Orsola?
Led by the shuffling attendant, Antoni and Orsola walk down a seemingly endless stretch of hall, the same sickly pale green, studded by a series of closed doors, with frosted glass windows, many of them interrupted by shadows of the people inside.
Echoes of these conversations, and faint suggestions of cries, accompany them as they walk.
The doctor’s office has an examination table, a wooden school desk, and little else.
It is clean, but well-worn; brick peeks through the paint.
The walls boast two posters.
One, an admonition against drinking while pregnant, and the other, a propaganda-style image of grinning, robust Soviet children cavorting around a Soviet flag.
Orsola sits at the desk, pulls out a pocketknife, and adds a second scratch mark under her name, which she carved in the desktop on her previous visit.
The desktop is full of carved children’s names, some with many more scratch marks than others.
Antoni presents an open palm to Orsola, expectant.
“We talked about this already. No knives allowed. Not now.”
Cut to Antoni and Orsola’s apartment, seven years ago:
Antoni opens a kitchen cupboard and deposits the knife into a box brimming with knives.
Repeatedly, his hand returns to the box and adds other instruments to a growing pile of contraband-knives, BB pellets, rope, razor blades, candy,a toy rifle.
After this final repossession, an eight-year-old Orsola gazes up at the cupboard, scowling.
You have no reason to own one. If a day comes when you do-then, we will talk.
Cut back to doctor’s office
Orsola hesitates, then deposits the knife into Antoni’s waiting palm. The DOCTOR enters, and stretches his arms,in the manner of one who has recently woken from a nap. He is boyish, handsome, with a too-jovial expression, and the confidence of a perpetual charmer. He pulls on the end of Orsola’s ponytail as he passes her on his way to the desk.
Orsola Medved! Anything new to report from the land of sixteenyear-olds? Seems like just two weeks ago you were running around, just a kid. And here today, I see a real, live teenager who has forgotten how to smile. Come now, it’s not all bad-you get to leave school after all, don’t you?
Orsola glares at the doctor, I don’t think you are charming. Or funny. I know that’s what you are trying to be. You want to distract me from what you have to say. I’ll tell you now-it won’t work.
Enough, Orsola. I apologize. She’s not herself.
Doctor waves at the free chair before his desk, Please, sit. And we will have a little conversation.
Antoni takes a seat. Doctor begins to speak, but Orsola is distant, inattentive, choosing instead to focus on the poster on the wall. The faces of the broadly drawn children, with their exaggerated health and happiness, sway and grow hazy before her eyes, as she hears snippets of his speech. Doctor uses words like “white blood cells” and “leukemic cells” and “blood disease”. His speech is overwhelmed by the sound of blood rushing in Orsola’s ears. She closes her eyes–all goes black.
Against the black background of Orsola’s perspective, we see an animated scientific image of white blood cells and leukemic blood cells, undulating, balletic.
So, in essence, we treat these cells, these bad guys in the blood, like the troublemakers they are. Does this make sense Orsola? I know it is very complex. But I feel it is important to be clear here, about what we will be doing. You are old enough to know. The littler patients-that is more delicate. But in your case-let’s be honest. Do you have any questions?
Orsola shakes her head, and as she does so, her nose begins to bleed. This jolts her to awareness.
I understand.
Antoni puts a hand on her shoulder; he does so to steady himself, and to comfort her. Their survival is intertwined, linked. His well-being is equally threatened by this news.
Antoni puts a hand on her shoulder; he does so to steady himself, and to comfort her. Their survival is intertwined, linked. His well-being is equally threatened by this news.
Antoni goes back and forth with Orsola’s doctor. But you are saying that it is treatable,yes?
We have the best of care in these facilities. Parents from all over, they travel here-very stressful, not good for recovery at all. You are fortunate to be in the city. It will be much easier to manage the treatment.
And until the surgery-what now? About the pain-what can I do?
Doctor points at Antoni, in the manner of one who has just encountered a rare person, as he addresses Orsola’s sullen face.
You are lucky to have a grandfather like this one. Mostly, with the older generation-it’s been just war after war, they’ve seen everything and they don’t worry about things like “comfort”. “Comfort”-that is meaningless to them. At the mere mention of it, they just say-
Orsola responds in a flat tone, but with a confrontational, vicious expression.
Life is pain. Expect suffering. Happiness is a luxury, a weakness, proof of the unchallenged existence. Avoiding starvation, persecution-now that is an achievement. You will know us by our hardship. And melancholy-that’s our family inheritance! Spend it well! Because you are owed nothing, but life will try to take the little you have, and you can fight if you like but you better enjoy the fight itself-because that’s all you’re going to get.
Doctor is taken aback by her intensity. Throughout this speech, she’s allowed a bit of the blood to drip from her nose unchecked.
I can only imagine what she’s like when she’s well. A real rebel, isn’t she?
Antoni stands, steady, but with an air of resignation. Orsola remains seated, gazing ahead, seething.
Come, Orsola. No point in being here any longer than you have to. We will be back soon enough.
What if I refuse to come back? What if I choose not to have the surgery? I can do that, right? How do we know that this will cure me? That it won’t ever come back? Don’t I have a say in what happens to me?
Very few of us have that privilege Orsola. Let’s go. Antoni offers the girl his arm, to steady her step. Surprise crosses his face as she accepts this help.