The Hill of Loneliness
The short story takes place in
the sanatorium complex (Ozdravovna) that used to be on Kamenný vrch in Brno at
the end of the 1930s. Only the lookout tower and the pool have survived.
The Hill of Loneliness
Alice is sitting on the
sunbed, reading her book again. I think I’ve never heard her voice, she never
smiles and she always has this grim and dark look, yet she doesn’t seem sad or
unhappy. She just doesn’t like people, I guess.
Yesterday we went to the lookout
tower, all the thirty of us. Everyone climbed the stairs to see the spectacular view of the city Dr. Spitz
told us about. All the girls laughed and posed for Emma who wanted to take some
pictures with her new Zeiss camera. Alice didn’t go up and stayed at the
entrance, of course. She just couldn’t enjoy herself for a minute, could she?
She kept staring at the pool below and not once did she look up. But we didn’t
care; only Dr. Spitz frowned and seemed worried.
Franz, my fiancé came to see me
on Sunday. He arrived in his car, a Beetle – pretty cute, I must say. He wanted
to take me for a ride to Bílovice but Dr. Spitz told him I needed to rest. I
hope to leave this dreadful place soon, or I’ll die of boredom here.
Stephen Gordon would understand.
She’s my only true friend here – she doesn’t ask any stupid questions and
doesn’t sit with her ears glued to the radio all the time, and perhaps she
hates heights like I do. I share my room with two other girls, Frieda and Emma.
Frieda is a flirty blonde with hoop earrings to her shoulders, always smiling
and grinning. Her boyfriend works in a German car factory and comes to see her every
fortnight. She’s always so excited she needs to show it off.
Emma is quiet and kind and
she’s not as pale as Frieda – perhaps her asthma isn’t so bad after the two
months she had already spent here. She dislikes the collective walks in the
forest park like I do, so sometimes we sneak out of the day room after
breakfast and go to the pool nearby. The water is still cold for this season of
the year but we don’t mind. Dr. Spitz isn’t happy when she sees us there – she
says we should stay warm, relax, and recuperate to recover soon”. I wonder if she knows how to restart my life, as well. She could definitely help me with that. Stephen
would say she’s “amazingly blond” and her hair is “not so much golden as
silver”. She always has this trustful expression, too trustful for a doctor, if
you ask me.
Last night we stayed in the
lounge and played cards all evening. Emma turned on the radio and started
dancing to some terrible music. Franz says these nigger brass bands can’t play
in Germany anymore and many musicians have left the country. I certainly don’t
like jazz and swing but why to ban them? It just doesn’t make much sense to me.
Franz told me everything would be
different and much, much better once we get married and move to Berlin. But I
just don’t know. I’m not sure if there are such nice and cosy places like Biber
or Kolbaba cafes – or the Bio Dopz cinema where I met Franz, actually.
Emma left the sanatorium last
week. She wants to work in her father’s photo
studio. But a women photographer in Brno? Sheer madness.
Frieda has been sullen these
days. Franz doesn’t come here so often now and he stopped sending her long letters
and switched to kitschy postcards instead. I feel sorry for her – and for her
mother, who was already planning a big wedding.
I miss Emma. We weren’t so
close but we did have some fun, and talked about art and books. She was the
only one who stopped asking me about a boyfriend. She even tried to read the novel
about Stephen Gordon although she found the story “sick”.
Dr. Spitz told me that I could
go home in a week or so. She just sprang the news on me, thinking I’d jump for
joy. But I couldn’t. I like it here. I love the pool at dawn. I love the
lookout tower even though I never go up. I love the trees and the pasqueflowers
on the hill. Their violet skirts are as elegant and beautiful as Dr. Spitz’s
new blouse. Their petals glisten in the sun like her eyelashes when she narrows
her eyes and frowns at me. Oh gosh, if only Emma heard me now. “You’re such a
wicked romantic, Alice!” she would say.
…
Dr. Spitz looked out of the
window. In the evening, the forest park seemed darker than her thoughts. She
glanced at her packed suitcase: she’s the last one to leave before the
sanatorium is closed down. All her patients and nurses are gone. Some of them still
send her postcards – like Frieda from Munich or Emma from Haifa; others greet
her when they meet in the city. But none of them knows how really lonely she
feels. How lonely she has felt even for the few years when the sanatorium was
open. Dr. Spitz closed the book on of her patients, Alice, gave her last month when
she was leaving, and stared at the title: The
Well of Loneliness.
(Kamenný vrch, 1939)
(Kamenný vrch, 1939)
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