NEWS FROM HOME

By ROBERT RYLEE

IT was the last of five cases that afternoon, and to the interns and medical students, who always crowded the gallery when Dr. Rowland operated, I dare say it seemed quite routine. An incision was made. A specimen of the diseased tissue was sent to Pathology for microscopic exami- nation and diagnosis. During the interim Dr. Rowland spoke twice, in an undertone, to his two assistants in the case, Dr. Webendorfer and myself. Presently the door at the end of the room was opened and Dr. Laura Cushing, the staff pathologist, entered. As she came toward the table, Row- land looked at her questioningly. She nodded. Without lifting his head, Rowland announced to the gallery, " Cancer. Malignant. Surgery is not indicated." After that it was a matter of only a minute or two until the incision had been closed, the stitches placed, and the patient was being wheeled out.

Rowland went at once to the locker room, followed by Webendorfer, Cushing and me. In silence we removed our uniforms and got into our street coats. To us the case had not been routine. Miss Madden had been a nurse in our hospital twenty years at least, and for the last seven had been in charge of the very operating pavilion through which she had just passed in the new role of patient. We had known her as a brilliant woman, a rigid disciplinarian, demanding the best from others and giving the best of herself. We had also known the wealth of kindness and warmth that lay beneath her stern exterior. We had loved her. And now we had pronounced upon her a horrible sentence, a few months, a year perhaps, of lingering torture, and then death. We got into the elevator together, the four of us. Row- land brushed his hand across his forehead in a gesture of despair. " If we'd only known it sooner," he said, " before it was too late."

Webendorfer was visibly more agitated than the rest of us. I was aware that Miss Madden had gone out of her way to help him, in the hundred and one ways a nurse can help a new doctor, since he had first come to us, a year and a half back a refugee, from Germany. Knowing his background, knowing that his father was a doctor whose name was re- spected throughout the medical world, Miss Madden had done much to make easier his transition to his new life in an American hospital. Young Webendorfer had been deeply touched.

I watched him now. His knuckles were white. There were tears in his eyes. " It's damnable," he said, " the way it slinks into a strong body and fastens itself there and feeds upon it and finally destroys it." He spoke passionately, as if cancer were some personal enemy.

We reached the first floor and walked across the waiting room to a side door which let out to the street. We'd formed the habit of going each afternoon, as soon as the operations were over, to the bar a block away for a glass of beer. But today, as we passed the desk by the door, the nurse called to Webendorfer. " A letter for you, Doctor."

He took it, glanced at it hastily and shoved it in his pocket. " It's from Munich," he said, almost casually. " Your father? " Laura asked.

" Yes."

Nothing more was said until we were seated at our custo- mary table at the bar. Then Rowland turned to Webendorfer and said, " I know you'd like to read your letter, Hans. Go ahead. We'll excuse you."

Webendorfer laughed sarcastically. " What's the use? You know he can't say anything about what's really going on over there " He paused here. For a moment his expression softened. " I'm sorry," he said. " I know you think I'm too bitter." He pulled the letter out of his pocket and tore it open. " Here. I'll read it to you."

We waited in tense silence. Only two weeks earlier Ernst vom Rath, third secretary to the German Embassy in Paris, has been assassinated, and since then the New York papers had been headlining the terror that had broken out in Ger- many. We realised that the letter in Webendorfer's hand was probably one of the first that had come through.

He began reading and to the end his voice was an almost impersonal monotone.

MY DEAREST HANS, Knowing that because of recent events you may have been anxious for your mother and me, I hasten to reassure you that we are both well and happy. I do not know, naturally, what you may have read in the American news- papers, but doubtless they are continuing their programme of malicious lies about conditions in the Reich.

Believe me, my son, the German people have never been so strong and fruitful as today. We should all thank God for having sent us our Fiihrer. He has driven the enemies of the Reich into their dens, he has given back to Germany her honour and self-respect, he has led the way ever onward to new victories. Heil Hitler!

So have no concern for us, dear Hans. I can think of nothing we lack to make our happiness complete. . But perhaps that is not quite true. We miss Mildred terribly and would like above everything in the world to be with her. After having had her with us so long, we sometimes find the separation a little hard to bear.

With fondest love, YOUR FATHER.

Laura leaned forward and touched Webendorfer's hand. " There, Hans," she said. " Maybe the papers have exaggerated. Maybe things aren't as bad as you ... ."

But suddenly she stopped. Webendorfer had half risen from his chair. His face was white. The letter dropped from between his fingers and fluttered to the floor. He turned to Rowland and whispered fiercely, " Do you remember what you said in the elevator just now? My father said that once, the day he was driven from the University in Munich, with the word Jew painted across his gown. ' If we'd only known it sooner, before it was too late.' " We stared at him, puzzled.

" Don't you see? " he said. " Mildred was my sister. She died eight years ago."