HER HANDS #4

Please note. There are descriptions of religious beliefs and practices contained in HER HANDS. THEY ARE intended for use as setting, cultural context and character development. THEY ARE NOT intended to promote or criticize any religious belief or practice.

Chapter 2

Scenes 10-14

Sarah did as she was told and joined several other nurse’s aides with the sanitizing, scrubbing furiously. Not one of them thought of the futility of what they were doing, of the grim demand they were meeting. Sarah, like each of the several other women, had her entire focus on the patch of floor immediately at the end of her reach, as that reach took her along a line of cold tile . Her body quickly drenched in sweat, her blouse plastered against her back. She did not feel the sweat, nor the lye burning her hands and wrists, nor her protesting back and shoulder muscles. She scrubbed as if all creation depended on her purifying, sanctifying this space. If she were to look up she would witness several women kneeling, each bent forward scrubbing as vigorously.

With the last swabs, the aides finished as one, straightened up, looked at each other. None smiled. None knew what would happen next. As they rose from their knees, boys from the village entered the room from the far entry, carrying bundles of straw. They cast the straw haphazardly until a nun entered behind them and directed them how to lay the grass so there would be enough to cover the floor evenly.

Sarah understood; there would be a great amount of men’s blood, urine, feces spilled - more than they would be able to keep up with. It would be necessary for some time to just replace the straw whenever they could. She need not know that the First Battle of Ypres would last for weeks to come, only that the human devastation would be massive. She felt her sweat cool. Sarah looked over at Cecile across the room, who nodded. She understood as well

The nun commanded them, “You two, we’re going to need more blankets, more linen. Go through the village and retrieve all you can. Take two of these boys with you. The rest of you, lay out the blankets, six across, allow for a central aisle. The stream of boys flowed past the nun as she spoke; to her left entering with more straw, to her right leaving the hall for more.

Cecile and Sarah fell in line with the departing boys. Sarah asked the two boys directly ahead of her if they would assist Cecile and her in requisitioning the bedding. Without hesitating they agreed. Immediately exiting the great hall, Sarah and the others encountered a writhing mass of war torn men lying, sitting, squatting, leaning, standing, moaning, keening, silent, praying, whispering to others, to no one and themselves. Sarah pressed through the narrow passage created by the boys ahead of her. She saw desperate eyes but couldn’t look into them. She saw gruesome wounds but couldn’t touch them. Within a few steps the men were no longer single beings, having become one mass of wretched humans. Her vision blurred and she salvaged her equilibrium by focusing on the back of the boy’s head in front of her.

Thirty meters further she was outside and gulped the late October air, huge gulps, involuntarily. She shut her eyes against everything but the air, cool breath entering her. She opened her eyes to see Cecile and the two boys, about twelve years old, looking back at her.

Cecile nodded to her friend and confirmed, “It’s ghastly.”

Sarah straightened up, “We should separate and cover the village from different directions.

Cecile shook her head no, “Let’s stay together. We can work either side of the same street.” She sensed Sarah’s relief and turned to the boys, “Sound good, fellows?”

In that moment Sarah’s heart glowed with the grace that was Cecile. The boys smiled and nodded vigorously. Cecile and Sarah introduced themselves, and the children, Antoine and Philippe returned the courtesy.

“So, let’s get some sheets and blankets.” Sarah chirped, then asked them what neighborhood they should start in.

As they headed off Sarah called out, “Wait here.” She then raced off to her dorm room to get her fountain pen, her journal and the rest of the dried apricots her family had sent her.

When she returned from her room, there were even more wounded men in the courtyard, so many that Cecile and the boys had edged to the perimeter, to the street they had chosen to take. Sarah found them easily enough. .

From the window of her office overlooking the courtyard, Mother Clothilde noticed the young woman, yes it was that girl, Sarah LaMontaigne, break away from the flow of events playing out below and head in the direction of the dormitory, only to return a couple minutes later carrying a book and a small sack. “What is she doing? What does she think she is doing?” the nun festered.

“Mon ami.” Sarah danced at Cecile, turned to the boys, bowed slightly, Monsieurs! I have …” She opened the sack for all to see,”…apricots.” All four whooped. “We will need our strength, no?” Another whoop and the boys danced a quick jig.

“And the book?” Cecile asked.

“You’ll see.” Sarah winked at her dear friend.

The four started off. Antoine paired with Cecile and Philippe joined Sarah. Both boys chattered away and Sarah relished their unsuppressed joy. How, she wondered, could they carry on like they were in a time like this? Didn’t the devastation touch them? If she weren’t so deeply affected she would have recognized the prancing and the playful words as the simple acts of boys trying to impress older girls, she and Cecile. Because she no longer felt like a girl, she also didn’t recognize the play. Just the same, Sarah enjoyed the reprieve of watching Phillippe and Antoine skipping pebbles off the street’s cobblestones, or imitating the bear and the tiger Phillippe had seen at the zoo in Calais. When she looked over at Cecile she saw the same relaxed expression as she felt.

As she and Philippe approached the first house down the lane leading from the square, Philippe whispered, “This is the house of Monsieur Boucher. He is very wealthy. He owns the granary, and orchards away from here. He also owns a mill where preserves are made, in another town, with another man.

Sarah’s mouth watered, “Plum jam?”

“Yes. And cider jelly.”

“We sometimes have cider jelly in the hospital. It must be his.”

Philippe frowned, “Probably not. He is not such a generous man. There are other jelly mills.

Sarah looked at the boy at her side, bright-eyed and clear-skinned. The great hunger had not yet begun, She asked, “How old are you, Philippe, you know so much.”

The boy looked at his bare feet, looked back up boldly, “Thirteen, and there is not so much to know here.” The answer struck Sarah. She envisioned the boy in uniform. As certain as it was Monday the war would claim him. The vision faded in an instant and she was standing at a large oak door about to plead for linens. She responded, “There is so much for me to learn here.”

“Perhaps Antoine and I can be your guides.”

Sarah heard his offer as genuine, “I’d like that. We would like that, Cecile and I. Now which one of us should knock?”

“Why you, of course. You represent the hospital.”

From across the lane, Antoine announced, “We have a blanket, two pairs of socks and two blouses.

Sarah turned to see the side door closing, the ghostly face of a serving girl disappearing into the shadows. Sarah called, “Wait!” She raced across the lane and the door remained open a crack. Coming up beside Cecile, Sarah began, “We should give this household a receipt and record what they have donated. It is only right.”

Cecile and the boys nodded. Philippe added “Yes, the neighbors will see what others have given and they will give more as a matter of pride.”

Antoine piped in, “And we will be given so much we won’t be able to carry all that is given!”

Cecile, “Because we will need everything we can get.”

The four stopped. Each of them, in that moment, thought of the mass of men behind them. Each reckoned that the swarming stream of damaged soldiers would become much greater and continue for a time longer than they could imagine.

Antoine quietly, “Philippe, let’s get a couple wheelbarrows and a couple of younger boys. We will need the help.” They looked to the two young women, who agreed.

Before they ran off, Philippe asked, “Nurse Sarah, how old are you?”

Sarah answered directly, “Seventeen.”

He nodded, He had the answer to the question he might not have been able to ask later. He was satisfied with himself for having obtained that information because he had had a glimpse of how brazenly uncertain life was now, and he might never have known her age.

Antoine, “We won’t be long. We’ll find you.” With that the two boys were off.

Cecile and Sarah wended their way from one side of the street to the other collecting linens, blankets, clothing, scraps of fabric. They figured all of it could be used in some way or another. They left what they gathered in small piles by each doorway. Most of the people they spoke to were young serving girls, as these homes closest to the village center belonged to the wealthier merchants, town officials, landowners. The two women noticed that the articles they were receiving most likely belonged to the servants, being of lesser quality, plain and course. And yet, when asked who the receipt should be made out to, the serving girls always gave the name of the monsieur, the master of the household. After soliciting at only four residences, Sarah concluded something was wrong with this process.

Philippe and Antoine returned with two wheelbarrows as well as with Philippe’s nine year old sister, Clarice, and Antoine’s ten year old brother, Martin, who was clearly uncomfortable around Clarice. After the boys had introduced everyone, Sarah asked the older boys if the names she had recorded were those of the heads of the households. They responded yes.

She asked, “Are they wealthy?” They answered yes.

“And are these their clothes or linens?”

“No, of course not. These belong to the servants.”

Sarah fumed, “Well then we must speak to the lady of the house, who can certainly part with more than her servants.”

Philippe immediately, “No, you cannot call out the lady. She will come if she deigns to. If you shame her or put her servant in an uncomfortable position, all of the doors of the village will close tighter than a clamshell.”

Antoine added, “You’re a farm girl, aren’t you, Nurse Sarah?”

Sarah blushed with the boy's realization. Why would that matter? And yet it did. She gathered herself to regard Antoine’s comment as a sign that she should follow the boys’ lead. She answered, “Yes, I am.”

Antoine and Philippe nodded at each other in a mock knowing fashion. Cecile reminded them it was time to get back to work. Sarah wondered, “I would like to acknowledge the contributions just the same. Would it offend the master or lady of the house if I simply give the donating servants a personal thank you?”

The boys looked at each other and shrugged. Philippe responded, “So long as you also acknowledge who they work for. That will allow the family to take credit, to which they are entitled.”

Sarah burned again. She sensed some vague danger in what she thought would be a simple act of gratitude Yet there seemed so much more at issue than she wanted to realize. “I understand.”

The two teams then proceeded down each side of the lane. Piles of garments and bedding quickly filled the wheelbarrows, and the older boys hauled them away at a trot. The younger children accompanied Sarah and Cecile to the doors and stood silently as the aides described the dire need for fabrics and cloth in whatever shape to the serving girl or elder servant who answered the door. When an older servant was at the door, the women would observe him or her instruct the serving girl what to retrieve and where it could be found. When asked who donated the items, the spokesperson in each instance answered the master’s name with a measure of pride. Just the same, Sarah noted, all the donated items clearly belonged to the staff. In any event, she issued a thank you to the servant. What became of it, she was not certain.

Many wheelbarrow loads later, as their efforts became an undistinguishable flow of coarse cloth and worn fabric, she saw the donations in the light she needed to: these materials would be sopping up blood and bodily fluids, adhering to open wounds, and replacing the shredded, stained garments of the throng of men just down the lane. She reclaimed her sense of purpose and her thanks were more heartfelt to each of the servants she encountered. It made no sense that finer clothes and bedding from the master and lady of the house should be brought low for the wounded, she reasoned. But still, there could be all the more if the homeowners contributed; all the more available with the need so great. Sarah felt the burn of resentment return and tried to quench it with dedication to the task at hand. She simply needed to focus on her efforts.

She wondered if Cecile felt as she did. Perhaps they would have a chance to talk that evening. Meanwhile the six of them continued gathering. For the older boys it was all a game, a competition of who could bring the loads back to the hospital the quickest. They clowned and jumped about. They taunted each other but neither teased nor taunted their younger siblings. How could they be so light? Each trip back to the hospital and they would have been passing through a churning mass of pain and destruction: men not much older than themselves. How could they not see? The answer came to Sarah when she realized how Antoine and Philippe did not tease or taunt Martin and Clarice. Whether they were from a village or farm, children gave their younger siblings a measure of difficulty. But not this day; in each brief interaction Sarah noticed genuine respect given and received between family members. Wordlessly, they were acknowledging to each other the important, perhaps sacred, work they were doing. In their dedication, Martin even became noticeably less uncomfortable around Clarice. Each of these young children stood straight and unsmiling. The devastation was real yet incomprehensible, as it was to all, but they had very little, if any, capacity to manage the incomprehensible. So they held out their arms to receive more clothing and stack it in neat piles.

The older boys’ behaviors were a performance, a grotesquerie, a renunciation of the carnage through their antics. They needed to hurl themselves about to fend off their horror. Just as Clarice needed to begin folding the clothes, blankets, linens, swatches neatly, and Martin needed to follow her example. Just as Sarah needed to acknowledge the donations with her thank you notes. Just as Cecile needed to comfort her friend and herself by touching Sarah’s hand or arm or shoulder for brief moments when she could. Cecile wished Sarah would touch her cheek, because she hurt so much more than she realized.

As the sun rose in the sky, the six supplicants wound up one lane of the village and down another. When they were away from the grand maisons, in the neighborhoods of simpler homes, whoever answered the door would give generously. Not just fabrics and clothing but food and drink as well; small wedges of cheese, some dried apples, a couple bottles of cider, “for the men”.

Everyone in the village was aware of the increasing stream of injured soldiers arriving since early morning. The creak of mule carts and the whisper of shuffling feet filled the air throughout the day. On a couple occasions, Sarah stopped to listen and regarded the rising volume as evidence of even more men traveling down the central boulevard, evidence of all the more need.

The boys now had two pails that they filled in the fountain in the square to provide water to the thick lines and clots of soldiers up the length of the boulevard and spilling into the neighborhoods. This effort delayed Antoine and Philippe’s return to Cecile and Sarah, but that was no matter. They all agreed the ravaged men needed water more than anything. A pail or two of water for hundreds, perhaps thousands of desperately parched men. Sarah thought it useless for a moment, then experienced the sensation of one throat receiving blessed relief – water!. On this November morning there was nothing more sacred.

As it took Philippe and Antoine longer to return, Sarah and Cecile didn’t rush from door to door. Instead they paused to speak with the residents of the houses where they presented themselves. The townspeople were ravenous for news from the front but the young women knew little, and said so. They didn’t know whether the Germans had broken through the line and were on the heels of the wounded men. They didn’t know if the Germans would shell the village. They didn’t know how many wounded were in the village, nor how many more were coming. They could answer where they came from – a farm a half day away, Rouen; how old they were- both seventeen; how long they had been working as nurses’ aides – since shortly after the war began, nearly three months ago. All the while, Sarah and Cecile held the young children, Martin and Clarice, close, folded into their skirts, against their hips, their hands over the children’s ears because the devil was rampant, announcing his control of the day with each roar of cannon fire. Each distant blast meant more destroyed life and the young women would not have the children suffer that knowledge if they could help it.

When Philipe and Antoine returned just after the noon hour, when the bells of the church and the town hall pealed their rebuke, they told Sarah and Cecile that they were instructed to return to the hospital. Phillipe would guide their return and Antoine would bring the younger children home. Sarah thought it queer that the boy was to guide them to the hospital. She would soon learn.

The three journeyed from the town’s outskirts with a last load of bedding and fabric, and soon encountered the dead, dying and grievously wounded strewn over the streets. As they wove among the bodies, Sarah recalled the voice of a shopwoman she had just been with, “Why is God doing this?” Sarah had had no answer then, she had no answer now, then thought there can be no God.

Some weight lifted within her and she brought her focus fully to following Phillipe’s careful lead. She wished she could protect him and Antoine from all manner of harm but knew they were already damned. She had to pray, Jesus watch over them, please. Jesus wouldn’t shield them from what they had already faced that day nor from the unspecified trauma they would face beyond that day. She did not have the capacity to imagine terrors greater than this. Nor did she have the capacity to protect herself as she waded through the tide of suffering. She could only walk, as directly as possible, to the hospital. There was that place in her mind, she had only that destination.

“Where have you been, what are you doing out here?” Mother Clothilde was at Sarah’s elbow. The two stood at the edge of the hospital courtyard. Neither the nun’s tone nor her stance indicated she felt the men pressing upon her. Sarah looked to the speaking woman without comprehending what was being asked of her. She stood mute.

The mother superior sternly addressed her, “They are setting up a surgeon’s table beneath that tent.” She nodded in the direction over Sarah’s shoulder. “Go assist with the amputations. Triage at the front has let far too many through.”

Sarah uttered, “I can’t.”

Mother Clothilde seethed; this whelp was again so pridefully insolent. She was about to berate the girl and insist she attend to this most urgent need. “In the name of God and country…”

Sarah reached out, touched the edge of the nun’s sleeve, quietly, “I can’t.”

The nun recoiled but Sarah did not let go. She looked at the young aide’s face for proof of her insolence that would justify the wrath she felt building. Instead she saw a dead light in the girl’s green eyes, and instantly concluded, no she can’t. It was still early in the war, with the front then some distance away, so that instances of shock among nurses was still somewhat uncommon. Certainly it was for Mother Clothilde. But there was no masking Sarah’s debilitation in that moment. A warm calm arose in the nun; there was only this moment and she was called to serve this moment. Gently she answered, “Of course. There are many men who are suffering great thirst. You can draw water from the well and bring it to those in need.”

Sarah had seen that demon thirst on the faces of many of the men she had passed on her return to the hospital. Those faces, in detailed torment, rioted in her mind’s eye. She willed them to subside. She felt the course fabric of the nun’s sleeve for focus, rubbed the sleeve between her thumb and fingertips, found Mother Clothilde’s face, then her eyes. They were not hostile, as she had experienced them before. They were looking at her with a whisper of compassion. Sarah answered, “Yes, sister, I can do that.”

Sarah became aware she must have appeared derelict in the moments preceding, understood the nun’s grant of respite from pain – her own and all that surrounded her. She lingered with her superior’s empathy, “Merci.”

For the rest of the afternoon she ladled water. She poured it into men’s hands, into their mouths. She did not take in the nature or extent of any man’s injuries. She did not reflect on the men served, or the needs of those yet to be served. She could only realize how the man before her in a moment needed the cool relief of the well water she carried. In each and every instance she witnessed an expression of deepest gratitude; a sigh, a tilted head, a relaxation of a twisted brow, occasionally a whispered “merci”. Even the most brutally destroyed men responded.

With that knowledge, Sarah continued tirelessly, seeing only the need for comfort in the next prostrate soldier. That was all. She did not heed the slow depletion of the number of men in the courtyard as they were accommodated in the hospital’s cramped spaces, or taken by cart to the field at the northwest corner of town for burial. There was only the burning need, her ladle and pail, and her ability to continue.