"Nurse! Nurse!"
My call came too late. For a few minutes the wounded man has been directing his empty gaze at the glass on his bedside table. Then he tries to prop himself up on his elbow. He grimaces with pain. Slowly, with great efforts, he raises himself. But before he can reach the glass, he sinks back onto the pillows.
Rachel comes running and turns on the main light. The wounded man’s face is red with fever. His mouth is open. He lies there motion-less. Only his eyes are alive, as though his whole existence was con-centrated there. They fill the room with a silent scream.
"Why - do - you - torture - me?" he mumbles.
Rachel strokes his hair. She talks to him as if he were a small child. "Don’t talk nonsense. We don’t want to torture you. We want to help you get better." She talks quietly, and I don’t know if she is trying to convince him or herself.
"What have I done to you? What have I done?" He tries to shout, but he is already too weak. His words are chopped up by the rasp of his breath - worse than any cry.
"You have to hold out!" says Rachel. "Everything will be fine. Tomorrow the pain will be gone. Nowyou have to hold out."
The wounded man ignores her. A new thought has come into his head. He doesn’t have the strength for two thoughts. "You - hate - me," he coughs out. "You - all - hate - me ..." Rachel is horrified. She stares at him helplessly. "You - are - killing - me - because -1 - am - an - Etzel - man ..."
The horrible words hang in the air.
Rachel runs out of the room. Perhaps she is crying. The ceiling light remains on.