A Perfect Madness

by Frank H. Marsh

TWENTY-ONE

  Erich, Görden, 1942

  It was an exciting and stimulating time for Erich. His ward stayed mostly empty with only twenty children admitted during a five-week period, all imbecilic by diagnosis. Their time to be euthanized, however, had been purposely extended over several days, providing him with the opportunity to bring in Dr. Bracht to study each child’s external disabilities more thoroughly before dissecting their brains. Prior to this time, his view of these malformations had only been that of observing a dead child lying on a gurney when brought to his laboratory, which told him nothing about their movements. Both he and Erich had theorized wrongly that all imbecilic brains of blind and malformed children would produce observable lesions, or other damaged areas in the tissues of the brain.

  Maria had returned to a more pleasant mood, too, though she had heard nothing from Martin in over two months. But the invasion of Russia was going well, and she believed he would be home soon. One sunny May afternoon, she left the hospital on her break to bask in the surprising warmth of the sun after such a cold winter. Going to the rose garden, she found Erich sitting there reading a tattered copy of Nietzsche’s The Gay Science. Maria knew nothing of the man, nor of any of the other great German philosophers, and always found talk of philosophy boring. Erich loved Nietzsche, though, particularly the poems in the book, because they held special memories for him. He would read them for hours with Julia, trying to grasp the completeness of their meaning, which he knew would open a window to Nietzsche’s own disturbed soul. In the end, they would always find themselves sailing together above the world on the sheer beauty of his words.

  “May I sit with you for a moment?” Maria asked. “The day seems so special.”

  Erich nodded but continued reading. Maria had found him different when he was away from the East Ward and the hospital. She had been with him at several social gatherings of the staff, and he always seemed a different person, at least to her. It was as if there were two minds wrapped carefully together in his body, each one choosing a separate place in time to let itself be known. Franz, and those like him, were always the same, preaching the gospel of the Third Reich, which by now had become boring. To her, there was a certain strange softness about Erich that made him different from most men, but it kept him weak also, which she didn’t like. Few men, she knew, would be found sitting in a rose garden reading poems.

  “Read me one of the shorter poems and tell me what it means,” Maria said on an impulse, startling Erich for a second.

  “I would like to but I can’t—there’s too much history tied up in this book, which I treasure very much.”

  Maria measured Erich’s words for a second before speaking again.

  “What was she like?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you read these poems to,” Maria said, looking wistfully at him.

  Shaken by Maria’s perception, Erich closed the book and sat silent for a few moments, staring at a particular small rose that seemed to be struggling against the larger blossoms for its own place in the sun. “Your skin is softer than the petals of a rose,” he had recited to Julia once from a silly poem he had written for her. But she didn’t laugh at him, and he loved her even more for it.

  Erich looked over at Maria, who was sitting next to him, and saw that she was serious with her question.

  “She was beautiful. That’s all I can say—beautiful.”

  “Where is she now?” Maria asked, pleased that he had finally responded.

  “I don’t know. We were in Prague together at the medical school before the war started.”

  “Was she from Germany like you?” Maria asked, taken with the romantic overtones of this sudden conversation with Erich.

  Crossing his arms and looking around the garden slowly, Erich sighed aloud, as if captured by the completeness of the roses before him. It seemed a lifetime since he had talked with anyone about this remarkable woman he loved so dearly.

  “Her name is Julia. She is not German but a Czech—and a Jew.”

  Maria’s face reddened when she heard the last word and she quickly looked away from Erich. Had she been given a thousand guesses to describe Julia, none would have included the word Jew. He seemed so German to her, the kind that would have no place in his heart for a Jew. Erich felt her misplaced embarrassment and wished he had said nothing, though it felt strangely good to him to have spoken Julia’s name again openly, not covering it within the silence of his mind.

  “She’s a good woman, I’m sure,” Maria said, turning back to Erich, “but not one I could ever have imagined you would love.”

  “We will let this stop here. She was beautiful, that is all, and I loved her,” Erich said, rising from the garden bench and starting back to the hospital, leaving Maria alone.

  “Dr. Schmidt,” Maria yelled to him. “I will tell no one, never, I promise.”

  Erich stopped and looked back at Maria, her face still bright red, but with tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Maria. See, we have become friends after all,” he said, then walked into the hospital.

  When he arrived the next morning, Maria seemed rested and was busily attending to three new children who had been brought to the hospital by their parents during the night. As a group they had spent the night crying and sleeping and rocking their children, refusing to go home until they had talked with him about their children. After speaking with Maria, Erich went to them and told them they must leave.

  “Your children will be fine and well cared for. I will keep you informed of their progress,” he lied, looking each parent in the face, as he had others before them asking the same questions.

  “We have heard that all the children brought here die,” one man said, his voice quivering.

  “Rumors, that is all, rumors,” Erich said firmly, though slightly shaken by the man’s sudden accusation. “Some have died from unexpected complications, but only a few. You must leave, your children will be well cared for. We will notify you when they are ready to go home.”

  One by one the parents returned to the rooms where their children lay, kissed them several times, then walked slowly back by Erich, thanking and blessing him for what they thought he would do. After they were gone, Erich decided to tell Dr. Heinze and the Chancellery about the rumors he had heard and left Maria to tend to the children. When he entered the office, he found Franz Kremer talking with Dr. Heinze and immediately turned around to leave.

  “Come in and tell me quickly what you have to say. Dr. Kremer and I are busy,” Dr. Heinze said gruffly, red faced as usual.

  Erich sat down and told them in detail about the surprising complaints of the parents and the rumors they brought with them and asked if the Chancellery knew of them, too. After he was through, Dr. Heinze looked to Franz as if they were passing a secret between them, then looked for a moment at Erich, smiling as he did.

  “The answer you want is yes. An official letter from the Chancellery is going out ordering a stop to the program. So officially, no more children are to be euthanized,” Dr. Heinze said, still smiling.

  Stunned by what he was hearing, Erich started to speak of his gladness at the news, when Dr. Heinze continued.

  “We will continue our program, though in a clandestine way, with the children in the hospital and any that might be brought to us, until everything is calm again.”

  Dr. Heinze then walked over and put his hands on Franz’s shoulders, his eyes full of pride as if he were his own son.

  “Dr. Kremer has been elevated to a senior status and is to be rewarded by assuming an important post at Auschwitz.”

  “Auschwitz? What hospital is at Auschwitz?” Erich asked, puzzled by Dr. Heinze’s actions.

  Dr. Heinze said nothing, delighted in Erich’s ignorance. Feeling uneasy with the silence that suddenly had seized the room, Erich stood up to leave. As he did, Franz half nodded to him and said sarcastically, “You still agree that we must cooperate, don’t you, Erich?”

  “Why do you ask? My wo
rd is as good as yours.”

  “Things may become heavy at Auschwitz, and you should be ready to work with me should that happen. That is all.”

  Erich looked once more at Franz’s sickening face and left the office.

  He would call his father tonight and uncover the truth about what had taken place. Franz had somehow gained the ear of someone in the Chancellery to bring about such an important promotion at age twenty-nine. No word would come from his father, though Erich waited late into the night for the operators to try to find him. Sleep would not come to him either, until the early morning hours when he finally surrendered his mind to it while writing and rewriting imaginary love letters to Julia. His words to her, though she might never read them, calmed his fears, brightening his heart and bringing hope that the terrible things he had been doing would finally end. But later, with a new day before him, he knew that the only thing certain in his life was the will to live. Nothing else really mattered.

  ***