M - Rockets Falling from the Sky

"No one can terrorise a whole nation, unless we are all his
accomplices."
Ed Murrow - closing words of his investigation into Senator Joseph
McCarthy's campaign against 'Un-American Activities' (March 7,
1954)

* * *

Dr Valentina Pedovkin kept a handgun in her desk drawer. Her secretary
Teresa's voice carried from down the hall and through the open door. It
was high and nasal with an authentic Bronx drawl that all but
disappeared whenever a patient arrived.

"It says the body had no head," Teresa was saying, "it was just
all&;#8230; oh my God, that is horrible. It's like you can't walk
the streets today without getting&;#8230; your head cut off." Teresa
had cleared the clutter from her desk - things like the calendar, the
telephone, and the appointment book - to make room for the NYT. It was
open at the news pages but she had two fingers bookmarking the
Positions Vacant section. Every so often she would take a surreptitious
peek. Several jobs were circled in black ink. "Oh look, the ballet's
back in town. Did you ever go to watch the ballet, Val?" Teresa was
allowed to call Dr Pedovkin Val when there were no patients
around.

"No," said Dr Pedovkin indifferently. Her accent, by contrast, was
mild. She was trying to do some paperwork. Dr Nugent, whom she shared
the practice with, had gone up to visit his son in Boston.
Theoretically, she ought to have been struggling with twice the
workload, but the clinic had been quiet all morning.

"You've gotta go. When I was little I always used to say, 'Mama, when I
grow up I'm going to be a ballerina in the New York City Ballet',
except it wasn't called that then, it was... Hey - do you remember what
it used to be called, you know, before they changed the name?"

"No," said Dr Pedovkin.

"What I'd do to go to the ballet! If only Dan'd take me there." Teresa
sighed. She inspired wistfully on her cigarette. "Who am I kidding? He
barely makes enough to keep a roof over his head. That's what I get for
dating such a loser. I need to bag me some high-society guy, you know,
like a gentleman. You know why I never joined the New York City Ballet
in the end?"

"No."

"They said my feet were too big. My one dream in life, to be a
ballerina, and I get landed with feet like a circus clown. Wouldn't fit
into those tight little shoes. I should've gone into jazz dancing, I
think, but it's so competitive, you know? It's like - hey, hey have you
heard this? McCarthy's dead." Teresa took her fingers out of the
classifieds and smoothed the pages flat. Dr Pedovkin put her pen down.
"Died yesterday, of alcohol poisoning. Geez&;#8230; I guess he was
some drunk. Did you know he was a drunk, Val?" Dr Pedovkin tapped her
thumb against the edge of the desk and gazed off into the amber middle
distance. "Val?"

"No," she said, "I never heard that."

"That's a bad way to die," said Teresa. Dr Pedovkin could hear her
getting to her feet. "One of my uncles was a drunk. Used to do odd work
round the docks then spend all the money on bourbon. I only met him
once, I must've been about seven, but I can still remember his breath.
It smelt so bad, whew! He got on a train heading upstate one time and
we never saw him again. He didn't even write. I don't even know if he's
still alive."

Teresa walked into the Doctor's room with a mug of coffee. She put a
circular cork coaster down on the corner of the desk and set the mug on
top of it. Dr Pedovkin smiled. She had harsh, masculine features and an
angular jaw.

"Thank you, Teresa," she said.

"It's still hot," Teresa warned. "Better let it cool for a while." She
glanced around the examination room. There was a crinkled medical chart
tacked to the wall behind her, faded from the sun. Dr Pedovkin had the
blind down and light in the room was muted. Teresa picked a battered
paperback up from the desk. The spine was coming away but the binding
was still intact. "This yours?"

"Yes, it is."

"What's it about?" Teresa turned the book over to look at the front
cover. She squinted over her spectacles. "Huh? I can't read it. What's
the title?" Dr Pedovkin licked her lips.

"Ein Psycholog erlebt das Konzentrationslager," she said.

"You speak German?"

"Not really. A little. Reading's not so difficult&;#8230; I can take
my time."

"I did German lessons once&;#8230; the spelling was so hard." Teresa
shook her head and carefully replaced the book. "Dan's father has a lot
of foreign books. Did I ever tell you about his father?"

"I'm not sure."

"He's really into politics. He gets really excited about it. Dan took
me to see him once. He lives just outside Philadelphia. He was telling
me about how the Soviets have 'harnessed the power of the atom'. He
said soon they're going to have an endless source of energy, so
nobody'll have to work anymore. He said it's going to be a utopia over
there. Good news for your sister, huh?" Teresa nodded towards the
gilt-framed photograph on the desk. The black-and-white picture showed
a young woman with dark hair, looking into the camera and wearing a
faint, vaguely uncomfortable smile. Dr Pedovkin glanced at the photo
and found herself emulating the expression. She took a deep
breath.

"Yes," she said at last, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
Teresa cocked her head to one side.

"Aww, I'm sorry," she said. "You miss her, don't you?"

"Yes," Dr Pedovkin repeated. She retrieved a handkerchief from her
pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Teresa believed Dr Pedovkin's sister
still lived in the Soviet Union - that the two were separated by mere
distance, rather than the barrier between life and death. Dr Pedovkin
had not been entirely honest. Her sister had been killed some fifteen
years previously, pushed down a stairwell by a burglar. The burglar had
escaped with a broken pocketwatch and an urn containing her
grandmother's ashes, which he dropped (and broke) in the snow outside.
He was never caught. "It's been a long time." She looked up at Teresa.
"So," she said, "you and Daniel. When are you getting married?"

"Married?" Teresa looked startled.

"Yes," said Dr Pedovkin. "When are you getting married?" She picked up
her pen and began writing. She wrote in a large, flowing script.

"We're not, I mean&;#8230;" Teresa seemed genuinely wrong-footed.
"He's never asked me. Do you really think&;#8230; me, him?" She bit
her lip.

"I don't see why not. You love him, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure I do. I think I do&;#8230; but spending your whole life
with a guy, you know? How do you know he's not going to turn out to be
a total jerk?"

Dr Pedovkin smiled. "I wouldn't know about that," she said
quietly.

"Did you ever think about settling down, having a family?"

"No," said Dr Pedovkin. "I always loved medicine."

"I wish I was smart like you, Val. Most women would be happy just being
a nurse but you, you go through Med School, you set up a practice, the
whole shebang." She took a step towards the door, then stopped. "Are
you okay? You look a little tired."

"I'm fine, thank you. I&;#8230; There was a lot of noise coming from
the apartment above me last night. It was difficult getting to
sleep."

Teresa looked sceptical. "Well, okay. Drink your coffee, it'll help
pick you up."

"Of course," said Dr Pedovkin obligingly. Teresa peered out of the
doorway.

"Uhh&;#8230; since it's quiet I'm going to go on my lunch break, if
that's okay with you," she said. Dr Pedovkin nodded. "See you later
then." Teresa gave a tinkling wave with her fingers and scurried out of
the room. Dr Pedovkin listened to the sound of her rapidly descending
the wooden stairs in heels. She listened until she heard the door slam,
then allowed herself to exhale.

* * *

"I'm tellin' you Doc, it's like having a big buncha grapes growing out
your ass." The patient grimaced to underline his point. His initial
reticence had all but evaporated now he had reached the nub of his
ailment. He was one of Dr Nugent's patients and Dr Pedovkin had assumed
- erroneously, as it turned out - that he would have had some
misgivings about discussing such an intimate subject with a female
doctor. He had a pained expression on his face, and was struggling to
hold himself up with the arms of the chair so as to put as little
weight as possible on his rear end. "I can barely sit down, it's gotten
so bad." He was very fat. He was perspiring heavily, and there were
damp patches of sweat around the armpits of his blue and white checked
shirt.

Dr Pedovkin remained equanimous.

"What is your diet like?" she said. The man, a Mr Webster, looked
confused.

"My diet? I don't know." He probably would have shrugged at this point,
but his shoulders were busy supporting his body. "Same as everyone
else, I guess."

"What have you eaten so far today, for example?"

Mr Webster's frown intensified. "Well, I&;#8230; this morning I got
up late, so I just had a coupla muffins and a coffee on my way out the
house&;#8230; About mid-morning I had some chicken wings&;#8230;
Does coffees count? I mean, d'you wanna know about everything, 'cause
I'm not sure I can remember it all."

"Do you drink a lot of coffee?" asked Dr Pedovkin.

"Not a lot&;#8230;"

"Have you had lunch yet today?"

"I got a plate of ribs from the grillhouse and some, uhh, some
sausages. I washed 'em down with a coupla beers then I caught a cab
here."

Dr Pedovkin nodded. "Do you drink often?"

"I'm not a drunk," said Mr Webster. "Say - do you have a cushion or
something? I&;#8230; it's like I'm sitting on the end of a pitchfork
here." Dr Pedovkin pushed her chair back and got up. She walked across
to the examination table and handed him a thin pillow. Mr Webster
shifted his weight to his right side as he used his left hand to shove
the pillow in underneath him. "Ah Christ," he exclaimed, wincing.

"So&;#8230;" said Dr Pedovkin, pausing while Mr Webster settled back
into position, "would you say you drink every day?"

"Yeah, I would say that. What's the problem? I do a tough job. I need
something to help me wind down at the end of a day. Why shouldn't I
have a few beers with the guys? Who doesn't?"

"You say you have trouble passing stools. I suspect it is related to
your diet."

"What's wrong with my diet?" Mr Webster wobbled slightly. It was
obvious the pillow was not helping much.

"I think you need to drink a great deal more water, and introduce more
roughage to help with your digestion. All these fatty foods are putting
a lot of strain on your bowels."

"But I don't eat any different to anyone else!" He shifted position
again. "Look - can't you give me some goddamn ointment or something? My
wife said you've got treatments for this kinda thing now."

"I can recommend you creams," Dr Pedovkin conceded, "but unless you are
prepared to make some changes to your eating habits, the problem will
persist. It will get worse, in fact."
Mr Webster allowed his lower lip to protrude petulantly. "If Dr Nugent
was here he'd give me something. I've got the money - I just want some
goddamn ointment to put on my goddamn piles. What's the problem?" He
stared into the lacquered surface of her desk as his ire gained
momentum. "Do you treat all your patients like this? What's it to you
if I like a coupla beers when the day's through? All I asked for was
s-"

"Val! Val!" The shouts were Teresa's; they came from the stairs. For a
moment, both Dr Pedovkin and Mr Webster fell into a surprised silence.
"Val! Are you there?" Dr Pedovkin looked down into her lap and suddenly
realised she ought to be responding. She got to her feet and hurried
out into the hallway.

"Hey!" Mr Webster called after her. "Hey, where're you going?"

When Dr Pedovkin got into the hall she saw Teresa at the opposite end,
helping a man up the stairs. The man had grey hair, sallow Jewish
features and an intermittent beard. He was breathing in shallow gasps
and appeared to be in some pain. Dr Pedovkin rushed down to meet
them.

"It's okay," Teresa was saying to him, "she's a doctor." She looked up
at Dr Pedovkin. "He was leant up against the wall outside, grabbing
hold of his chest. He says he's fine but, I don't know&;#8230; I
thought he was having a heart attack. I thought you could make sure
he's all right."

"Yes, okay, thank you Teresa," said Dr Pedovkin, putting an arm round
the man's shoulder and beginning to lead him towards the examination
room. "I think you ought to call for an ambulance."

"Of course," Teresa said. "Okay. I'm sorry, Val, I just, you know, I
got my lunch and I was reading and the time just-"

"Teresa, it's fine. Don't worry." Teresa nodded and went to her
desk.

"What the hell is this?" said Mr Webster as Dr Pedovkin returned.
"Who's he?"

"Sit on the table, please," she said to her new patient. She turned to
address Mr Webster. "I'm sorry, this man has just had a suspected heart
attack. My secretary is calling an ambulance." She walked across to her
desk and retrieved her stethoscope from a drawer.

"I was here first!" Mr Webster protested. "You've gotta-" He stopped
with a sharp intake of breath as, in a lax moment, he allowed the
pressure on his backside to increase. "These haemorrhoids are ruining
my life! He's got an ambulance coming! I'm the priority here!"

"There is no need for an ambulance," said the grey-haired man, breaking
his silence. Like Dr Pedovkin's, his accent was gentle. "I am better
now. I get pains often, but they go, they always go."

"Exactly!" said Mr Webster. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Listen to
the guy! He says he's fine, leave him alone." Dr Pedovkin turned to Mr
Webster once more. This time she spoke slowly and deliberately.

"I will only be a moment. I have an obligation to make sure this man is
all right." She fitted the stethoscope into her ears. "If you could
take off your shirt," she said to the man sitting on the examination
table, "and breathe in." The man was wearing a long-sleeved cotton
shirt. In contrast to the rest of his clothes, it looked brand new. He
unbuttoned it clumsily. His fingers were stumpy and
uncoordinated.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?" Mr Webster said, raising his voice. Dr
Pedovkin pretended not to hear. She put the cold stethoscope to the
man's chest. A thick, dark scar ran diagonally across his abdomen.
Under less pressured circumstances, she might have asked how he had
come to receive it.

"Breathe out," she said.

"I've been going to Dr Nugent for five years now, and he'd never treat
me like this! I took time outa work to be here - do you realise how
important I am? I don't take time off for just anything, you know." Dr
Pedovkin moved the stethoscope down slightly.

"Breathe in," she said.

"Hey! Don't ignore me!"

"Breathe out."

"What's the matter?" Mr Webster was yelling by this stage, his tirade
reaching a crescendo. His face was streaked with runnels of
perspiration. "What's wrong? My American dollars not good enough for
you?" Dr Pedovkin took the stethoscope from her ears, and pivoted
ninety degrees to her left. Lowering her hands to her sides, she looked
him in the eye and took a deep breath.

"Some things," she said, "are more important than money." Mr Webster
screwed up his face like he'd been punched. He began struggling to his
feet.

"Fine!" he spat. "You goddamn Ruskies are all the goddamn same! I work
my goddamn butt off every day of the week to make a goddamn living,
just to get goddamn kikes and goddamn commies looking down their noses
at me! What makes you so superior, huh? This is my goddamn country, you
goddamn parasite!" He slapped an indignant hand against his flabby
chest and started to march out. He paused in the doorway, soaked with
sweat. "I'm not gonna forget this! Dr Nugent's gonna hear all about
this when he gets back! You ain't heard the last of me yet!" With that,
he turned on his heel - an ungainly manoeuvre that almost made him lose
his balance - and stormed off.

Dr Pedovkin remained quiet while she listened to his feet thumping down
the stairs. He stepped out onto Morris Avenue and slammed the door
behind him, as violently as he could. She glanced at the arms of the
chair he had been sitting in. They were slick with moisture. She turned
to her patient.

"What's your name?" she asked. The man appeared to think through his
answer.

"My name is Heschel. I am Max Heschel," he said. He looked profoundly
uncomfortable, as if he felt the whole altercation had been his fault.
"There is no need for an ambulance. I am feeling much better." His
breathing was laboured and irregular, even as he said this. "I would
like to go now." He moved to get up but Dr Pedovkin held out a hand, by
way of request rather than restraint. He remained seated.

"The ambulance will be here any minute," she said. "Please, I insist
you stay." Behind her, Teresa appeared at the door looking
anxious.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "Mr Webster looked awful
mad&;#8230; I heard him shouting. What was the matter?"

"Nothing," said Dr Pedovkin. "He is in a lot of pain. Everything is
fine."

"Uhh&;#8230;" Teresa seemed a little puzzled. "Well, I'm going back
to my desk&;#8230; call me if you need anything. Maybe I should go
and wait for the ambulance out on the street."

"That would be very helpful, Teresa. Thank you." Teresa left, frowning.
Max gritted his teeth, obviously still experiencing some discomfort. Dr
Pedovkin put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's going to be all right," she said. Max leant back, and inhaled
through his nostrils. "Do you live around here?"

"No," he said, "not around here."

"Where do you live?" Were it not for his shirt, she would have assumed
he was a vagrant. He started buttoning it up.

"Nowhere you would know," he said. He fastened his top button then
looked up at Dr Pedovkin. His eyes were rheumy, bloodshot and sunken,
but despite this (or perhaps because of it) he had a disconcertingly
arresting gaze. "Thank you," he said, and smiled. Several of his teeth
were missing.

"Don't thank me yet," said Dr Pedovkin.

* * *

A week or so later, Dr Pedovkin was at her desk, writing, when there
was a cautious tap at the door. It was early afternoon. She had an
appointment scheduled in half an hour's time, and was finishing up a
few notes beforehand. She looked up from her work.

"Come in," she said. The door crept open, and Dr Nugent entered. He was
balding but in excellent physical condition, a trait disguised somewhat
by his stoop, and non-confrontational, almost diffident manner.

"Hello," he said, pulling a smile.

"Hello, Andrew," she said. She put her fountain pen on the desk.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Dr Pedovkin raised a wary eyebrow.

"Of course not." Dr Nugent lowered himself into the chair. "Why should
you ask me? You don't normally request permission." Dr Nugent
flushed.

"I&;#8230; I wanted to speak to you actually, Val," he said.

"Oh?"

"I've been thinking about this for some time, actually." He folded his
hands together in his lap and stared down at them. Then, as if aware he
was being deliberately evasive, he looked up and made eye contact with
her. "I'm not getting any younger, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Of course you're not," said Dr Pedovkin. "Nobody is. Nobody ever
does." Dr Nugent nodded.

"It's just that since Lydia passed over I&;#8230; well, I've been
feeling the strain a lot more. I know as a man I'm expected to be
independent, but&;#8230; to be honest Val, the practice hasn't been
doing great, has it?"

"There's a cure for everything these days," she said. "Less people get
sick. We do okay."

"Okay, but not great." Dr Nugent sighed. "You know Ben has his own
practice now?"

"Your son?"

"Yeah, that's right. He's grown into such a fine young man. He's a real
credit to his mother's memory. She was the one who shaped him into who
he is today. She was so much more hands on than me." He hesitated.
"Sorry, I'm&;#8230; what I wanted to talk to you about was,
well&;#8230; the bottom line is, he's offered me a place at his
practice, to work out my last few years. Have you ever been to
Boston?"

"No," said Dr Pedovkin.

"It's a growing city, Val. It's the place to be."
"New York is a growing city, Andrew." She flashed him a sardonic smirk.
"We have the tallest building in the world."
"For now," said Dr Nugent, "for now. It's not just that, though, it's
that I'll be near my family. I don't know so many people round here
anymore, and, well&;#8230;" He paused. Dr Pedovkin scrutinised
him.

"Is it because of me?"

Dr Nugent frowned. "Of course it's not. What makes you say that?"

"Some of your patients might object to me," she suggested.

"I&;#8230;" he began, then stopped. "Look, to be honest, I've
already made up my mind. It's not so far from now that I'll be
retiring, and I want to&;#8230;" He let out a sigh, and seemed to
deflate like a punctured dinghy. "I just haven't got any fight left in
me. I don't want to rock the boat. I'm too old." He looked back down at
his clammy hands as they kneaded one another. "I ought to go&;#8230;
I'm going to work out the final month of the lease and then that'll be
it. I've informed the letting agency." He smiled again, weakly, but
seemed unable to look at her. "I, umm&;#8230; I cancelled the rest
of my appointments for this afternoon. I only had a couple." He got to
his feet. "I guess I'll&;#8230; I'll see you tomorrow." He gave her
a half-wave, and began to shuffle out through the door, leaving it
ajar.

Dr Pedovkin listened as he went into his room to collect his briefcase
and mackintosh. She listened to the click of his door being closed. She
listened to him say goodbye to Teresa.

"Bye, Dr Nugent," Teresa said. She never used his Christian name,
whether there were patients present or not. "Hope you feel better by
tomorrow." It was obvious from this parting comment that he had not yet
informed Teresa of his intentions. Dr Pedovkin listened to him descend
the stairs, listened to the clinic door open and close.

About five seconds of something that came close to silence passed
before she heard the rustle of a newspaper being taken from Teresa's
desk drawer.

"Hey Val! D'you fancy a coffee?" came the call.

"No thank you," Dr Pedovkin said. She had to raise her voice to make
herself heard.
"Well, I'm putting some on, so if you change your mind&;#8230;" Dr
Pedovkin could hear pages being flipped. Teresa usually browsed for a
while before selecting stories to read out. Today was no exception.
Four or five minutes passed without a sound, save for the reedy drone
of a bluebottle and the occasional dislocated noise from outside. "God,
I don't believe it&;#8230; just when you think this city can't get
any worse&;#8230;" It was one of Teresa's standard openers. "How can
people do this to other human beings, y'know? Have you heard about
this, Val?"

"Heard about what?"

"This is the worst one yet! Listen to this&;#8230; Some guy, he
owned a factory just down from Parkchester, making coats, shirts,
jackets, that sorta thing. He was walking home one night when these
three guys jumped him, dragged him down an alley, gagged and tied him.
They took him back to the factory, and they'd beaten up the security
guy. Hang on&;#8230; '43-year-old security guard Ted Harris was
unconscious, his hands and legs bound behind his back, lying in a pool
of blood. The coroner later confirmed he had been struck on the
forehead with a blunt instrument&;#8230;' Oh my God, I just can't
understand it!"

"What happened next?" asked Dr Pedovkin, despite herself.

"Uhh&;#8230; It says they dragged him up to his office and tried to
get the combination to the safe out of him, but he wouldn't talk, so
they started breaking his fingers, one by one. Once they'd done all
ten, he still wouldn't say, so these three guys, these three men
started using him like a punching bag. I mean like, two held him up and
the third just pummelled him&;#8230; 'The victim received extensive
injuries to his arms, chest and face&;#8230;'" Teresa gasped loudly.
"What is going on with this country? How can things like that happen to
an innocent guy?"

"Did they kill him?" asked Dr Pedovkin, massaging her right temple with
an index finger.

"Oh no, no&;#8230; they beat him up, stubbed cigarettes out on him,
broke his nose and a few of his ribs, threatened to shoot
him&;#8230; smashed up his factory pretty badly as well, when they
realised they weren't going to get at the cash. Do you know what the
worst thing about this is? When the police checked the place, do you
know what was in the safe? Some five-dollar necklace and a couple of
envelopes of old photos. That was it."

"Is he all right?"

"They've got him over at South Central," said Teresa. "Says he's lucky
to be alive. The guy's got a heart condition on top of
everything&;#8230; I&;#8230; I mean, honestly, I don't get it at
all. Why do bad things happen to good people?"

"Does it say what his name was?" Dr Pedovkin said.

"Uhh&;#8230; hold on a minute&;#8230; This newsprint always gives
me migraines. It's too small&;#8230; Here we go&;#8230; the
victim was a Mr, uhh, is that Hetchel? Heshel? I don't know&;#8230;
Hess-shel? I'm not sure how you pronounce it, but
anyway&;#8230;"

"Heschel? Is there a first name?"

"Okay, just a second. Let me check&;#8230; Hey, would you look at
that? There's a professor here, thinks by 'seventy-five we'll have
cities on the Moon. Geez&;#8230; you'd never catch me living up
there, I'll tell you that for free&;#8230; Y'know, I worry
sometimes, about the future. How does he know we'll still be around?
Who's to say we won't have blown ourselves up by then?" Teresa had lit
up a cigarette and was puffing on it restlessly. "My uncle Joe, you
know the one who moved with his second wife to Ohio? He told me that
nuclear war is just around the corner. He said Canada will become 'the
grain bowl of the world'. He said the heat from the explosions is gonna
thaw out the arctic tundra&;#8230; When the two of them've got the
money together, they're gonna move up there and start stockpiling. He
thinks they've got four, five years at most before the Soviets develop
rockets sophisticated enough to launch an attack. It scares the hell
outa me&;#8230; Actually, he said we were lucky being on the East
Coast and all. He says the first wave is going to hit the west, then
they'll start working their way across." She paused, and let out a
sigh. "I don't know - he was always a bit wacky. I try not to take him
seriously, but some days it gets to me. You don't think they'll really
do that, do you Val? I mean, I know you haven't been home for a while
but, y'know, your sister'd warn you if she thought they were about to
attack, wouldn't she? She'd say something if she thought you were in
danger, right?" Teresa waited for a reply. "Val? She'd tell you,
right?"

"I&;#8230; I don't know."

"Don't you worry what might happen?" Dr Pedovkin had opened her drawer,
and was staring at the charcoal-grey handgun. It was unloaded - she
kept no ammunition at the clinic - but she still felt an urge to place
her hand on it, to touch it.

"I am not afraid of rockets falling from the sky," she said, almost to
herself. "There are worse things in this life." She put the heel of her
palm against the drawer, and pushed it closed.