Martha Bollen, as well as Louis Denis the bank teller and Arthur Boulanger the postmaster, all reported that Dr Hoppe was a man of few words. It seemed that he was rather bashful, yet amicable in his own way. He always had a ‘Guten Tag’, ‘Danke schön’ and ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ for them - pleasantries that betrayed his speech impediment.
‘He tends to swallow some of the sounds,’ said Louis Denis.
‘His voice is very nasal,’ said Martha, ‘always droning on in the same tone of voice. And he never looks at me when he’s speaking.’
To the frequent question as to what the doctor had purchased, she always gave the same answer: ‘Oh, the usual. Nappies, formula, milk, cereal, detergent, toothpaste - stuff like that.’
But then she would lean over the counter, shield her mouth with the back of her hand and continue in a whisper, ‘He also buys two packs of Polaroid film every time he comes in. Why would anyone want to take that many pictures of children who look the way they do?’
Her customers would profess surprise, encouraging Martha to beckon them even closer. In a tone implying some criminal wrongdoing, she’d end with, ‘... And he always pays with thousand-mark notes!’
Louis Denis was able to explain the derivation of those banknotes: he reported that the doctor sometimes came in to exchange German marks for Belgian currency. He had not yet opened an account, however, so he must be keeping all that cash somewhere in the house.
Since Dr Hoppe was not making any effort to attract patients and had not hung a sign on his gate listing surgery hours, some burghers decided that he must be living off past earnings of some sort or another. Still, it did look as though he was intending to practise his calling in the village eventually, because in those first few weeks a lorry from Germany had stopped in front of his house at least three times to deliver medical equipment. From behind the curtain of her kitchen window, Irma Nüssbaum would jot down the registration number and time of delivery, and what the delivery consisted of. Some of the goods she had been able to recognise straight away, such as the examination table, a large set of scales and some IV-drip stands, but most of the wooden crates kept their contents hidden, so she had to use her imagination to flesh out the rest - monitors, microscopes, mirrors, flasks, flagons, test tubes. After each delivery she would give the other women of the village a full report, and when, one bitterly cold morning some time at the beginning of January, she saw her neighbour emptying his postbox in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck, she announced to all and sundry that Dr Hoppe’s surgery was officially open for business.
A few brave villagers had admitted they were planning to have themselves looked at by the doctor - if only because they wanted to catch a glimpse of the children, for the latter had been kept out of sight all these weeks, so that little by little their existence had grown into a mystery greater than the Holy Trinity itself. But at the next Sunday Mass a sermon given by Father Kaisergruber, who had been ministering to the parish for almost forty years, had alarmed even the most confirmed sceptics.
‘Believers, beware!’ he had cried from the pulpit, his index finger in the air. ‘Beware, for the great dragon is at hand, the old serpent, whose name is Devil and Satan, and who leadeth the whole world astray! I tell you, he is cast down here upon the earth, and his angels are cast down with him!’
After that the village shepherd had paused briefly, letting his eyes roam over his two hundred or so parishioners. Then, pointing his finger at the front row, where the village boys sat side by side in their Sunday best, their hair neatly slicked down, he had warned in a thundering voice: ‘Take care, and be vigilant! The devil, thine enemy, prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking those he means to devour!’
And all the parishioners had seen how, as he spoke those last words, his trembling finger had pointed straight at Lanky Meekers, who had turned white as a sheet and did not dare show his face in the village square for the next few days.
2
The catastrophe that had been predicted for Wolfheim did not come to pass. In the months following Dr Hoppe’s arrival, the villagers were spared death, accident, neighbourly strife, thievery and other such troubles. Not only that, the winter was mild for the first time in years and the spring, too, was warmer than usual, so that by the last week of April the lilacs next to the Maria Chapel were already in full bloom; many citizens took this as a good omen.
During all this time Dr Hoppe had stuck to his routine, making his rounds three times a week. He never had the babies with him. No one had seen or heard them, neither at the window, nor in the garden - this despite the fact that several villagers made a point of peering through the hawthorn hedge on a regular basis. There were some, therefore, who began to ask themselves if Lanky Meekers could have made the whole thing up, and in more and more living rooms the cautious consensus was reached that perhaps the doctor ought to be given a chance. Still, nobody had the nerve to take the first step, and it wasn’t until one Sunday in May 1985, seven months after the doctor’s return, that the first villager turned to him for help, albeit not really by choice.
That Sunday, around noon, George Bayer, an asthmatic toddler residing at 16 Galmeistrasse, took an orange-flame marble out of his pocket, which he had found some days earlier in the playground. The little fellow first licked it, and then, as his father, on the sofa, was turning the page of the Sunday paper and his mother, in the kitchen, was putting on the potatoes, he stuck it into his mouth. George let the marble roll around his tongue like a gobstopper, from left to right and from front to . . . The marble rolled into his throat, got stuck in his windpipe and no matter how hard little George coughed, he couldn’t manage to dislodge it. His father also tried to get the marble out - first he slapped the kid on the back a few times and then stuck two fingers down his throat to fish the marble out - but it was no use. Suddenly he hit upon the notion of calling on Dr Hoppe, even if it meant having to sell him his soul.
Not even two minutes later, Werner and Rosette Bayer’s car came squealing to a halt in front of the doctor’s house. Werner snatched his son out of his wife’s arms and rushed to the gate, yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Doctor! Help! Doctor! Please help!’
On all sides curtains promptly began twitching and the first neighbours came rushing outside. Only in Dr Hoppe’s house was there no sign of life, so that Werner began to holler even louder, lifting his son’s semi-limp body high up in the air, as if he were bringing an offering. That was when Dr Hoppe finally appeared in the doorway, immediately took in the gravity of the situation and ran to the gate with a bunch of keys in his hand.
‘There’s something stuck in his throat,’ said Werner; ‘he’s swallowed something.’
With four or five bystanders watching, Dr Hoppe took little George from his father’s arms. The neighbours’ curious eyes were more intent on the red-haired pate bent over the child than on the child’s face itself, which was beginning to turn blue. Without saying a word, the doctor tucked his arms around the torso of the unconscious boy from behind, locked his hands together and, with a vigorous thrust to the skinny little chest, expelled the obstruction from the victim’s throat. The marble bounced onto the pavement and then rolled to a stop at the feet of Lanky Meekers, who had come to join the group of bystanders.
Next Dr Hoppe laid the toddler down on his back, knelt beside him and pressed his mouth against the child’s. You could hear a loud gulp or two from the spectators. George’s mother was sobbing, while Irma Nüssbaum made the sign of the cross and began to pray out loud. Some of the other bystanders couldn’t bear to look, and only heard the doctor over and over again taking in a mouthful of air and then blowing it into the boy’s lungs. Irma had just called out to Saint Rita when suddenly a shudder went through George’s body and he began to gasp for air.
A sigh of relief went through the crowd and Rosette Bayer, rushing to her son’s side, gathered him up in her arms. ‘My boy, oh my little boy,’ she wept, dabbing at the saliva that was dribbling down his chin. She picked the toddler up, tucked his head against her shoulder and gazed with tears in her eyes at Dr Hoppe, who had taken a few steps back, as if eager to return inside.
‘Thank you, Doctor, you saved his life.’
‘You are welcome,’ said the doctor, and even though he had only spoken three words, the effect of his voice on the onlookers was like being stabbed with a knife. No one knew where to look, or how to react.
‘Doctor, please tell me what I owe you.’ George’s father broke the awkward silence.
‘Nothing, Herr . . .’
‘Bayer. Werner Bayer.’ He stuck out his hand, then let it fall again, but extended it once more upon receiving a discreet poke in the back from his wife.
‘Nothing, Herr Bayer, you owe me nothing,’ said Dr Hoppe. He gave the extended hand a quick shake, looking the other way, embarrassed.
‘But I do want to thank you - some way or other. At least let me buy you a drink at the Terminus.’
Werner, glancing over his shoulder, indicated the café opposite the church. Dr Hoppe shook his head and nervously stroked his beard, which was a jumble of stringy tufts of red hair.
‘Oh, come on, Doctor, just one little drink,’ Werner insisted. ‘It’s on me. I’ll buy everyone a round. Tournée générale!’
Voices were raised in approbation and now the other villagers also did their best to convince the doctor. Lanky Meekers made use of the commotion to bend down surreptitiously, pick up the marble, and furtively slip it into his jacket pocket.
‘Yes, Doctor, let’s drink to it!’ he cried. ‘To the miracle! Long live Dr Hoppe!’
There was a moment of hesitation from the bystanders, but then little George lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder and gazed around, teary-eyed. Irma Nüssbaum was ecstatic. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful! It’s a miracle! Long live Dr Hoppe!’ Her cheer dispelled any remaining tension, and there was a sudden din of shouting and laughter.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ said the doctor, shaking his head. His voice carried easily over the brouhaha. ‘My children, they . . .’
‘But then bring your children with you!’ cried Werner. ‘A sip of gin will make them grow big and strong! Besides, we’d love to have a look at them, finally.’
Some of the bystanders nodded their agreement; others held their breath, waiting for the doctor’s reaction.
‘I . . . just give me five minutes, Herr Bayer. I have to take care of some things first. You go on ahead and I’ll be along shortly.’
Then the doctor turned on his heels and strode down the garden path. Some of the villagers returned to their homes, but most headed straight for the Terminus, so that the little café was bursting at the seams in no time at all and Maria, the daughter of café owner René Moresnet, had to come over to give him a hand.
Josef Zimmermann had watched the entire incident from his usual table by the window, and when Werner Bayer arrived and began to sing the doctor’s praises, the old man shook his head, drained his glass of gin in one gulp, then exclaimed, ‘Only God can perform miracles!’
Werner waved his pronouncement away, and a glass of gin, compliments of Werner, did much to soften old Zimmermann’s objections, so that after a little muttering he finally fell silent. Every time the door of the café swung open, everyone would stop talking and look up. But it always turned out to be yet another villager who had just heard the news.
‘René, pour the man a drink,’ Werner would call each time from his bar stool.
The tension grew by the minute, and when Jacob Weinstein, the village sexton, arrived and shouted that he had seen the doctor leave his house with a carrycot, wagers were hurriedly made: bets on the babies’ sex and hair colour, but especially on the dimensions of their facial cleft.
‘Here, write it down: eighteen centimetres,’ Lanky Meekers said to his father, whose pen was poised over a beer coaster. ‘I’m sure of it, Pa! I’d bet at least twenty francs on it if I were you!’
‘If I lose, it’s coming off your allowance,’ said his father before scribbling down the bet and handing the coaster, with a twenty-franc coin, to the bartender.
Dr Hoppe, who had swapped his lab coat for a long grey overcoat, came into the Café Terminus backwards, so that the first thing the villagers saw was his hunched back and only afterwards did they catch a glimpse of the navy-blue carrycot he was toting. Even though everyone saw the difficulty he was having manoeuvring the cot through the doorway, nobody jumped up to give him a hand. It wasn’t until he was finally inside and uncomfortably looking around for a place to put down his heavy load that Werner Bayer stepped forward, swiftly cleared some glasses off one of the tables and pointed magnanimously at the empty table top. Florent Keuning, who had been sitting there, hastily moved over to another table.
‘Here, put it down here,’ said Werner.
‘Thank you,’ said the doctor.
Again his voice startled the onlookers. Lanky Meekers’ dad brought his mouth up to the ear of Jacob Weinstein and whispered, ‘It’s on account of the harelip. Makes him take in too much air.’
The sexton nodded, even though, being hard of hearing, he had hardly understood a word. Open-mouthed, he followed the doctor’s every movement as he leaned over the cot and began to remove the plastic rain shield.
‘What would you like to drink, Herr Doktor?’ asked Werner.
‘Water.’
‘Really? Water?’
The doctor nodded.
‘René, a glass of water for the doctor. And for, uh . . .’ He waved his hand at the cot doubtfully.
‘They don’t need anything,’ said the doctor, and as if he felt the need to justify himself, he added, ‘I take good care of them.’
‘Oh, I have no worries about that,’ said Werner, though everyone heard how forced his answer sounded. Everyone, that is, except for the doctor, because he showed no reaction. Bending over the cot, he pushed the hood down, unhooked the cover and pulled it off. The onlookers standing closest took a few steps back. Only the villagers standing at the back weren’t afraid to stare directly at the cot, even craning on tiptoe; but still no one could see what was inside.