HER HANDS #7

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.

HER HANDS

Installment 7

Chapter 4

Scenes 25-32

The morning the confused wounded arrived, Mother Clothilde had called all the young women to a meeting after breakfast, when members of the day shift and the night shift would all be present. She tried to explain what the Medecin General Inspecteur, the brigadier general from the Service des Santes des Armees, the ministry responsible for the soldiers’ health, had described would be their service mission. In the early morning light she had addressed her charges, “I expect this morning there will be a transport of wounded men from the hospital in Rouen. Perhaps as many as twenty-four men. They have been wounded on the front, been treated, and have been convalescing. They have suffered a variety of wounds, all of which have been treated to the fullest extent possible, or so I have been told.”

At this point the mother superior paused, trying to recall what the brigadier general had said to her, which was incomprehensibly vague. Neither she nor the Medecin general Inspecteur had the benefit of the term “shell shocked” as it was still early in the war and that term had yet to be coined for these men’s condition. The young women in the dining hall noted their superior’s halting speech that followed.

“These men have had their physical wounds addressed but they have not been sent home or back to their divisions. It is… they have… they suffer a malady by which they have lost control of their senses… it is as if…” The nun thought of children, of wounded animals, of imbeciles. Fortunately she halted herself from describing the men as any of these. “It is not clear what has happened to them. From what I am told, there are a great many in this condition.”

The nun halted again, trying to recall what her superior at the SSA had told was happening with the men suffering trauma. It didn’t matter. She continued. “And it has been decided that some of these men will join us to heal, to regain their senses. Jesus, our Lord, willing.” With that, Mother Clothilde crossed herself, and all the young women earnestly crossed themselves as well.

On her way to the ward where the new arrivals were being taken, Sarah encountered one of the men sitting on the floor of the corridor leading to the main hall, the hall that just weeks earlier had been crammed overflowing with men in cots, now empty. She was drawn to him, conspicuous in a place where he was not meant to be. She approached the man with the lightest step. He showed no sign that he was aware she drew closer. From halfway down the hallway Sarah could tell the man was rocking side to side gently in the half light. A few steps closer and she saw his eyes were shut tight. His face clenched, then loosened, then clenched again. She stopped, spoke just above a whisper, “Monsieur.”

He did not alter his rocking motion. His round face softened then hardened. She took two more steps, she could almost reach him if she stretched out her arm. “Monsieur.” He did not acknowledge her address.

“You are safe, you are in hospital.” No response.

Sarah gathered her skirts and sat on the cold granite floor. She watched him. It did not cross her mind that others might be wondering where she was. She knew only that she had to sit with this man. From her distance, a meter away, she could discern the flashes and bolts and flares of anguish that wracked his body, escaped him, careened in the passageway where they sat. His rocking, she understood, helped him contain himself, helped keep him from erupting into flame. She knew to not get any closer to the man. They sat. She sensed he knew she was there. He rocked and grimaced. She prayed for his soul.

When the town bells rang the hour he stopped, then resumed. Sarah leaned slightly forward, “Monsieur, will you come with me?” She rose. She held out her hand so that it was near enough she could feel the heat from the man’s chest. “Will you take my hand?” The man grimaced more intensely. He pulled his right hand from beneath his buttock His left hand remained beneath his haunch. Sarah knew there was a great deal at stake; he was unprotected. She knelt directly before him, her face at the level of his face. She said softly, “Jesus will hold you.” She let those words reach him, followed by silence. He opened his mouth in a tortured “O”. A croak travelled up from his throat. His eyes were still shut but he had stopped rocking.

“Will you take my hand and come with me?”

His lips wrested the O shape forward, to make another sound, another croak. Sarah placed her left hand on his hand. She felt him burning; she felt him prickle; she felt his anguish flare and subside. She kept her cool palm on his wrist, placed her fingers over his. He jolted but she did not flinch.

“Let’s get some water.” Sarah rose, still holding the man’s hand. “Can you rise?” She held his hand in both her hands. He removed his left hand from beneath his haunch and held it out. She took it. “Let’s get some water. Can you rise?” He took his hands back and got himself standing in stages; knees beneath him, one knee up, pushing with one leg, with both arms pushing against the cold granite, breath jaggedly escaping, sucking in with grasping lips. His flares and bursts of anguish shot about the hallway. Sarah placed her hands on his shoulders, to either side of his neck and calmed the turmoil somewhat. She guided him to his feet until he was fully erect.

He was no taller than Sarah. He was not much older than Sarah although his face was lined and creased like an old man’s. Tears ran down both of his ravaged cheeks. He stood straight for a moment, then slumped to the posture which was now his.

“You are safe, you’re in hospital. Let’s go get some water.” He nodded. ”Give me your hand.” He held out his right hand and Sarah took it. They walked side by side down the hallway to the ward.

From her offices, Mother Clothilde watched them pass, holding hands. She did not know what to think. There was something right yet something terribly implausible in what she had just seen. What was it she had seen?

The ward was bedlam. Sarah felt the man stiffen, contort as they approached and growls, howls and grunts reached them.

“There you are!” The shift charge nurse, Sister Elaine, rushed up to Sarah and the man. “I thought there must have been some mistake because I have you on the schedule.” The nun looked at the man. “And who do you have here?”

The man had yanked his hand from Sarah’s and now twisted and twitched beside her. Sarah answered, “I don’t know his name. I found him by the main hall. I’d like to get him some water.”

Sister Elaine retorted, “A wanderer, eh. We were told there might be quite a bit of that. Well bring him in and we’ll get him some water.”

Sarah stiffened. “If it is alright with you, I would like to take him to the dining hall, a little quieter…”

The charge nurse cut Sarah off. “We can’t do that, can’t have you alone with a patient just wandering about. They are very unpredictable, often rough and dangerous.” The nun’s tone suggested some horrible violence could befall Sarah.

Despite Sister Elaine’s veiled warning, Sarah felt no threat from the silent man rocking beside her. Instead she clearly gathered in the calamity that awaited him across the threshold to the ward. “No.” She replied simply. “I promised this man water.” She turned to look at the soldier, and added. “In a still place.” Sarah turned away from the nurse, took the man’s hand. She leaned in to him and said softly, “Come with me.” His head bobbed. The nun did not assert her authority, she did not speak. She felt she had no choice; there was something before her she dared not disrupt.

Sarah and the man, his name was Bernard but no one would know or say it until years later when a relative claimed him, made their way down the hall with small, awkward steps, hand in hand. Again, without being seen, Mother Clothilde saw them walking. Again she did not understand what she was witnessing. The thought “deranged” entered her mind, yet quickly a wordless “no” responded. As before, she was uncomfortable.

Sarah seated Bernard at one of the plank tables in the cavernous, empty dining hall. She bent to him to say. “Don’t worry. I will return with cold water. She straightened and turned, encountering one of the village boys, a scullery worker, who stood a few feet away. “Would you be so kind as to bring us a pitcher of water and two cups?” Her request rang in the boy’s ears as suited to the moment, reasonably counterbalancing the peculiar circumstance he now shared with this nurses’ aide and this man, this imbecile. “Oui.” He darted off.

Sarah sat beside Bernard. She did not take his hand. He had placed his hands on the table, and despite an occasional twitch, they appeared to Sarah to be resting. She asked. “Monsieur, you are in a dining hall. Do you understand?” Bernard rocked a bit more vehemently. He pursed his lips, a puff of air escaped. Sarah decided not to draw a conclusion from his response. She asked a nonsense question. “Are you aware that the Queen of Hearts wishes to dance?” Sarah immediately regretted the cruelty of her experiment to determine whether he was simply responding to the inflection that accompanied a question. She had no idea of the ravages of his mind, nor what pain her nonsense may have caused him. Bernard swayed and rocked. He puffed air in the direction of the table. Sarah believed he wanted to answer; she felt unkind. She bowed her head and said in supplication, “Forgive me, monsieur.” Bernard slowed, his face relaxed.

The boy arrived with the pitcher and the cups. He watched Bernard as he placed them on the table. He turned to Sarah and asked. “Would you care for anything else? Some bread and lard?”

Sarah smiled at the boy’s kindness, “Yes, that would be lovely, if it’s allowed.”

The boy nodded with a slightly feral grin. “Do not worry if it is allowed.” He departed. The boy’s brazen retort startled Sarah. She thought What is the war doing to the morals of the young? How does one so young take pride in flaunting his disregard for authority? Her reaction was cut short by her acknowledging the fact that she was sitting beside this man in direct violation of an order to place him in the ward. Instead of differentiating herself from the prideful boy, she reasoned, It’s war. The boundaries are indistinct or are no more. We do what we must. She poured the water into the cups.

Bernard became agitated at the sound of the water, but not in an unpleasant way. His entire body ratcheted in what Sarah took to be anticipation. She took the soldier’s hand and placed it on the cup. He grasped it correctly yet awkwardly. The violence of his shaking caused a bit of water to fly from the cup to splash across the table. Sarah took Bernard’s hand and the cup in both her hands. The shaking abated. Together, they raised the cup to his lips. He grunted, he swayed. Sarah sensed the anticipation was a massive torment, a tumultuous burden. She leaned to him. “Try to be steady, monsieur.” The cup was nearly to his mouth. She said, “This is the water. Be calm.” He slowed and slowed some more. His head nearly stopped bobbing. “Here it is.” She said softly.

She and Bernard brought the cup to his pursed lips. She tipped the cup slightly. The cool water spilled over his lips, his chin, down his shirt. Some of it entered his mouth and reached his parched throat. He forced the cup to tip wildly and the rest of the water flew all about, yet some more reached his throat. The scullery boy, holding a plate of black bread and lard, watched from the end of the table. Mother Clothilde watched the exchange from the rear of the hall.

They returned to the others. Sarah felt both wary and light. Bernard’s gait was not as crabbed as before, he walked more erect. Sarah paid him particularly close attention as they got closer to the ward, to the sounds of anguish that emanated from there. She noticed her charge didn’t flinch. She made a point to not hold his hand because she would not always be there, physically beside him. She wondered if that mattered, wondered what mattered. She had a moment feeling lost.

When they turned the corner of the hallway, entering the last stretch to the ward, the howls and grunts reaching them more fully, Sarah leaned in to Bernard and softly said, “These are your comrades. They have been badly harmed, as you have been. Jesus is watching over them as He is watching over you. Do not be afraid.” Sarah felt him nod but perhaps she imagined that.

The charge nurse, Sister Elaine. met them at the threshold of the ward. She looked Sarah and Bernard over; they were placid. While she wanted to berate Sarah for disobeying a direct command in front of all the others, her instinct told her to avoid a confrontation at that time.. As Sarah passed the nun, she whispered, “Merci.”

Sister Elaine would not be so easily placated; she would take this matter up with Mother Clothilde. There are protocols which must be followed, certainly, but everything was now so unclear. There was no direction, only bedlam. Her guts tightened and she pressed her nails into her palms. God was testing her. This young, disobedient aide was testing her. She watched Sarah and her charge enter the madness, seeming implacable.

All the young women, there were five of them, stopped what they were doing - washing men, changing their clothes or bandages, sitting or standing away from the men, wondering what was expected of them – and watched Sarah and Bernard enter. The wounded men, in various ways, sensed the sudden stillness of the women who had been ministering to them, and they also settled to some degree. Sarah and Bernard reached the center of the room and looked about at all those surrounding them, attuned to them. Sarah’s eyes met Sister Claire’s. They nodded.

All the women wordlessly wanted to know from Sarah what they should do. Sarah sensed this but knew it was not her role, at the risk of transgressing what she did not yet know. Her insubordination need have limits.

She asked Sister Elaine, still standing at the doorway, “Where is this man to billet?” A young aide stepped aside and gestured with a small sweep of her arm a cot just behind her. On the cot was a knapsack, surely Bernard’s.

“Merci.” To her charge, “Follow me.” She guided Bernard to the cot with her palm at the small of his back. Each woman in the room, including Sister Elaine, noted the gesture and the tone of voice Sarah used with the man who had been described earlier as a dangerous runaway.

A small degree of calm had taken hold in the room. Sister Claire came up to Sarah and explained, “We were taking inventory of the men’s physical condition, their spiritual state, their medications. They are all confused. Not a one knows where they are. A few know their names and origins. We have been instructed to keep notes of our observations.”

Sister Elaine walked up beside Sarah, “Yes, that is correct. If you were present at the orientation you would know that. She handed Sarah two notebooks and a pencil. “Each of you are responsible for two men. You are to take detailed notes. That is a direct order from the General. The nun fixed a hard look on the wayward Sarah. “He insists. He wants to know which men are malingerers, which are cowards, which are confused by what they have experienced. We are to collect this information on their behaviors so that it may be determined when they are suited for return to their division, or to convalesce further, perhaps returned home.”

Sarah looked around the room at the agitated men; the comatose men; the men staring with unblinking eyes; the men with eyes clenched shut. She could not imagine any one of these men returning to a battlefield. The charge nurse must not understand the command of the Medecin General Inspecteur. Sister Elaine concluded, “Have I made myself clear?” Sarah knew it was crucial that she display no doubt in this moment. She responded, “Perfectly.” “Sister Claire has been attending to the other man you are responsible for. You are now to see that his needs are met, beginning with his toilette,” The nun turned on her heel and departed.

All this time Bernard had stood beside Sarah, rocking side to side. Sarah wondered what, if anything, he had understood. Certainly the tones of voice. Reflexively she shared with Bernard, “It’s all right. This will be all right.” Cecile, on the other side of Sarah, marveled at her friend’s composure.

The shift proceeded. As none of the young women knew how to minister to these men, they all watched by sideways glances what Sarah was doing, as she had seemingly tamed one of these wild ones. Sarah didn’t notice. She had gathered her two charges, Bernard and a gaunt young man named Joseph close to her and spoke slowly in a mild voice to them both. She asked them where they were from, the names of their family members, whether they preferred porridge or stew. Bernard didn’t answer with words but his body leaned at her at the end of each question. He barely rocked. He followed Sarah’s cadence, or so it seemed. Joseph only stared straight ahead, to some distant point that might have been the equivalent of the enemy lines a thousand meters off. He didn’t move. He didn’t change expression until Sarah asked what meal they preferred and he swung his head to face Sarah directly, focused directly on her eyes with his burning eyes and sputter shouted “Porridge!” He clamped his eyes shut and stiffly faced his lap.

Sarah did not flinch although all the nurses and aides did. Bernard stopped rocking, faced Joseph. and pursed and unpursed his lips several times. Sarah’s heart beat a warm wave through her with the thought He wants to console his comrade. She briefly imagined that there would come a day when Bernard would open his eyes.

All the women were watching Sarah for her reaction to the outburst. She remained aware only of the two men seated with her. Softly, “Porridge, yes. They often have that for breakfast here.” Her voice and tone were light in Joseph’s ear; they penetrated the diabolical chaos that engulfed him since several percussive artillery rounds rained down upon him two weeks before. Again the light: Sarah asked if he was thirsty. He could not form words, the chaos had re-taken that power from him, so he nodded while still facing his lap, his eyes still closed so he could hear.

Sarah immediately realized she had made a mistake. She did not anticipate a direct response that would require action on her part. He was responsive, unlike Bernard. No, they were not alike at all, except that they had lost their senses, but in different ways, she had no doubt. She wondered how, and why. She looked around the ward, at the men. In a moment of startling clarity she saw each of them as remarkably singular. Each had a very distinct glow about them that sizzled or shimmered or waved and curled within, and within, and within. Sarah gasped and her vision disappeared with her intake of air. What had she seen? She crossed herself. “Mon dieu!” She crossed herself again. Was Satan among them? Was he taunting her?

She desperately wanted to flee before she was seized as these men had been. She feared for her soul. She shook. A hand touched her hand; it was Bernard’s! He had sensed her terror and meant to console her. He did. That touch was God’s grace delivered to her, and with that grace the knowledge that these men were not demonic. Sarah would not flag from that firm belief despite being challenged many times over the weeks to come. She whispered to Bernard, “Monsieur, you are blessed.” She turned to Joseph, spoke with the same tone, “As are you, sir. You are blessed. And I am blessed to serve you.”

Bernard received the calm of Sarah’s voice which softened the shrieks within his mind, as her voice had done before, because he remembered it.

Joseph listened to the word “blessed”, which he had heard three times, and held it raw.

Sarah returned to her regret of having perhaps suggested to Joseph that she could get him water. Was he suffering with expectation? Should she let the matter drop or was she violating a moment of trust? What to do? She certainly could not take Joseph to the dining hall, as she had Bernard. A second act of insubordination on her part would bring down consequences that may cause more harm than any cup of water could assuage. But this man might need this water; his damaged mind might need this water in dire ways she couldn’t imagine. Perhaps he is not alone. That thought triggered a small revelation. Perhaps a nurse’s aide and a capable patient could bring water for them all to share; a communion, yes!

Sarah signaled Sister Elaine, who came to her side. She proposed that bringing water to the men at this time may relieve a great deal of suffering while enabling the nurses and the men to experience the relief together. “Like a communion, Sister.” To her surprise, Sister Elaine agreed and responded that Sarah, Bernard and Joseph should go and that she would follow at a distance, “in case there is some misfortune.” Sarah felt a deep wave of gratitude for the support she did not expect to receive. “Merci.”

She leaned in to her two charges, “Come with me. We are going to get water for the others.” They were able to hear her, her encouraging tone if not fully comprehending her words, and rose when Sarah rose, assisted by her gentle guidance.

Sarah, Bernard and Joseph returned from the kitchen with a bucket of water, a ladle and two cups. At the doorway, Sarah surveyed the room of damaged men and their caregivers and chose to begin serving the men that Cecile was attending to at the rear of the ward. She placed Joseph’s hand on Bernard’s shoulder and Bernard’s hand on her shoulder. “Follow me.” She said quietly

In a line behind Sarah, Bernard, carrying the bucket of water and ladle, and Joseph the cups, passed between the rows of cots. The nurses and aides appreciated the procession with wonder. Many of the men took notice of the three passing among them: some settled, some turned to watch them. Some of the men were too deep in their torment to acknowledge this minor yet notable event.

When Sarah stooped before Cecile, she nodded and gestured to the men sitting on their cots to either side of her. Cecile did not know what her friend was signaling. Sarah, composed, stepped up to the man before her, bent nearly in half, his arms wrapped over his head, rocking. She lowered herself to one knee, to allow her voice to reach him from close distance, and offered, “Monsieur, would you care for some water?” The man lowered his arms, raised his head, matted with thick hair, and took her in through his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. He saw a woman’s face. Through the tangle of his jagged mindscape he had heard a woman’s voice. He, Rene, was able to turn to that voice, that countenance.

Sarah rose and Rene watched her. She took a cup from Joseph, ladled water from the bucket Bernard held, and filled the cup halfway. She held the cup with both hands before Rene.

He saw the cup before him. If he had words he would have said he envisioned it. He heard that voice again, “Monsieur, this water is for you.” Rene was able to reach out to the cup. He touched the enfolding hands; they brought the cup to his lips. He drank. His tangled confusion abated sufficiently that he could taste the sweet coolness in his mouth, in his throat, in his heart. He felt a lightening.

Sarah turned to Cecile when Rene had finished and, in the same gentle tone she had used with Bernard, Joseph and Rene, asked. “Dear, Cecile, would you like to try?” The nurse’s aide felt a quiet strength when she answered yes. Cecile approached the man beside her who was moaning steadily with his hands at his throat, as Sarah had approached Rene. The man did not respond. He did not relinquish his grip on what held him to this earth, his throat in his hands, to allow the possibility of a response. Cecile despaired; if only he would stop staring at the wall and meet her eyes to let her know. She stepped back. Sarah took the cup, knelt before the man, also named Rene, Rene G., and placed the cup to his mouth, the lip of the cup touching his lips pressed into their moan. The man’s thick wall of anguish had been assaulted and he swung to banish the intrusion.

Rene G. flailed at the cup, struck Sarah’s wrists and sent the cup flying across the row of cots to land at the feet of Sister Elaine. Those in the room gasped in one form or another at the violence. Sarah felt the sharp pain yet did not retreat. She grieved that she had caused the man harm, whatever harm that may have been. Before she rose she whispered. “I am very sorry monsieur. Forgive me.”

She and all the women tending to these damaged men understood that every moment forward could be filled with incomprehensible relief or anguish and that none, in that moment, thought the incomprehensible could be otherwise. That proved not to be entirely true, as each woman lived the experiences before them with varied degrees of understanding.