Heil! by Lyle Monroe
"How dare you make such a suggestion!"
The state physician doggedly stuck by his position. "I would not make
it, sire, it your life were not at stake. There is no other surgeon in
the Fatherland who can transplant a pituitary gland but Doctor Lans."
"You will operate!"
The medico shook his head. "You would die, Leader. My skill is not
adequate. And unless the operation takes place at once, you will
The Leader stormed about the apartment. He seemed about to give way to
one of the girlish bursts of anger that even the inner state clique
feared so much. Surprisingly he capitulated.
"Bring him here!" he ordered.
DOCTOR LANS FACED THE LEADER with inherent dignity, a dignity and
presence that three years of "protective custody" had been unable to
shake. The pallor and gauntness of the concentration camp lay upon him,
but his race was used to oppression. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see ... I
can perform that operation. What are your terms?"
"Terms?" The Leader was aghast. "Terms, you filthy swine? You are being
given a chance to redeem in part the sins of your race!"
The surgeon raised his brows. "Do you not think I know that you would
not have sent for me had there been any other course available to you?
Obviously, my services have become valuable."
"You'll do as you are told! You and your kind are lucky to be alive."
"Nevertheless I shall not operate without my fee."
"I said you were lucky to be alive—" The tone was an open threat.
Lans spread his hands. "Well—I am an old man...."
The Leader smiled. "True. But I am informed that you have a—a
The surgeon moistened his lips. His Emma—they would hurt his Emma ...
and his little Rose. But he must be brave, as Emma would have him be. He
was playing for high stakes—for all of them. "They cannot be worse off
dead," he answered firmly, "than they are now."
It was many hours before the Leader was convinced that Lans could not be
budged. He should have known—the surgeon had learned fortitude at his
"What is your fee?"
"A passport for myself and my family."
"My personal fortune restored to me—"
"—to be paid in gold before I operate!"
The Leader started to object automatically, then checked himself
quickly. Let the presumptuous fool think so! It could be corrected after
"And the operation to take place in a hospital on foreign soil."
"I must insist."
"You do not trust me?"
Lans stared straight back into his eyes without replying. The Leader
struck him, hard, across the mouth. The surgeon made no effort to avoid
the blow, but took it, with no change of expression.
"YOU ARE WILLING TO GO THROUGH WITH IT, SAMUEL?" The younger man looked
at Doctor Lans without fear as he answered,
"I can not guarantee that you will recover. The Leader's pituitary gland
is diseased; when I exchange it for your healthy one your younger one
may not be able to stand up under it—that is the chance you take.
Besides—a complete transplanting has never been done before."
"I know it—but I'm out of the concentration camp!"
"Yes. Yes, that is true. And if you do recover, you are free. And I will
attend you myself, until you are well enough to travel."
Samuel smiled. "It will be a positive joy to be sick in a country where
there are no concentration camps!"
"Very well, then. Let us commence."
They returned to the silent, nervous group at the other end of the room.
Grimly the money was counted out, every penny that the famous surgeon
had laid claim to before the Leader had decided that men of his religion
had no need for money. Lans placed half of the gold in a money belt and
strapped it around his waist. His wife concealed the other half
somewhere about her ample person.
IT WAS AN hour and twenty minutes later that Lans put down the last
instrument, nodded to the surgeons assisting him, and commenced to strip
off operating gloves. He took one last look at his two patients before
he left the room. They were anonymous under the sterile gowns and
dressings. Had he not known, he could not have guessed dictator from
oppressed. Come to think of it, with the exchange of those two tiny
glands there was something of the dictator in his victim and something
of the victim in the dictator.
DOCTOR LANS RETURNED TO THE hospital later in the day, after seeing his
wife and daughter safely settled in a first class hotel. It was an
extravagence, in view of his uncertain prospects as a refugee, but they
had enjoyed no luxuries for years back there—he didn't consider it
his home country—and it was justified this once.
He inquired at the office of the hospital for his second patient. The
clerk looked puzzled. "But he is not here...."
"Why, no. He was moved at the same time as His Excellency—back to your
Lans did not argue. The trick was obvious; it was too late to do
anything for poor Samuel. He thanked his God that he had had the
foresight to place himself and his family beyond the reach of such
brutal injustice before operating. He thanked the clerk and left.
THE LEADER RECOVERED CONSCIOUSNESS AT LAST. His brain was confused—then
he recalled the events before he had gone to sleep. The operation!—it
was over! And he was alive! He had never admitted to anyone how terribly
frightened he had been at the prospect. But he had lived—he had lived!
He groped around for the bellcord, and failing to find it, gradually
forced his eyes to focus on the room. What outrageous nonsense was this?
This was no sort of a room for the Leader to convalesce in. He took in
the dirty white-washed ceiling, and the bare wooden floor with distaste.
And the bed! It was no more than a cot!
He shouted. Someone came in, a man wearing a uniform of a trooper in his
favorite corps. He started to give him the tongue-lashing of his life,
before having him arrested. But he was cut short.
"Cut out the racket, you unholy pig!"
At first he was too astounded to answer, then he shrieked, "Stand at
attention when you address the Leader! Salute!"
The trooper looked dumbfounded at the sick man—so totally different in
appearance from the Leader, then guffawed. He stepped to the cot, struck
a pose with his right arm raised in salute. He carried a rubber
truncheon in it. "Hail to our Leader!" he shouted, and brought his arm
down smartly. The truncheon crashed into the sick man's cheek bone.
Another trooper came in to see what the noise was while the first was
still laughing at his wittcism. "What's up, Jon? Say, you'd better not
handle that monkey too rough—he's still carried on the hospital list."
He glanced casually at the bloody face.
"Him? Didn't you know?" Jon pulled him to one side and whispered.
The second man's eyes widened; he grinned. "So? They don't want him to
get well, eh? Well, I could use a little exercise this morning—"
"Let's get Fats," the other suggested. "He's always so very amusing with
"Good idea." He stepped to the door and bellowed, "Hey, Fats!"
They didn't really start in on him until Fats was there to help.