by Alex Pheby
‘The eldest child, your brother Gustav, was faced with a silent room. You and your sisters swayed and pulled your lips and looked at the door. Gustav was bright and, in the absence of authority, knew enough to understand that he was next in the proper succession of power in the house. He said:
‘“I’ll be Father.”
‘A reasonable suggestion. He went on:
‘“Anna, you be Mother.”
‘Now, Anna was equally bright and equally sensitive to the structures of their lives but, as two bright young things might, came to an utterly different conclusion to that of her brother. She looked at him like their mother had looked at him once, when he swore—purely by accident—having heard the word spoken in anger by the maid and deciding to use it himself in a similar circumstance.
‘“Don’t be naughty,” Anna said. “We will wait here until someone comes down.”
‘Gustav straightened his back and pushed his chin down to his chest so that when he spoke his voice was deeper than usual and he looked out over heavy brows underlining a wrinkled forehead.
‘“Now children, get in a line,” he said, and though he didn’t look a bit like their father, the little ones obeyed, recognising if not an agent of authority, then the tone that one might properly use.
‘“Stop it!” Anna said, and she rushed over and tried to wipe the silly look from her brother’s face, to prise his chin up from his chest and smooth out his forehead. Gustav pushed her away.
‘“Paul, you be Mother if Anna won’t do it.”
‘And here we have it. You are a second son, a third child, and you were given a difficult choice: naturally you would wish to defer to both your older brother and older sister, and here were conflicting requirements. You were also, no less than the others, at a loss in this strange world where neither father nor mother were present. Breakfast was already ten minutes late, and none of you had been so much as a wiped with a flannel. Your nightshirt was still on, and your legs were cold. Isn’t that right? Now here was Gustav, making your father’s face—more convincingly than might be imagined—and you were confused as to the level of Gustav’s actual authority. And Anna was clearly disconcerted, where Gustav seemed calm. So you followed your instincts and did as you were told. We might make assumptions here about a boy’s natural inclinations. We might wonder whether you were predisposed to adopt the motherly role. Indeed, to the lay observer, you did appear to be less of a boisterous boy than your brother was. Couldn’t you be seen, occasionally, touching the dresses of your sister’s dolls? Or stroking their hair? But I see you do not consider this the proper place for such conjecture. Back to the facts! You arched your eyebrows and pursed your lips and waved your left hand around from side to side, not so much in imitation of your mother—though it was a passable try—as in a pastiche of the generic feminine. You looked more like Anna than anyone else. This enraged Anna even further, but when she came over to you, you pushed her aside, despite being her junior, and when she recovered, the little ones were dancing around you and laughing and pulling at your nightshirt. The noise made Anna look toward the door and up at the ceiling, but no one came to impose order, so you went and took your place at your brother’s side, reaching down to hold his hand, and together you stood by the doorway. Anna dived back under her bedclothes, but the little ones jumped around shouting “Mama, Papa, Mama, Papa,” and laughing. It was quite a scene!
‘“Quiet!” shouted Gustav, and the little ones were shocked, at first, but soon saw the game, and they went quiet and stood watching, the corners of their nightshirts in their mouths so their pudgy legs were bare up past their knees. Stop me if I get anything wrong, or out of place, but this is accurate so far, isn’t it? It fits with your memory? Don’t feel you have to speak, if the exercise makes you breathless, a nod will suffice… I’ll continue anyway.
‘“Mother,” Gustav went on, not looking at you, or seeing fit to elaborate on his one-word declarations.
‘“Yes now, children,” you said, after a sideways glance, “do as your father says and get washed and dressed and make yourself ready to do our exercises.”
‘The children did not move. Gustav turned his head aside, disdainfully, and you, understanding your brother’s performance of fatherly frustration, went to the children and stripped them of their nightwear. Then you led them over to the nightstand, where you doused them with the cold water that was always left out for them by the maid, today being no exception, as different though it was from all other days. When they were wet and cold you went to dry them but Gustav said:
‘“No, they will become soft that way. They must dry in the natural way, in the fresh air,” and, smiling to himself, he went over to the window and pushed it up so the cold wind blew in. When the heavy, musty, night-warmth of the bedroom was blown out into the garden, the children began to shiver. You came forward with the clothes the maid had laid out for them. Again, Gustav stopped you.
‘“Make them dance themselves dry!” He had a little smile, one that you had never noticed on your father. Pleasure? Something your father never showed and yet… deep inside, was this the first prompt to much future examination of your father’s motives? I go too far? Perhaps. Anyway, Gustav went on.
‘“Mother,” he said, “I don’t want to see one speck of water on those children.”
‘“But,” you said, “their teeth are chattering.”
‘“Ah!” said Gustav, indicating that he did not share your concern.
‘You put the children’s clothes back on the bed and whispered to the little ones, something about a game and, after a little uncertainty, they jigged here and there on the spot, quite naked, and you hovered nearby watching Gustav for signs that they were dry enough.
‘“This is ridiculous,” said Anna. “They’ll catch a chill and then you will be for it. I’ll tell Mama everything, and she’ll tell Papa and have both of you whipped.”
‘Gustav thought about this, but by the look on his face it was clear that he considered the argument defective. He turned to you.
‘“But I am Papa,” he said, “aren’t I, Mama?”
‘“Yes, dear,” you said, but you weren’t as convinced anymore, and when Anna came over and grabbed the clothes and started dressing the little ones, you were more than prepared to let the game drop, weren’t you? Didn’t you even go off to find your train, the red wooden one, very fine, very expensive—from that shop on the Felixstrasse—you remember the one? With the guard painted in at the window and brass studs on the wheels. You had left it under the bed, but when Gustav saw you were going to drop the performance he ran over to where Anna was, grabbed the clothes and pulled them away from her. Anna was strong, and when Gustav could not take the clothes from her, he shouted for you and here you were on familiar ground, this sort of tug-o-war being run-of-the-mill nursery play and something you could innocently enjoy, without the strange prickling sensations, down there, that you had only just started to notice. You started to tickle Anna under the arms, a game she always liked, and she laughed and squeaked, but at the same time she grunted in anger and annoyance, when the tickling waned a little, until after a few seconds she let go of the clothes and started to cry. Gustav turned away, unconcerned, but you went to put your hand on her shoulder. She pulled away.
‘“Now, Mother,” Gustav intoned, “are these children dry, or will they need to run the water off in the garden?”
‘You looked between brother and sister. She was crying and he seemed so sure of himself. You took up the maternal role again and checked the shivering children for water. They were dry, the breeze had seen to that, so at last Gustav gave permission for them to be dressed, by which time Anna was back under the covers of her bed and now Klara was crying from the room next door. Gustav looked at you as if he couldn’t understand what it was you were waiting for, and you understood the look. You were very sensitive, even then: a perceptive little boy, bright, sucking in the world. It was a
look you’d seen pass between your mother and father so many times, seemingly for as long as you could remember, and so often that you almost didn’t need to think about it, it was just understood. You trotted to the door, your hands at your side, as your mother’s would have been, although you had no dress to keep straight, no weight of fabric to stop from swinging, no line to preserve.’
Rössler came over and put his hand on Schreber’s shoulder.
‘We’ll take a break here for iced water. Please, take a seat. Müller, bring the chair over and then go to the kitchens. Might I ask how you are feeling, Herr Schreber? You seem pale and distracted. You look off over your shoulder.’
‘Do you see that Jew?’
‘Focus on me, please, Herr Schreber. Look at my fingertip if you will, as I describe a circle spinning clockwise.’
‘He is right beside you. He knows everything.’
‘The fingertip, please.’
Schreber reached out his hand, intending to grab Rössler and force him to look at the Jew. Rössler was not inclined to be grabbed and stepped back. From his new vantage he looked Schreber up and down.
‘I suppose it was silly of me to expect more co-operation from you than you are used to giving, Herr Schreber.’
‘Please look behind you, it is a simple matter.’
‘Are we to return to this? Please examine me; please listen to me; and this new one, please look behind me? I thought you wanted to make progress. Was I wrong?’
‘He is behind you. He tells tales from my life to me, and there is no way he can know what he knows.’
Rössler nodded.
‘Here is Müller with the water. Take some from the tray, please.’
‘Müller, do you see him? The man over Rössler’s shoulder?’
‘Which one? the garden is full of them,’ Müller said.
By the time Schreber pointed weakly at the Jew, Müller had looked away. Alexander smiled, perfectly relaxed, smoking a newly lit cigarette. Rössler shot Müller a look, and he returned to his place behind Schreber’s chair.
‘Drink up,’ Rössler said, rubbing his creaking back, ‘and we’ll get this thankless business over with.’
Alexander came over.
‘They don’t see me. They have no interest in me. I have been here for years—since the place opened. There is nothing that could happen now, nothing that I could do that would make them pay me a single moment of attention. Except, perhaps, if I were to slit my throat. Then they would notice me, although, I fear, only as much as was necessary to clear me away and write up the report. I am hopeless, they say. Hopelessly insane.’
Rössler turned his back on both of them and returned his jacket to the grass.
‘Soon they will think the same of you—that you are lost, I mean. This is just the final effort: an act, if you will, to placate their consciences. They are generous in giving you that. See that one there, bald, with the long scar like a frowning mouth that runs across his forehead?’
Schreber could see him. He sat in a chair very like Schreber’s and his head lolled on his shoulders.
‘That one got sliced into on the day he arrived. A miner. He took his pick to the pit props as he and his colleagues were extending the seam in a new direction. He couldn’t be stopped. Brought the roof down on top of six men. No one knows how he got out. They found him doing it again, and it took another six men to hold him down. He said he’d seen the devil. They brought him here strapped to a board of wood. The doctors couldn’t get any sense out of him, so Rössler cut out a part of his brain. If you ask nicely, next time you’re in his office, I dare say he’ll show it to you. He has it in a jar. The poor fool hasn’t said a word since. So we should be grateful it’s only the gymnastics for you… He’s at it again.’
Alexander stepped to one side. Rössler had started the new set of postures. Schreber got up from his chair and followed suit.
‘Anyway,’ Alexander said, ‘let’s not dwell on morbid matters, eh? So, where were we? Yes, your mother and father. They were busy and Gustav has you acting the role of mother. That’s right. And Klara was crying. So what does a mother do, when her child cries? She rushes to it. This is what you did, because you are a clever boy, keen to do things right, even when you aren’t sure you should be doing them at all. You got so caught up in the game that you forgot that there were real parents somewhere in the house, didn’t you? Out of sight, out of mind.’
‘It didn’t occur to me to listen out for Mother or Father.’
‘Just as I thought. You do remember, then? I am not altogether deluded? That is good! I have remembered it like this for many years. It has seemed to me that—and you must forgive me for taking liberties here—the very playing of the game established, somewhere deep, their absence, simply by the fact that you would not dare mimic them in their presence. Here a reversion occurred in your mind—if you were mimicking them, then they could not be there, rather than it being the other way around: that you were able to mimic them because they were not there. Would you agree?’
Schreber nodded, but then Rössler had him lie on his back and raise his legs in the air, and talking became difficult. Alexander, thoughtfully, went on.
‘You didn’t listen out for them, and nor did you look for a turning of the door handle, as you generally would have done, but instead you went for Klara, hands first, certain only that Gustav—Father—was behind you in the doorway, watching on, making sure that you—Mother—fulfilled your maternal duty. And you did. Gustav was there and watching and when you picked up the baby and she didn’t stop crying, Gustav said:
‘“The child is hungry, woman,” and he sniffed and turned away until he could be mistaken for a person looking in the other direction, except that when he opened his left eye he could see you clearly. At first you did nothing. You held Klara and rocked her, like you normally did, on those early mornings—or perhaps one should say those late nights—when the child woke and cried, and your fraternal instincts got the better of you. Am I right? Don’t trouble to answer, I know that I am. But now, when you saw that Gustav’s half-stare was still on you, you thought for a little while and then—and this is what sticks in the mind—you pulled your nightshirt up so that your chest was bared, and you put Klara onto it, as you had seen your mother do, or sometimes the nurse.’
Alexander took two or three steps forward until he was looking down at Schreber, lying on his back on the grass. He leaned right over, the polished tips of his shoes only an inch of two from Schreber’s ear.
‘She rooted here and there, out of instinct, on the flat skin of your chest, squirming like a maggot. Gustav shrieked in delight and disgust, and his pretence was dropped and he became himself again. Who knows why? Perhaps in the face of such a breach in the order of the world it is impossible to dissemble, no matter how innocently, just as Klara herself could do nothing other than follow her true nature. She sucked and her little hands gripped the air, looking for something and her wet lips were over your chest, on the flat, bony ground of it, where she would usually find her milk.
‘Of course, there was nothing, and, as must be expected, she became upset. Her face went red and she cried harder, and you, not knowing what to do, pressed her harder against your chest, as your mother did and sometimes, too, the nurse. She was crying so loud that you didn’t hear a thing. Nothing. Not the door opening. You were so closely attending to your sister that you saw nothing either, not even Gustav stiffening, and putting his hands behind his back. If you had listened closely, you would have heard the sound of your father, gritting his teeth. You’d have seen the laughter wiped from your brother’s face. If you hadn’t been wrapped up in the game you’d have been aware of the whiteness of your own thin legs poking out from where your nightshirt was suddenly lifted. You would have felt it lift, even, and you would have turned to see the progress of your father’s huge red hand through the air, it coming fast as a swoopin
g falcon, so that when that slap landed on you, you would not have been so utterly surprised. As it was, it was only by miracle that you didn’t drop Klara head first onto the white wooden boards.
‘Your mother was by your father’s side, with her hands up to her face, and when the slap hit you jumped. She gasped and stepped forward, reaching down, ready to grab you and Klara both and lift you away to somewhere, away from that place, but your father, upright again now, took her by the arm and pulled her to his side and turned his anger on her. With a glance he said more clearly than words that he considered this aberration to be some fault of hers, her coddling influence once again undercutting his good work, and now this, the worst. From the way her face fell she agreed with him.
‘I have to say that I was surprised, because she always seemed a mother first and foremost, but, at her husband’s side, despite her reservations and obvious love for you, she found the strength to ignore the looks on your face, the surprise fading and your lips pursing, eyes narrowing, red coming everywhere, up from your chest to your neck and your cheeks blazing. Klara was quiet now. I don’t know how much she could have known—nothing probably—but she felt something, and was silenced by it. Perhaps infants, even before speech, have some understanding of the hierarchy of human emotions. Rössler might be able to tell you. Or it might have been a coincidence, but she let her petty hunger go and was watchful. She watched your mouth widen until your teeth were showing, and then you wailed and wailed, and if anyone seemed to be the baby, forgive me, it was you. Your father was immune to the noise, but your mother… she saw her baby who had once been, who was now separated from her by years, your wide mouth and shut eyes, crying, and though you could not have seen it, she tested the grip of her husband on her forearm, and it was only his years of domination that prevented her from pulling away. That, and, perhaps, his prickling anger: it filled the room like steam from an untended kettle. No one moved, even though your tears moved them all, and your mother would have given anything to fall onto her knees and pull both of you little dears toward her and hold you against her breast.