Speaking of catharsis reminds me of the following story. An elderly man, Tom, came to the ER because of chest pain and shortness of breath. An EKG revealed that he was having a myocardial infarction (“heart attack”), which we treated in the standard way. During one of the times that I stepped in to check on him, he asked, “Doc, am I going to live? Will I make it out of the hospital?”

He had responded well to the treatment thus far, so I explained that he had an excellent chance of survival. He wasn't entirely reassured by this.

“Do you mean that I might not survive this heart attack?”

“That is possible,” I explained, “but not likely. Almost undoubtedly, you'll do just fine.”

“Well if there is any chance that I may die, I've got to tell you something. I've got to get it off my chest.”

“OK,” I said encouragingly.

He paused, looked skyward for several seconds, and then stared at his lap. “I fought in Europe during World War II. The Germans shelled the hell out of us one night and killed everyone in my unit except me. I ran out of there, and kept going until the next day when I was too exhausted to continue, so I hid in a forest and took a nap. I awoke when I heard brush crunching. Didn't know if it was an animal or a Kraut, so I grabbed my .45 and waited. I was almost ready to shoot when I saw that it was a young girl, maybe 14 or so, really cute but filthy, dressed for summer even though it was fall. After we got over the shock of bumping into one another, I gave her my jacket because her teeth were chattering. When that stopped, I could understand her pretty good. She said that her family was killed by the Krauts because they were helping Americans. She was in their barn when she heard the machine guns firing, so she buried herself in a pile of hay until she heard the Nazis leave. She said that her parents were dead in the kitchen, and her father's head was so mutilated that she didn't recognize him, except from his clothing. She found her little sister in an upstairs closet, barely breathing, making gurgling sounds for a few minutes until she died.

She didn't know if the Krauts would come back for her, so she took off and had been hiding in the woods ever since, surviving on food that she scrounged from local farms at night. When she stumbled upon me, she hadn't eaten in three days, because it was hard to find food after the harvest. I gave her some of my rations, which she gobbled down in a few minutes. I didn't say anything while she was eating; just watched her and felt sorry for her. This fucking war, that fucking Hitler, those fucking goon Krauts who would murder anyone. Fuck ‘em all.

I was afraid to make a fire because I thought the smoke might draw in the enemy, so we stayed warm by building a shelter and snuggling together inside of it. She said she was 18, but she didn't look it. Maybe years of being half-starved stunted her growth.

She shocked me one night by telling me that she wasn't a virgin. She said that her boyfriend had been taken away by the Germans a year ago, and she hadn't heard from him since. That got me to thinking. There I was, 21 at the time, and I'd never had sex. When I left the States, I wondered if I'd ever get to find out what sex was like before I died. Being a pessimist, I didn't think that I would survive the war. My girlfriend back home stopped writing to me shortly after she met an older guy who owned a hardware store. I got thinking about that, and started talking about my old girlfriend. Then she kissed me. I didn't know at first if it was just to cheer me up, but her kiss felt so good that I didn't want to stop kissing her. One thing led to another, and we ended up having sex that night.

I did not want to be charged with desertion, so I should have tried to find the American troops and report back for duty, but I didn't know where the heck they were. Every time we traveled very far, we would eventually run into Germans, so we kept coming back to our original shelter. To tell you the truth, I liked it. I was happy for the first time in my life. My mother died when I was young, and my father was a mean bastard who was either yelling at me, beating me, or working me to death. I went straight from living with him to the Army after I was drafted. Then I started dodging bullets and worrying that every day might be my last one. Now I had a girl who was affectionate, pretty, and wanted to marry me. I told her that, no matter what, I would come back for her after the war was over and I was discharged. I meant it, too.

Then one day I was heading to the stream to get water when I saw a parachute coming down. It was an American fighter pilot who was shot down while strafing some Krauts. He knew exactly where we were, where the Germans were, and where the American line was—only about 25 miles due west. He didn't waste any time, and began walking in that direction. He took about 15 steps, turned around, and asked me if I was coming. I was frozen, wondering what I should do. I was afraid to tell him about the girl, and I knew that I couldn't bring her with me, so I went with him. We made it back late the next day.

I've hated myself ever since, because I never tried to find her. Not during the war, and not after it. I left her in the middle of the woods all by herself, and it's been killing me ever since because I don't know what happened to her. Did she starve to death? Freeze to death? Get shot by a Kraut? And the worst part is, I think that I may have gotten her pregnant. If she lived, I may have a son or daughter who never had a father. Ever see how devastated Europe was by the war? It must have been tough for anyone to survive, especially someone that young with a baby. I felt terrible for leaving her in that predicament. Imagine what she went through? I left to get water, and never came back. No gunshot, no noise, no hint of what might have happened to me. God, it must have frightened her to death and broke her heart that I left her that way.

I never married. I kept thinking that I'll go back and find her. But I kept putting it off, and before I knew it, so many years had passed I knew she must have been married by then, or dead because of me. By then, I was fat, bald, and always miserable. I never found anyone interested in dating me, so I kept eating and working, eating and working . . . probably why I had the heart attack. I sure wish my life had been different, but it's too late to change it now.”

Tom paused for a moment, and then looked toward me. “You think she might be alive?”

“I don't know,” I answered, “but I tell you what I would do. Get better, get out of here, and go try to find her.”

His eyes opened wide. “Find her? After so many years?” He was incredulous.

“Why not? Go to the village where she lived and start asking about her. If she lived, she probably returned there shortly after you left as the Allies advanced toward Germany. Someone is bound to remember.”

Tom made a why not? gesture with his face, and said, “Might as well. I'm retired and have nothing else to do. It'll give me a reason to live, if nothing else.”

“Do me a favor,” I requested. “If you find her, or find out what happened to her, let me know.” I wrote my phone number down and handed it to him (unlike most doctors, I gave my home phone number to many patients).

“It's a deal,” he promised.

Six months later, I returned home from yet another disappointing date and found two messages on my answering machine. The first was from my Mom, who asked if I could come over and change the oil in her lawn tractor, because she cancelled her Sears service contract for it after they raised their prices and limited what it covered. Then a message that made me stop in my tracks. Beep . . . “Hi Dr. Pezzi, it's Tom. I saw you in the ER last year when I had a heart attack and told you about the girl I left behind in Europe. Well, I did what you said. I went there and found her the first day. When she saw me, she was so stunned that I thought she was going to have a heart attack. The first question out of her mouth was, ‘What happened to you?' Just the question I did not want to answer. But after we both spilled lots of tears, we caught up on what went on in our years apart. Her boyfriend came back but left her when he saw that she was pregnant . . . with my baby, by the way. So she married another man, who raised her daughter—our daughter—as his own. He died several years ago in a car accident, and she has been alone ever since. Just the one daughter and three grandchildren. All girls, and all gorgeous. I met ‘em all. Nice folks, too. I was afraid they'd run me off for how I left her back in the war, but they were as kind as could be. She is still attractive and young-looking for her age, so I was surprised that she asked me to come back when I was getting ready to leave. I returned and spent a month there, but had to come back here to take care of some financial matters. I am now packing up and headed back there to stay. It's good to have a family. At least I have someone to leave my money to. I've worked hard all my life and never spent much, so I have quite a nest egg. That money will now be spent taking care of my family. It's a great feeling to be able to do that. I wanted to thank you for giving me the idea to find her. At that time, I was too pessimistic to think that such a thing would be possible, but it was, just as you said. Thanks for treating my heart attack and giving me a reason to live.” Beep . . . you have no more messages.

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