The Chest
Copyright© 2025 by Vonalt
Chapter 3: Bound Volume One
The moment I stepped through the door, I hauled the old surgical chest inside and set it down on the coffee table—dead center, like it belonged there. I told myself it was safe, that it could wait. But even then, a part of me wasn’t so sure.
I brought in the takeout bag and the box of cotton gloves I’d picked up from the craft store—just in case the instruments were delicate, or cursed, or both. I set the gloves down next to the surgical chest on the coffee table. The burger and fries went on the kitchen table, where grease wouldn’t stain history.
After cleaning up, I sat down to a greasy burger and cold fries and wolfed them down without thinking. Hunger over, I tossed the bag and wrappers, gave the table a once-over, and wiped it clean—twice, just to be sure. No crumbs, no grease. I wasn’t about to let ketchup smears ruin the legacy of a man who might’ve stitched up corpses by candlelight.
I grabbed a legal pad and a pencil from the storage closet, then made my way to the coffee table. The box of gloves sat where I’d left it. I pulled out a pair, slid them on, and flexed my fingers like a surgeon prepping for a long night. The key turned easily in the lock.
The lid creaked open.
Goosebumps prickled my arms. I was finally about to start translating Volume One. It sat right on top, exactly where I’d left it—waiting.
I walked to the table, set the volume down like it might shatter, and sat. Slowly, carefully, I opened to the first handwritten page.
The ink was faded, the script sharp and slanted like it had been carved more than written.
My heart thudded. I picked up the pencil and started transcribing my ancestor’s words—words untouched for a hundred and fifty years.
This is the journal of Frederick Anton Tschudi. I am the second son of Gaspar Anton Tschudi, and I find myself in the early stages of my medical studies at the esteemed University of Zurich, situated in the heart of the Canton of Zurich. It is there, amidst the hallowed halls of learning, that I devote myself to the pursuit of medicine, the noble art I have chosen to master.
I am most eager to embark upon my studies, for the practice of medicine shall be the sole means by which I sustain myself, and, in due course, provide for the family I shall one day raise. As is customary in our family, my elder brother, Anton, shall inherit our father’s estates and fortune, along with the esteemed position he holds within the merchant guild of Zurich.
I have no inclination to enter my brother’s service as a mere clerk; instead, I have heeded my father’s wise counsel to pursue a career in surgery. In his generosity, he has provided me with a fine set of surgical instruments and accessories of the highest quality—tools befitting a practitioner of distinction. For this, as well as for the modest stipend he has graciously bestowed upon me, I am profoundly grateful.
(Translation note from the translator: This text is written in a Swiss German dialect, which differs significantly from the modern German dialect I studied in college and used for over twenty years during my tenure at a German-owned pharmaceutical company. The word choices in this translation are an approximation of the original meaning.)
Second Day of September 1881.
Already, I have incurred the derision of my classmates. One, upon observing my handling of the fine surgical instruments, mockingly dubbed me ‘the butcher from the slaughterhouse.’ Though I endeavored to feign indifference, the words, nonetheless, wound me deeply. I am troubled by the thought that I may have already branded myself a failure before my training has even truly commenced.
Fifth Day of September 1881
Today, I was introduced to the cadaver upon which I am to undertake the study of the fundamentals of anatomy. The atmosphere within the dissecting theater is saturated with an odor beyond description—an oppressive blend of decay and the preserving fluids employed to arrest its inevitable progress. No degree of preparation could have steeled my constitution against it.
My subject—so we are instructed to refer to these remains—is an elderly gentleman, his body bearing the unmistakable marks of cancer. The evidence of his suffering is indelibly etched upon his frail frame, a silent testament to the cruel and inexorable nature of his affliction. I can only hope that, in death, he may impart to me the knowledge that, one day, will enable me to alleviate such suffering in the living.
I remain uncertain of my place within these walls, yet I must press onward. If I am to become a surgeon, I must learn from those who have walked this path before me—even from those who teach without words, their lessons imparted through the silence of their remains.
In order to withstand the overpowering stench that permeates the air, I have resorted to the practice of covering my nose and mouth with a cloth soaked in menthol and camphor. It is far from a perfect remedy, yet it affords a modicum of reprieve from the persistent odor that clings to us, lingering long after we have left the dissecting theater.
Many of the public houses that once welcomed us now refuse us entry. The scent of decay clings to us, lingering in our clothes, our hair—an invisible stigma of our profession, one that no amount of washing can entirely banish. In consequence, we have taken to dining in one another’s company, seeking solace in shared fellowship, for who else would endure our presence but those who bear the same burden?
Twelfth Day of December 1881
As is the time-honoured tradition of Advent, my fellow students and I have, with the utmost diligence, arranged an Advent wreath upon our table, that it might assist us in recalling the sacred season of Christmas and the blessed nativity that transpired so many years ago in Bethlehem. Most of us, in due course, shall return to our respective families for the festive season, yet all of us are filled with a certain anxiety regarding how we shall be received in their midst. The scent of death clings to us so persistently that I am near convinced we shall never entirely rid ourselves of its foul presence. One second-year student, in his wisdom, suggested that we bathe in a solution of red wine vinegar, followed by a rinse of oat water and chamomile. Our garments, likewise, are being subjected to the cleansing power of a potent soap made from olive oil and wood ash. For my part, I have chosen to go to even greater lengths, having my travelling attire infused with the fragrant smoke of camphor and frankincense. Though the cost of such an endeavor is not inconsequential, I deem it a small price to pay, lest I cause any undue distress to my mother’s delicate constitution.
(Translator’s note: Frederick’s visit home does not go well. He clashes with both his brother and father. His brother, Anton, has been courting the girl Frederick has long desired, and she has accepted Anton’s marriage proposal with her father’s approval. Upon learning this, Frederick feels deeply betrayed, as noted in his writings. While at home, he isolates himself, spending most of his time reading in his room. When a joint Christmas and engagement party is held, Frederick chooses to leave rather than attend, which is seen as an insult to his brother and future sister-in-law. This act deepens the animosity between Frederick and Anton. After their father’s death, the two brothers sever all ties, and their rift remains permanent.)