a dull white sheet. She shuffled to the folding chair on the stage, wincing with each step. Once seated, she looked over the audience, her chin high.
The lead doctor, Professor Gruca, an energetic, avuncular man shaped like a fire hydrant, took the stage and read from the document. At seemingly endless intervals, the translator shared the English translation: “The death of Adolf Hitler’s close friend, SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, precipitated the ersatz medical experiments referred to as ‘the sulfonamide operations’ at the Ravensbrück concentration camp. Dr. Karl Gebhardt, close friend of and personal physician to Heinrich Himmler, was called to treat Heydrich, who’d been critically wounded in an attempted assassination, a car bombing arranged by the Czech underground.”
I kept my eye on the woman onstage. She held her head high as she listened.
“In treating Heydrich, Dr. Gebhardt refused to use sulfa drugs, and chose other treatments instead. Once Heydrich died, Hitler accused Gebhardt of letting his friend die from gas gangrene. As a result, Himmler and Gebhardt planned a way to prove to Hitler the decision not to use sulfa had been correct: a series of experiments, first performed on males at Sachsenhausen and then on female Ravensbrück inmates.”
The woman onstage brushed her hair back from her forehead, her hand shaking.
“Gebhardt and staff performed surgeries on perfectly healthy women, specially chosen for their sound, sturdy legs, to replicate traumatic injuries. They added bacterial cultures to the wounds to produce gas gangrene, then administered sulfa drugs to some. Each sulfa patient that died proved Gebhardt’s case. The inmates operated on”—Dr. Gruca indicated the woman in the chair—“included Kasia Bakoski, née Kuzmerick, currently employed as a nurse for the state.”
The doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the woman’s leg. Next to me, Dr. Hitzig took a sharp intake of breath. Her lower leg was shrunken and horribly disfigured, like a gutted fish.
“Mrs. Bakoski was operated on in 1942. She underwent three subsequent surgeries. All Group One: Bacteria, wood, glass, and additional materials were introduced. An incision was made in the left lower extremity and blood vessels on both sides of the wound tied off.”
As the doctor continued, Kasia kept her chin high, but her mouth softened. Her eyes grew glassy.
“Ground silica and wood fragments were introduced, and the wound was stitched up and given plaster dressing,” said the doctor.
Could the doctor not see she was distressed? I stood and walked toward the stage.
“This cast remained in place long enough for gas gangrene and other conditions to develop,” the doctor continued. “Then sulfonamides were introduced.”
The doctors scribbled down notes.
“In addition to severe deformity, which affects the entire skeletal system, patient suffers posttraumatic reactions of the brain, depression—”
“I am sorry, but…” Kasia said. She stood, one hand over her eyes, the other holding the sheet to her chest.
I stepped up onto the stage. “This cannot continue, Doctor.”
“But these women have agreed to this,” Dr. Gruca said. “The doctors have disrupted busy schedules to be here.”
“So have the Rabbits, Doctor. You may continue the examinations in private. You, Dr. Hitzig, and I will be present.”
“This is highly—”
I took Kasia by the hand. “These women were victims once but will not be abused again if I’m here.”
“Let us continue in the smaller examination room,” Dr. Hitzig said.
I helped Kasia off the stage and to the dressing area and did my best to help her dress.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”
“You speak English so well, dear.”
“Not so much.”
“Certainly better than my Polish.”
“My sister Zuzanna isn’t here yet, but she is on the list. She’s a doctor. And has beautiful English.”
“I will look for her,” I said.
The exams progressed nicely once they moved to the smaller room, attended only by Dr. Hitzig, Dr. Gruca, and myself. Kasia’s sister Zuzanna was the last patient examined. She asked that Kasia be allowed to sit in, and the doctors agreed.
“Zuzanna Kuzmerick,” Dr. Hitzig read. “Forty-three years old. A member of the control group of sulfonamide operations. Injected with staphylococcus and tetanus bacteria. One of the few controls who, given no antibiotics, spontaneously recovered. Currently experiences cross-lateral headaches, occasional dizziness, and gastric upset. Possible gastric ulcer, treated with antacids.” Dr. Hitzig stopped reading.
“Go on, Doctor,” said Zuzanna. “It’s fine.”
Dr. Hitzig removed his glasses.
“I don’t think it’s—”
“I’ve seen it,” said Zuzanna. “I wrote it, actually. It says I was sterilized at the camp, doesn’t it?”
Kasia stood. “Oh no, Zuzanna.”
“It’s fine. I wrote the report. Please, Doctor…continue.”
Dr. Hitzig slid his glasses back on. Zuzanna sat straight in her chair as Dr. Hitzig began his examination, feeling the glands on both sides of her neck.
“Is it hard for you as a doctor to suddenly become a patient?” I asked.
“No,” Zuzanna said. “It’s important to see both sides. Makes me a better doctor. That is one of the reasons I’d like to come to America. And to take more advanced medical classes and learn as much as I can.”
Zuzanna spoke such good English, with her lovely, lilting Polish accent, it was a pleasure listening to her.
Dr. Hitzig rubbed two fingers on the left side of her neck.
“What is it, Doctor?” Zuzanna asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Dr. Hitzig said. “I think we are done here for now.”
As we cleaned up and the Polish women prepared for the trip home, Dr. Hitzig conferred with his fellow doctors, and I shared the gifts I’d brought from the States.
“Gather round, girls,” I said. I held out one of the lovely handbags I’d brought, this one of navy-blue leather. The golden clasp caught the light. “These have been donated by a wonderful American shop called Lane Bryant.”
The Rabbits stood still as if rooted in place. Such a serious group.
“Girls, please don’t be shy,” I said, holding the bag out farther still. “They are free. They have been donated. Blue is the big color this year.”
Still not a move. I picked up a Whitman’s Sampler box, the name on the package painted in cross-stitch.
“Anyone for chocolates?” Not one moved toward me. “Fig Newtons? They’re cookies.”
“Maybe we should take a photograph?” Kasia said, motioning toward my Leica. They gathered for the camera, and the photograph arranged itself, like a bouquet of flowers in a vase.