The man's lips moved. He wanted to say something. I bent over to catch the sibilant tones.
I had not caught them, and indicated that by a shake of the head. The man repeated. He spoke in Polish, a language I do not know. To assure the man that I would find means of understanding him, I patted his cheek, and then called an orderly.
"He says that he would like you to fetch his wife and his children," said the orderly-interpreter, as he righted himself. "He says he is going to die soon, and wants to see them. He says that you will have to hurry up. He says that he will say a good word to the Lord for you if you will do him this favor."
"Ask him where they live," I said to the orderly. If it were at all possible I would do the man this kindness.
It was some village near Cracow. That was a long way off. If the man lived for two days his wish could be met.
"Tell the man that I will telegraph his wife to come as quickly as possible, but that she can't be here for a day or so," I instructed the interpreter.
A shadow of disappointment swept over the patient's face.
"Ask him if he knows where he is," I said.
The man did not know. I told the orderly to make it clear to him that he was in Budapest, and that his home in Galicia was far away. He was to be patient. I would bring his wife and children to him, if it could be done at all. Did the wife have the money to pay the railroad fare?
The patient was not sure. I read in his eyes that he feared the woman would not have the money. I eased his mind by telling him that I would pay the fares.