Crazy in Berlin

by Thomas Berger

  “Thank you, sir, but I had basic at Camp Barkeley—”

  “Quite all right, my boy. Just answer these questions—”

  The major asked: “Do you feel well enough to get up for a few minutes? It’s difficult to talk here. The nurse said we may use the ward office.”

  Reinhart lay quiet for a moment, his right as a casualty, then indicated he would try. Blackness flooded his brain as he sat upright, and he heard their voices as if through the closed window of a ballroom. His wrist was seized.

  “Come on, fellow,” the colonel shouted.

  In transit Reinhart slept awhile and when he came to, watching the red-black ocean recede, thought they all had gone.

  “You need a pick-me-up!” the colonel roared. “Teats! Mix an ounce of medical alcohol with grapefruit juice and bring it to this soldier.” But Lieutenant Leek had crept off to hide.

  “It’s all right, Major,” Reinhart said to Koenig, who offered no aid nor sympathy. “I can make it.”

  The major walked smartly towards the office. Reinhart shook himself, feeling a twinge in his cheek, slipped into the dirty canvas slippers waiting below the bed, rose and followed. With all manner of noise the colonel dogged him but was denied at the door.

  “This,” said Koenig, standing just within, “is an Intelligence matter, sir. Captain St. George and I will have to speak privately with Corporal Reinhart. If you gentlemen can give us a few moments?”

  “Me neither?” The MP officer’s growl betrayed a fright at his exclusion. He put a broken cigarette into his mouth and tried to light it, getting only air. From the patients out in the ward arose an anonymous murmur of ridicule, which was tonic to the colonel.

  He said: “As to me and Nader and PFC Walter, we’ll mix here with the men till you need us.” Followed by his reluctant entourage he went back down the aisle between the beds and shortly, among his bursts of loud, merry scatology, came the obstreperous derision which he was famous for misunderstanding as popularity.

  Making an effort, Reinhart indeed felt better and stronger. The major, however, who sat upon a white-enameled chair, directed him to lie upon the operating table.

  There was no allowance for discussion, so he did. St. George—he saw the genuine sadness on the fat face, and pitied him, and liked him—slumped against the wall.

  “Now, PFC Walsh,” said Koenig, “who was mess guard last night, heard noises on the sports field and went to investigate. By the time he got there you were unconscious and the two other men were dead. He states he heard an automobile engine, and there were tire tracks in the sand. May we hear your account?”

  On his back, unable to see his interrogator, Reinhart spouted perspiration and anticipated a nameless catastrophe. Unknown enemies held him supine and prepared to work upon him an obscene damage; he felt womanly, about to be raped. Yet all through this, his fluent voice romped on, as if it were rather the child of another man. The voice told of the chance, friendly encounter early in the evening between Reinhart and Schild, of a purposeless wander to the Tiergarten, since the black-market contact never appeared and they thus could not buy their Meissen china. Then they took a drink in a jerry-built cafe on the Ku-damm, looked for a ride home and finding none began to walk. They lost their way temporarily. Finally they reached Zehlendorf. Then the straight story of seeing Schild enter the grove, and the fight.

  “There must be more,” said Koenig in his ominous, factual way.

  St. George spoke for the first time: “Lieutenant Schild had some of his own contacts whom I knew nothing about. We worked in that manner. Perhaps it wasn’t SOP—”

  “You said all that.”

  But once begun, St. George was briefly invincible. He owed it to his late colleague. And Reinhart thought, Schild was closer to him than to me; he was never really my friend, yet I did what I could to save him; why do I tell myself I was his killer?

  “Perhaps it wasn’t SOP, but I respected his intelligence. Then he was a Jew, you know. I never thought about it before, but it could hardly have been pleasant service here where they did such horrible things to his people. ... One of his German contacts was a little old fellow dressed like a workingman, who rode a bike. He came once to the billet when the Russian stayed with us. But perhaps he wasn’t there for Nate. When I saw him he was talking with the landlady.”

  “Russian!” blurted Koenig. He reassumed self-control. “You can tell me all that later, Captain. At the moment we are interested in the corporal.”

  Koenig did not trust Reinhart, so much was clear. But Reinhart had changed since he killed a man. Earlier he would have hated Koenig. Now he was beholden to him; wished he would let him rise, but knew he deserved no favors.

  The major asked: “This little old fellow that Captain St. George mentions—was he one of the two Germans on the sports field?”

  Reinhart answered no. Schatzi—Schild knew him too. He remembered the doctor’s revelation and his own bombastic threat to kill this complex person both victimizer and victim. Doubtless no one took it seriously. Could they have seen him a few hours later! But Schild had, and thought him inadequate, and come to help, and died.

  “I take it then you know the man St. George means, if you are sure he was not there.”

  “I believe so,” said Reinhart, “he hangs out around here. He is a big wheel in the black market.”

  “Could this have been a dispute over a black-market deal?”

  St. George answered, scandalized: “Certainly not! I never knew a man less interested in money than Nate.”

  Koenig sighed. “The corporal has just testi—stated he and Lieutenant Schild went to the Tiergarten, were driven to that area by you, yourself, in which you concur, to meet someone who offered a set of Meissen china for sale.”

  “Sure,” St. George laughed indignantly, “but that was for Reinhart!”

  “That’s right,” said Reinhart to the major he could not see, endeavoring to meet St. George’s eye with a message of loyalty. But the captain seemed to avoid him.

  “A do-gooder, the late Lieutenant Schild.”

  St. George answered: “Always,” and hung his head.

  Koenig continued his keen probing, to which his immaculate and subtle contempt was an additional tool. Reinhart dissembled in the only way he could, by blondly, wholesomely baring all but his suspicions, which anyway was legally impeccable. Later, the MP officer was let in, and Nader and Walsh, and, perhaps with an idea to stop his noise, briefly, the colonel.

  Koenig suddenly finished; whether for good and all, naturally he did not indicate. Nader and the MP, although they showed a personal distaste for Reinhart, seemed in the absence of contrary evidence to believe his story and agree he must stand a court-martial which would formally find him guilty of homicide in the line of duty, sentence one dollar. This to forestall an attempt by Monster’s heirs, if they could be found—he remained unidentified—to bring charges.

  Everybody having left, Reinhart assumed he could get up, and did so, and was frightened by the appearance of St. George, who lingered behind the operating table.

  “Listen,” said the captain, with suppressed dislike, “maybe you know. Does Lieutenant Schild have any family? We don’t know who to inform. For some reason he gave as next-of-kin the name of a prostitute in Paris, Texas. I never had occasion to look at the record until this morning, and then I recalled her name from when we served together at Camp Maxey.”

  “I never knew him well,” said Reinhart, whoozily standing.

  “Who did? ...He had a strange sense of humor, and this shows he would go all the way with it.” Still with obvious unfriendliness, he came to Reinhart’s support. “You see, we were in combat zones since D-Day. He could have been killed at any time. But for the joke he gave the name of this streetwalker.”

  Reinhart took the offered arm. They moved together into the ward. At his bed, first one on the right-hand line, he thanked the captain and shook hands, and saw astonished gratitude, and understood merely another error: St.
George did not dislike, but rather fearing being disliked.

  “Oh that’s all right,” said the captain, pumping his fingers. “If you don’t mind, maybe I can drop in from time to time to see you. But you’ll be better soon.” He left anxiously. He returned and placed a just-opened package of Parliament cigarettes on the night table. “Have a luxury smoke.” At the foot of the bed he turned and said: “He was a good fellow,” and waited.

  “Yes, he was,” Reinhart answered and blacked out. He dreamed he was twelve years old; selling newspapers from door to door he accumulated money for a bicycle; someone stole the money but when he went outside there was the bike on the porch; a Negro applied Simonize to the fenders; so you’re a Negro, he said, isn’t that fine!; the black man rose in terror, great white eyeballs gleaming, and ran down the street. When Reinhart awakened, the same Negro, whom he had never before seen in life, carrying a tray of food walked past the bed and to his own, number five, where he sat near its head and ate rather insolently, winding spaghetti into a spoon.

  Leek appeared with a tray for Reinhart containing various forms and colors of mush. He was suddenly horny; she was not so bad. He invited her to come sit upon the palm of his hand. She thought he waved her off, and went. He called her back and asked the time. Six-ten. He slept for an hour. Awakening, he asked the time of the fellow in the next bunk, who had a wart in the center of a bushy red eyebrow. Six-eleven. He denigrated the fellow’s watch, cursed its owner. The fellow slyly turned his back, and Reinhart cried into the pillow because he could not hurt him.

  When everybody had gone to sleep he wandered into the toilets and counting them again and again at last made his choice of one to sit upon and read a comic book. He had not finished a page when a wardboy whom he did not recognize entered and ordered him back to bed.

  “You been in here two hours.”

  Reinhart snarled contempt. “I’ve been in the Army since Christ was a PFC, and don’t you forget it, you prick of misery.”

  But he went. Someone kept putting a flashlight in his eyes and forced him to eat sulfa pills and drink four glasses of water.

  One day Marsala, whom he was forced to admit knowing, sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, so that the bastard with the red eyebrows couldn’t hear: “Carlo, whadduh yuh doin’? You been here three weeks, your cheek is almost healed. But you keep acting crazy, they send you to Psycho. I don’t shit you, pal. I heard Captain Cage talk about it this morning.”

  Reinhart had all he could do to keep from spitting in his ugly face. “Here’s what I say to you: go to hell.”

  “See what I mean. Whadduh yuh want to be sore for? Jesus, I’m distracted.” He rubbed his thick and whorled temples. “So you took too much sulfa, but that don’t stay on permanent. Your white-corpuscle count is okay—”

  “You flunky, what do you know about medicine? You traitor, you make me puke.” He stared fiercely at the quondam buddy, stared through him as if he were cellophane—a gift he had nowadays and would have done anything to get rid of.

  “Okay,” said Marsala. “Okay then. You and I are through.

  Get it? As soon as I get back to the apartment your crap goes out inna street.” He symbolically spat. “And the same goes for your lousy putana, that little kid who’s young enough to be ya granddaughter, dirty guy.”

  The return on his aggression soothed Reinhart, convinced him that even wounded and mad he was potent. In delight, he said: “I hurt your feelings, didn’t I?”

  Marsala looked at him a long time, his ferocity melting into a kind of grief. “Nah, I consider the source. ... Look, what for did you tell that kid Trudy she could have your extra OD shirt and pants? Don’t you think you will ever get out of here?”

  “Did you give them to her?” He saw the whole thing and was serene.

  Marsala clicked his teeth in lascivious regret. “You didn’t say she could have them, you ain’t even seen her since you’re here, am I right? She talked me into it, kid. I’m sorry. When we get through and are in there washing up she says she is thirteen. Jesus I’m a dirty guy.” He slapped his wrist with two fingers.

  Happily, Reinhart lied: “Of course I did. I sent her a note. I’m going home soon and don’t need that extra stuff. Give it all to her and take her for yourself. She is really sixteen and if she’s old enough to have it, that’s old enough to use it. I apologize for being nasty. You’re the best buddy I ever had, and when I get home I’ll write you a letter once a month. ...” He closed his eyes and kept on talking. When he opened them again Marsala was gone and Red Eyebrows, who he also noticed had red hair, was peering at him most curiously.

  “Hey Red,” he called. “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday about your watch. I was still a little dizzy from this trouble I had the other night. Have a luxury cigarette.” He picked up the Parliaments and handed them over. They were strangely dry and friable for a fresh pack.

  “Yesterday?” asked Red. “That was almost a month ago.” He laughed as if he were insane.

  But when later in the day they transferred a patient to the Neuropsychiatry Ward, it was not Red.

  Veronica’s shadow flowed back into the black cavity of the office, meaning all was quiet on the ward. Reinhart himself certainly never made a sound. In the latrine he had even perfected a technique for micturating without noise. He wished to call no attention to himself, because he was altogether mad.

  It owed to that kick in the head which couldn’t be proved. The staff in Superficial Wounds assured him he suffered from a mild toxic psychosis, the effects of an overdose of sulfa, for which they took full responsibility. Having admitted their guilt, they insisted it make him free, especially since the technical manual, Guides to Therapy for Medical Officers, called the reaction rare. And as to Reinhart’s confession that he habitually swung the pills into the deep socket of his jaw, drank the water, and spit them out when the nurse turned her back: in their view this illusion was rather an index to how many he had swallowed and been deranged by. Apologizing, they force-fed him gallons of water. Drowning, he was still mad.

  The Psycho people, on the other hand, kept their convictions secret. Lieutenant Llewellyn walked on eggs from bed to bed on his morning tour of inspection, wearing the silky, untrimmed mustache to make himself look older and the plastic-rimmed eyeglasses for wisdom, carrying his mouth slack and moist in an advertisement of patience. He was rather leery of Reinhart; few indeed of his patients had killed a man with their bare hands.

  Captain Millet, the chief, stayed always in the office and one went to see him at intervals. From crown to temple he shone bald as Bach; around the ears, a ballet tutu of salt-and-pepper hair. As Llewellyn was listener, Millet questioned, and had a talent for the irrelevant: Do you like girls, did you ever play with yourself, do you have headaches, did you dress up in your mother’s clothes when a boy, what do you think other people think of you, what do you want to be?

  To the last Reinhart invariably answered: “Able to tell time again.” For this was the heart of the matter, but Millet, bored, toyed with his pen and never took a note.

  His head he had stopped bothering to mention; if Superficial Wounds, in whose area of interest it lay, could not find that seepage of brain fluid, Psycho, devoted to the impalpable, would hardly. On the basis of many motion pictures about amnesiacs he drew up his own strategy of treatment: he could be cured by another raking blow on the skull. But owing to the queer angle, he could not slug himself sufficiently hard, and he was afraid to ask one of the nuts to do it, who might kill him. Which brought to mind an essential feature of his condition: a lack of interest in death as therapy.

  Once he had tried strenuously to die, and again the next morning, when it had seemed necessary to the Gestalt of himself-Schild-and-Germany. Now it would be a simple missing of the point, for the self within him was already unearthly and losing the rest were impertinent. If someone sought to kill him he might not resist, but he would not raise his hand against himself.

  His inner cautions to the
contrary, in a burst of bravado he delivered this information to Captain Millet. Who blankly answered: “That is comforting.” And Reinhart was ashamed of his vanity and of his suddenly revealed wish for Millet’s affection, whom he didn’t even like and to whom he had bragged only because, he thought, Millet didn’t care.

  The captain went on: “You mean, you will not commit suicide by violence. That is too easy, whereas what always attracts you is the difficult.”

  “No,” Reinhart confessed. “The impossible.”

  An ear fringe grew as fast as a full head of hair; Millet needed a haircut, which deficiency, however, and now a vulnerable smile—his teeth were crooked—canceled the disapproval from his next remark: “Why do you think you are so important?”

  “Because—” Reinhart groped for something smashing; in his bare cupboard was one bone; he seized it—“because I am insane.”

  Millet said seriously: “The Army may make errors in assignment, but they were right about me. I can show you my diplomas. I assure you, you are not insane and will not be.”

  “Then I am a fake.”

  Millet’s pen scratched upon his notepad, but Reinhart saw only doodles, and not imaginative ones at that. “As late as the nineteenth century they used to chain patients to the wall and whip the disorders out of them. The treatment was oftentimes successful. It might be used today except that its good effects were, I believe, only temporary and it required enormous physical exertion on the therapists’ part. Now we have the lazy man’s method. When you decide whether or not you are a fake, come in and tell me.”

  Well, he guessed he had made a mark on Millet, if Millet talked to him in that ironical way. The captain was softer with the other patients, according to them—for Reinhart sometimes conversed with those who were articulate. The enuretic poseur of a paratrooper, for example, whom Very talked about back in August, had returned. Perhaps he falsified the one symptom, but he had plenty more, couldn’t use a tableknife, thought people were after him, etc.