“Eventually the waiter brought the brandy and soup, and some coffee for me, but no doctor arrived. Madame Moreau brought some more water and some charcoal for the stove, but Modigliani’s fever had worsened; he began to cough blood. I stayed up all night, bathing his forehead and his lips with cool water.
“Next morning, Ortiz returned and went to get a doctor. Modi couldn’t move his head; his neck was so stiff and painful because meningitis had set in, so Ortiz carried my husband down the stairs and put him in a taxi. They took him to the Charity Hospital, and there he died.”
I couldn’t go on, and my tears were flowing now. I kept my eyes on Rabinowitz’s face.
“Our friend, Hanka, accompanied me to the maternity hospital as my child was due, but they said it was too soon, so I went home t
