Medication:
Otherwise recommended: morphine—scopolamine 0.75 ml.
Remarks:
Conversation with Levin requested.
Dr. G. O. Berthelsen called in.
December 24, 1943
The patient had a restless night. He didn’t sleep, he threatened an attendant, and he repeatedly shouted that he “promises to listen.” This morning the patient suffered an attack of rage. “I’m going berserk,” he yelled. It’s worth noting that during this attack, as well as during previous aggressive spells, the patient directed all his anger at himself. At no time was he a danger to those around him. On the other hand, he hit, bit, and scratched himself to a degree that must be labeled extensive. He repeatedly said, “I’m going to rip you out of my body.” It is unknown who this “you” is. The patient’s self-destructive tendencies are so pronounced that it is feared he might commit suicide.
The patient’s family brought to the ward a couple of notebooks, which the patient, during the days just before he was hospitalized, had filled with his “automatic writing” correspondence with God. Appearing in the patient’s customary handwriting is a series of questions, which God then answers in a large, childishly formed script that is actually the patient’s own handwriting but larger. In places God’s writing is so faint that it’s illegible, apparently even to the patient himself, since in the next line he asks for the answer to be written more clearly. At times God’s answer is nothing but gibberish. The contents of these notebooks is very stereotypical, naive, and lacking in imagination, characterized by an inferiority complex and references to the patient’s so-called mission. Furthermore, the patient had prepared a couple of pompous documents addressed to the people of the world. In a Norwegian newspaper, he had entered check marks next to a number of articles.
Treatment:
It is recommended that the patient be treated with the new electroshock therapy.
Remarks:
In spite of aggressive treatment with electroshock therapy, it has not been possible to induce the patient to give up his self-destructive behavior. Hence it was decided to put him in restraints.
December 24, 1943
For the first time since he was admitted, the patient was willing to see his wife, Amalie Hjort Worning. Mrs. Worning, who seems extremely upset by the situation, tried to calm her husband. They spent the morning together in his room. When she left around lunchtime, she told a nurse that her husband seemed calm, although what he was saying didn’t make any sense. He wanted her to bring him his radio equipment.
Radiology:
An appointment has been ordered.
Supervised conversation with a stenographer present. Doctor of psychiatry P. W. Levin.
14
3:34 A.M.—12 hours, 7 minutes until sundown
Niels leafed through the remaining pages of transcripts from conversations with the patient. A stamp in the upper-left-hand corner stated: Approved for training purposes. Niels read:
Levin: Mr. Worning. The stenographer here is going to write down our conversation. It saves a lot of time if I don’t have to write my own summaries of my conversations with patients. But it’s only for my own use. Do you understand?
Worning: You can do whatever you like with it.
Levin: For my report, I first need to get some general information from you. Where were you born?
Worning: I was born in Århus.
Levin: In 1897? Mr. Worning, it would be best if you answer the questions in words, otherwise the stenographer can’t—
Worning: YES!
Levin: Can you tell me a little about your family background? Your mother and father?
Worning: My father worked down at the harbor as a longshoreman. My mother was a housewife.
Levin: Would you say that you had a good childhood?
Worning: I was never beaten or abused.
Levin: Did you have any sisters or brothers?
Worning: They both died of typhoid. But two years apart. My mother never recovered from their deaths.
Levin: What about your father?
Worning: He just drank a little more. A lot more.
Levin: You went to school, didn’t you? Would you describe your school years as normal?
Worning: Yes.
Levin: And you didn’t notice anything . . . unusual about yourself?
Worning: Unusual?
Levin: Were you like all the other children? Did you have friends?
Worning: Yes.
Levin: Did you ever feel particularly depressed or . . .
Worning: I think I was pretty much like everybody else.
Levin: What did you do after finishing your schooling?
Worning: I went to work at the harbor with my father. That was a good period until . . .
Levin: Until what?
Worning: The accident.
Levin: What accident?
Worning: He fell in the water. He thought the ice would hold. We couldn’t even pull him out. He just slipped under. Two weeks later, my mother died.
Levin: How did she die?
Worning: She never went to the doctor. She just kept coughing until her lungs gave out. And then one morning—exactly two weeks after my father died—she started coughing up blood. A lot of blood. I remember it quite clearly. It was horrible. A few hours later, she was dead.
Levin: I’m very sorry to hear that.
Worning: It was the best thing that could have happened to her. After Thea’s and Anna’s deaths, she was . . .
Levin: Were they your sisters?
Worning: Am I going to get my radio today?
Levin: What?
Worning: My shortwave radio. I’ve been asking for it for two days now.
Levin: I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll look into it after we’re done here. Shall we talk a bit about your wife?
Worning: Why? What does she have to do with anything?
Levin: How about your work, then? You are a . . .
Worning: I’m a radiotelegraphist. I never had any sort of proper training, but I had a friend who . . . Do we really need to go into all the details?
Levin: Only if they’re important.
Worning: Good. I worked for the military. Hitler’s power was increasing. I think that I was . . . meant to work as a radiotelegraphist.
Levin: You were meant to? You mean there was some sort of higher meaning?
Worning: Is that a question?
Levin: Yes.
Worning: I’ve stumbled onto the track of something. Yes, that’s it precisely. I’m on the track of something.
Levin: And what do you mean by that?
Worning: Some people have died. In different parts of the world.
Levin: In the war?
Worning: This has nothing to do with the war. At least I don’t think so. They just died.
Levin: Where did you hear about this?
Worning: You wouldn’t believe what I can pick up on my radio. Shortwave. Longwave. It’s like tentacles that are sent out into the world. Messages in bottles. And some of them come back.
By the time Niels realized that the door had opened, it was too late. He’d been engrossed in a conversation that had taken place over half a century ago. But now there was someone else in the room.
15
4:04 A.M.—11 hours, 37 minutes until sundown
It was an effort for Hannah simply to open her eyes. Her body felt weighted down, and the room was spinning in a slow elliptical movement like some sort of cheap amusement-park ride. She wasn’t sure, but she had the feeling that the doctors had increased her pain meds. They were making her sluggish. She struggled to wake up properly, telling herself that it was Friday. She tried to see the sun, but the curtains were drawn. Was it still night? She needed to get up. Tonight when the sun went down . . . She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Just for a moment.
“Hannah?”
An unfamiliar voice.
“Are you awake?”
“What?”
/>
“You just need to take this.” A nurse—Hannah wasn’t sure if she had seen her before—stuck a pill in her mouth, raised her head a bit, and helped her drink some water.
“Please. No. Don’t give me any more sedatives.”
“It’s just something to help you sleep.”
“You don’t understand.”
Hannah managed to spit out the pill. It landed on the nurse’s arm, partially dissolved in pink saliva.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
“I need to see Niels.”
“Your husband?”
“No, my . . .” She gave up trying to explain. “I need to see him.”
The nurse headed for the door.
“Wait,” said Hannah.
“What?”
“What time is it?”
“It’s still nighttime, Hannah.”
The nurse left. They didn’t have much time. “You have to think of something,” Hannah told herself. “Get control of your body.” She pushed the sheet aside so she could examine her injuries. Her legs would pass. It was her upper body that was the biggest problem. Her shoulder and her chest.
“What’s the problem here?” The doctor spoke loudly, sounding annoyed, as he came into the room. The nurse was behind him, preparing a syringe.
“There’s no problem.”
“You need to rest. You’ve had heart failure.”
“No. I’m begging you. Please don’t put me out again.”
“I can understand that it’s not exactly pleasant.”
“You don’t understand a fucking thing! You’re not going to stick that in me. I need to have a clear head.”
The doctor and nurse exchanged glances. The nurse left the room. The doctor patted Hannah on the arm. “You need to stay calm so your body can recover. Otherwise you may go into cardiac arrest again. I hear that you’ve been out of bed and running around. That just won’t do.”
Two nurses came in.
“Please. I’m begging you. Please don’t.”
“If you’ll just hold on to her,” the doctor said to the nurses.
They each grabbed one of Hannah’s arms.
“No! Do you hear me? You can’t do this! This is an assault.”
The doctor searched for a vein and then stuck the needle in Hannah’s arm. “It’s for your own good.”
16
4:16 A.M.—11 hours, 25 minutes until sundown
Niels leaned against the boxes stacked in front of him. He needed to stretch out his leg, but he was afraid of giving himself away. He closed his eyes and prayed that the woman would hurry up and finish her phone conversation.
“. . . I just want to come home to you, Carsten. And talk everything over.”
She’d already said that five times. She had wept and accused the man of lying. Now she’d entered the final phase: pleading.
“Just for ten minutes, Carsten. Don’t you have time to see me for just ten minutes?”
Niels wasn’t sure how it ended, but the woman stopped talking. He heard a couple of grunts. Maybe that was her way of sobbing. Then the light went off and the door slammed shut. He heard her footsteps fading down the hall. Then he got up and went back to reading.
Levin: How did they die? Who died?
Worning: They each had a mark on their back. Will Amalie be here soon? She has my shortwave radio.
Levin: A mark?
Worning: When is Amalie coming?
Levin: What kind of mark?
Worning: Like mine.
Levin: You’re talking about the mark on your back? Who made that mark?
Worning: May I ask whether you believe in God?
Levin: No.
Worning: No, I can’t ask you? Or no, you don’t believe in God?
Levin: No, I don’t believe in God. But that’s not what we’re talking about here.
Worning: I need my shortwave radio.
Levin: Who do you want to talk to?
Worning: The others.
Levin: What do you mean by “the others”? Please be a little more specific.
Worning: The ones who have been marked. The other righteous men.
Levin: Righteous men? Are they the ones who have a mark on their back?
Worning: I want to see Amalie. I’m tired now.
Levin: All right. We’ll leave you in peace. But would you be willing to answer one last question?
Worning: Yes.
Levin: Can you tell me who you think made the mark on your back?
Worning: The one that you don’t believe in.
Levin: God? You’re saying that God made the mark on your—
Worning: Not just on mine. On the others, too.
Levin: God made the mark on your back?
Worning: Yes. God did it. It can’t be anyone else. But it might be possible to get it removed.
Levin: The mark can be removed?
Worning: Maybe. Before I get killed.
Levin: Who is going to kill you?
Worning: But first I have to do something evil.
Levin: What do you mean?
Worning: I don’t want to say any more.
Levin: What do you mean you have to do something evil?
Worning: I don’t want to say any more.
December 25, 1943
Clinical findings:
Classic example of paranoid schizophrenia. The patient believes that he is the center of the universe at the same time that he feels persecuted. Multiple traumatic experiences in his childhood may have caused this condition.
He has been given electroshock therapy but without the desired effect. His wife came to visit him this morning, which seemed to calm him down at least temporarily. Around lunchtime, he was again extremely depressed and was seen pounding his head against the floor as he shouted, “I can’t be the one. I can’t be the one.” And later: “I’m listening. I promise to listen.” Anti-anxiety medication did not have the desired effect. In the afternoon the patient was so upset that his wife was summoned. This turned out to be a mistake, because shortly after two P.M. it was discovered that both the patient and his wife had disappeared. The patient had managed to break open a secured window and then fled along with his wife. Half an hour later, the patient was found wandering around in front of the hospital, holding a knife. No one knows where he got the knife. He tried to kill his wife before the attendants managed to grab him. His wife was admitted with deep stab wounds in the throat, but she is expected to survive.
The patient was sedated and restrained.
December 28, 1943
The patient is calm and has been asleep for most of the day. For the first time since being admitted, he has slept soundly for several hours in a row. When he woke up, he wanted to speak to his wife. This request was denied. In the evening a discovery was made by the dermatologists who had been sent for. They described what they found as “highly unusual”: The severe psychosomatic eczema on the patient’s back has dramatically improved. The swelling has disappeared, and only a faint red mark remains.
January 26, 1944
The patient was discharged around noon.
Niels was sitting with his back against the wall. He couldn’t remember actually sitting down in that position. The medical file was lying open on his lap. He could hear footsteps outside. Voices. Had he fallen asleep? Someone must have noticed that the light was on in the room. He didn’t have the strength to make another attempt to flee. Two men entered the archives.
“There he is!” said one of them, aiming the beam of his flashlight at Niels even though he was bathed in light.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” asked the other man.
They may have said more, but Niels didn’t hear them.
When they placed Niels on the bed and began rolling it back to his room, he glanced at his watch. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning. Outside, the day was still gray, and the air was heavy with snow. He couldn’t see the sun. Maybe it hadn’t bothered to come up. If it stayed away . . . �
��Stay away! Stay away!” Niels muttered before his system reacted to the injection and he was out.
17
12:59 P.M.—2 hours, 42 minutes until sundown
The Last Good Man Page 43