Jack felt almost as embarrassed as he had when his mother caught him stroking his first girlfriend’s thighs.
The young woman left the report on the bed, and without giving him time to protest, she lowered his pajama bottoms to the knees. For a moment, Jack held on to the corner of the sheet to keep his privates hidden.
“It’s your wound I have to dress, not the sheet,” she said, gently moving it away.
Reluctantly, Jack allowed her to examine him. The nurse removed the iodine dressing and checked the rim of the wound, which was still raw. “It doesn’t look good. Don’t blush. I mean the wound.” She smiled and soaked a fresh dressing in antiseptic.
Jack didn’t see the funny side. “It feels as if something’s burning me,” he explained.
“It’s because of the fragment that’s still inside you. We’ll get it out tomorrow,” she said while she cleaned the burn with a piece of cotton.
“Tomorrow? And why not today?”
“The surgeons are busy with other patients with more serious conditions than yours. You were lucky. Were it not for the steel trim on your apron, I’d be examining your lungs right now without needing an X-ray.” She gestured at the garment full of holes that lay on a chair alongside what remained of his clothes.
“Sure. Really lucky . . . Do you know when I’ll be able to speak to the doctor in charge?”
“Of course.” She smiled and continued to carefully clean the wound.
Jack pulled up his pajamas, stopping Natasha from finishing her work. “I don’t have time to mess around. Please, call your boss and let him know that I need to get out of here as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Beilis, no patient’s here for the fun of it. You’ll have your operation when it’s your turn.” She smiled at him again, wished him well, got up, and left.
When she’d gone, Jack turned to his neighbor, an elderly Caucasian with two bandaged stumps instead of feet. “What happened to you, friend?” he asked.
“The damned cold froze my feet to the bones. And you, why are you here?”
Jack’s only response was to lower his pajama bottoms to show the man his wound.
“Bah! That’s nothing, boy. In two weeks you’ll be galloping around like a colt again.”
“Problem is, I don’t have two weeks. Do you know who’s in charge of this nuthouse?”
“Sure! Everyone knows.”
“And what do I need to do to speak to him?”
“Nothing much, boy. Wait until your next dressing.”
“Wait? For whom?”
The mutilated old man gave him a knowing smile before answering. “For Natasha Lobanova, the young woman who just saw to you. She’s the head surgeon of the Avtozavod hospital. And the best person I’ve ever met.”
Jack discovered that Natasha Lobanova was like her father, Sergei Loban, in her commitment to the Soviet regime. Both pursued equality, though by different means. In everything else, they seemed to be from two different worlds. In Jack’s mind, Sergei was a political fanatic who would lose an arm if it meant his ideology would prevail, just as he would tear both arms from any poor fool who got in his way. Natasha’s greatest interest, however, appeared to be in eliciting a smile from every patient she saw. Sergei took meticulous care of appearances, from his impeccable uniform to his scrupulously trimmed beard. Natasha, on the other hand, paid little attention to the way she looked, but her clear skin, along with the innocence in her eyes, gave her an allure unlike any other woman Jack had seen. Sergei was rigidity; she was sweetness. He was fear; she was heaven.
When he had the chance, Jack apologized for mistaking her for a nurse, and admitted to Natasha that he knew her father. However, far from welcoming his friendliness, she responded with suspicion.
“I know. He asked me to take special care of you,” she replied curtly.
Jack noticed her expression turning hard. “Why the face?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. I just don’t like favoritism.” She tightened the bandage with more force than usual. Jack grunted with pain.
“How’s the wound healing?” he said, trying to change the subject.
“As it should. It’s a deep burn. After extracting the fragment, we’ll see if any nerves have been affected. Is there still a lot of pain?” She bent over to examine the wound.
“All the time. Except . . .”
“Yes?” Natasha gave him a skeptical look.
“Except when I see you.” Instantly, Jack blushed at the inanity of his comment.
Natasha raised an eyebrow and stood. “Right. In that case, I’ll see if I can find you a photo,” she said seriously, then picked up his medical record. “A nurse will come later to wash and prep you for the operation. However, I regret to inform you that removing that fragment’s going to hurt.”
Natasha had been right. It appeared that the procaine injected near his hip before the operation had not done its job fully, and the moment the pincers began rummaging in his flesh, he twisted in agony. When she had finally extracted the fragment, the young woman apologized. “I’m sorry to have taken longer than expected. I’d administered enough anesthetic for a short procedure, but the metal was in contact with a crural nerve branch, and I didn’t want to leave you lame.”
“The way that hurt, I’d say you almost did,” said Jack while a nurse dried the sweat from his brow.
“Well, I expect everything will be fine, but it’s too soon to say. Tomorrow, when the swelling’s gone down, we’ll check your mobility and pain levels. Now you must rest.”
“But rather than staying here, couldn’t I recover at my house?”
“You have a house?” Natasha appeared surprised.
“Is that strange?”
“No . . . well, truthfully, yes. You don’t wear a ring, and no women have visited you, so I assumed you were single.”
“Is that what you look at when you examine me?” Jack was surprised that Natasha had any interest in his private life.
“Of course not!” She reddened.
“Well, it’s true. I’m single.” For a moment he forgot about his false marriage.
“So how is it possible that you’ve been given a house?” She adjusted her bun—a rebellious lock of hair had fallen onto her face. “Single people aren’t permitted to have houses in the Soviet Union.”
“Let’s just say things are going well for me.” Jack decided against explaining that the house had a lot to do with Viktor Smirnov.
“Well, you’re very lucky. And luck isn’t something that’s overly plentiful in the Avtozavod.” She gestured at the patients who packed the ward. “Anyway, I’ll try to get you better as soon as possible. There’re plenty of others who need this bed.” Her expression hardened again. “Oh! And please, don’t complain too much when the anesthetic wears off. Some folks here are really sick.”