by Jane Thynne
‘My pleasure,’ he said, although his face told a different story. ‘Lie back, please.’
Clara lay, trying not to flinch as the doctor bent over her with an astringent wash of cologne and his long, bony fingers prodded at her recumbent form. Behind the spectacles, deep-set eyes squinted in concentration and the lips were compressed tightly, as if reluctant to countenance the expenditure of any unnecessary words.
‘If you would just relax.’
That was asking a lot in close proximity to Professor de Crinis. Clara’s stomach muscles knotted reflexively and her skin prickled. She wondered how long it would be before she could request the free coffee and escape.
‘It’s not unusual to have abdominal problems at a time of war.’
As if in confirmation a portrait of the Führer, looking constipated, hung on the opposite wall.
‘Digestive issues are extremely common in females suffering from generalized anxiety.’
Clara propped herself up on one elbow.
‘I’m sorry for the confusion, but I don’t have generalized anxiety. I’m not sure where you got that idea.’
De Crinis frowned and removed his spectacles.
‘I was led to understand you were suffering from sleeping problems.’
‘Isn’t everyone? With the bombing raids?’
‘Not necessarily. Insomnia is more likely to signal another kind of condition. Underlying stress. Some feeling of guilt or worry.’
Clara felt a warning pulse of alarm. This man was a top doctor, a leading authority, and as an SS member almost certainly familiar with the senior figures of the regime. Was it possible that he was obliged to report on patients suffering from secret stress? And if he did, would the notes he compiled end up in the safe that Reinhard Heydrich called his ‘medicine cabinet’, full of files of secret information about VIPs? Almost as soon as these thoughts went through her head she quelled them. They were wild suppositions. Simple paranoia. Just another product of her sleepless mind.
‘Well, I’m not stressed. And I have no worries at all. At least, no more than anyone in wartime.’
‘Are you not concerned for the fate of the Fatherland?’
‘How could I be? With the Führer at the helm?’
De Crinis observed her silently for a moment, as though she were a laboratory animal about to receive a reward or an electric shock within its cage of glass. Then pulled over a leather swivel chair and sat a few feet from her, crossing his stork-like legs.
‘I wonder. Have you ever considered undergoing psychotherapy?’
Clara summoned her actress smile. It was a soft and girlish thing, a composite of all the light-hearted, insouciant parts she had ever played, and it conveyed a blithe disregard for the gloomier side of life.
‘Do you know, I’ve always thought my job is a form of psychotherapy. We actresses have to put ourselves in other people’s minds, you see, and when you inhabit different roles it makes you think about what motivates people to act the way they do.’
‘Interesting.’ De Crinis braced a pencil tightly between his fingers, as though he might snap it, like a neck. ‘I observe this response quite often. Many of my patients convince themselves that they hold the key to their own psyches. As if decades of professional training count for nothing. As if, forgive me, I might walk into the Ufa studios and take over from Emil Jannings this time next week.’
The tight lips wrestled themselves into a smile.
‘Unfortunately, when the brain hides its truth, we need experts to seek it out.’
Clara had a vision of the doctor’s bony fingers inside her head, probing the hidden wounds of her psyche. Parting the dark drapes of her mind for a glimpse of what lay within. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
‘I can see I’ve said the wrong thing, Herr Professor. You must forgive me. I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘I apologize if . . .’
‘No need to apologize, my dear Fräulein.’ The restless fingers were constantly busy, tapping a lip, plucking an ear, taming the sprouting hairs of an eyebrow. ‘As far as psychotherapy goes, I understand your hesitation. Many people believe National Socialists should disapprove of psychotherapy – or view it as a Jewish conspiracy – but in fact nothing could be further from the truth. Analysing the workings of the mind is a science close to our hearts. After all, Reich Marshal Goering’s own cousin, Mathias, runs the Goering Institute. Several of my staff are there at the moment, working on how we can contribute to the war effort. I would go so far as to say that psychological warfare does not just have the blessing of the regime, but it will be one of our most potent weapons.’
De Crinis rose and went to the shelves and returned with a finely worked wooden box from which he pulled two identical glass jars and stood them on his desk, side by side. It took a second for Clara to recognize what they contained and when she did, she had to suppress the gust of nausea that rose within her. In each quart of greenish viscous liquid a disembodied human brain hung suspended, a creamy walnut of matching hemispheres, their surfaces a furled maze of folds and convolutions. Whereas the empty chambers of a skull were redolent of death, these naked brains spoke of violation and dismemberment. Freed of their bony craniums they were at once vulnerable and sinister, and as de Crinis bent over them she could not help but be reminded of the hunched and staring figure of Doktor Caligari that she had seen on Joseph Goebbels’ private cinema screen.
Each jar bore a paper label.
Male, 32 years, Nordic
Female, 24 years, Untermensch
‘What an enigma the brain is.’
Picking up each jar alternately, de Crinis held them to the light, regarding them tenderly.
‘Its coils are the fingerprint of the soul. Its cortex is a route map of the mind. Its minute electrical impulses govern our actions, emotions, apprehensions, affections. Entire regions are devoted to the sensations of pleasure, terror, excitement and what sentimentalists like to call “love”. And yet what, apart from size, is the difference between this one that belonged to a Jewish female and that to a Nordic male? Can we tell if the owner was feeble-minded, or deranged, or a life unworthy of life? If they were human or subhuman? What can the naked eye tell from these brains about the people who once used them?’
‘Nothing,’ said Clara, trying not to look.
‘Precisely.’ The doctor replaced the brains with satisfaction, and Clara saw she had given the correct answer.
‘I keep these specimens to remind myself that without psychotherapy, the brain is a closed book. It is the most complex machine in the universe, yet without the ability to unlock it, what is it? A slab of silence in a jar.’
He gave a vague wave at the tomes on the shelves behind him.
‘I have dedicated my career to the understanding of the human mind. I’ve written extensively on it. And as it happens one of my personal interests is the psychological traits of Aryans. Aryan females in particular.’
His eyes were on her again, raking her soul. Clara braced herself and met his gaze steadily.
‘In my experience Aryan females show a generally robust response to environmental stress. They have none of the nervous hysteria of other races. Yet you come to me complaining that bombing raids have caused you insomnia.’
She could not stop herself. She flinched.
‘What is it? Have I touched a nerve?’
‘Not at all.’
‘We know that Aryan females are resilient in the face of environmental stress, but Fräulein Clara Vine cannot sleep at night. So what do we deduce from that?’
What did those fathomless eyes perceive? Could they see her Jewish blood? How deep was the perceptive power of his psychological training?
‘We deduce that in your case something else is robbing you of sleep, and I suggest it is a buried guilt or shame or terror. Some powerful emotion that your own mind is attempting to hide from you. Some fear, perhaps, that is hidden even to yourself.’
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sp; De Crinis paused, and Clara realized instinctively that silence was one of his most effective weapons. He was not a man to make conversation just to cover an awkward pause. Pauses were where he did his work. Silence was eloquent. He was prepared to wait for her to offer something, anything, to break the silence.
‘If it’s hidden to myself, you couldn’t expect me to know about it.’
‘A good answer. Yet there is something.’
He waited, motionless as a hawk above hidden prey, then suddenly leaned closer, so near that she was able to observe the sharp indigo splinters in his iris, and said, ‘What do you fear most?’
‘The thing I feared most has already happened.’
‘Then it is worse for you.’
‘Why?’
‘A person without fear is dangerous.’
The slam of a door in the outer office appeared to shatter his focus. He sprang up, checking his watch.
‘But as you correctly observed earlier, Fräulein Vine, I’m a busy man. A fresh area of responsibility has recently been allotted to me and while it’s always glorious to serve the Reich, it means I have to curtail some of my more interesting investigations. I’m not here to compel you to talk. If you don’t want to talk, we’ll have to seek other means.’
‘Means? What means?’
Observing her alarm, he left a beat then gave a smile that seemed to surface from some deep crevasse in his soul.
‘Medical means, my dear. What did you think I meant? Give me your hand.’
He reached for her wrist and held it.
‘The pulse is fast. If it helps you, I can share a little secret. Just between you and me, the Führer is not immune to sleep problems himself. I know, it’s distressing to hear, but we have discovered the ideal solution. A secret recipe. The Führer has an injection of it almost every day.’
Clara flinched. Hitler’s arms were said to resemble pin cushions from the frequency of the jabs he received.
De Crinis went to a tray beside his desk, on which rested a number of surgical instruments. He began unfolding several small gold-foiled packages, dissolving them in a jar of water and taking up a hypodermic syringe from a steel kidney dish. Clara watched in dread fascination as he filled the syringe with a colourless solution, squeezed until a single tear welled at the tip, squinted at it and flicked the end.
‘Just roll up that sleeve.’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘I assure you this is the thing. You’ll feel like you’re eighteen again. Even on a few hours’ sleep you’ll be fresh as an alpine flower.’
De Crinis grasped her sleeve and rolled it upwards, then rubbed a thumb across the bulging blue lattice of veins in the crook of her elbow.
‘What exactly is in it?’
‘This?’ A theatrical pause. ‘This, mein Fräulein, is gold dust. More than that, it’s going to win us the war.’
‘How on earth would it do that?’
‘They’re giving it to the soldiers in France. A single dose allows a tank driver to keep going all night. A soldier can stay marching for almost twenty-four hours without a break. The company that makes it, Temmler Werke, deserves an Iron Cross. The troops even have a name for it. They call it Panzerschokolade.’
Tank chocolate? Suddenly the prospect of what de Crinis might be about to inject in her veins made Clara jerk back in alarm just as the needle was about to penetrate her skin. The doctor remained very still, needle poised, voice deathly quiet.
‘I have injected little children who show more courage.’
‘I’m sorry, but I have a terrible fear of injections. I always have. Ever since I was very young.’
He tapped the syringe.
‘Come. You want to be cured, don’t you? It is important that we overcome mental barriers, especially those erected in childhood.’
He tightened his hold on her arm, aiming the needle for her vein. Absurdly, Clara’s heart began to thud wildly and she pulled sharply away.
‘Please don’t! I’ll probably faint.’
De Crinis sighed and replaced the syringe. For a second he looked supremely nettled, then he strode across the room and reached up to a cabinet.
‘In that case, I can provide you with something very similar in tablet form. You’ve come just in time. The army has ordered three and a half million of these tablets. They’re clearing out supplies as fast as the laboratories can make it. Soon no civilian anywhere will be able to get hold of this.’
He opened a glass door and removed a blue and red striped tube of tablets whose label bore the name Pervitin.
Advertisements for Pervitin were everywhere just then. On the U-Bahn, on the big advertising hoardings and in every glossy magazine, the drug was promoted to office workers and housewives alike as the ultimate pick-me-up. Just one pill keeps you alert for hours. Self-confidence increases and doubts disappear.
‘You’re telling me Pervitin is going to win the war?’
‘Mark my words.’
She sat up quickly, accepted the tube of tablets and collected her jacket.
‘How fascinating, Herr Professor. Thank you so much. And if you don’t mind, there is one other thing. The fatigue does cause a problem with my acting in the mornings and I know that coffee would help. Real coffee, that is. I can’t get hold of any, of course, but I understand that in special cases it can be made available. Just for medical reasons . . .’
She was crossing the quad towards the front gate when she heard her name called and she was so anxious to leave that she almost didn’t turn. When she did, it took a second before she recognized the scrawny man in a white coat and stethoscope as Franz Engel, her neighbour, who worked in the children’s section of the Charité. War seemed to have washed all the colour from him, leaving his skin parchment and his eyes pale as rain.
‘Clara?’ His voice contained all the doctorly concern that the psychiatrist had so notably lacked. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I’ve just had a consultation with Professor de Crinis.’
‘What circles you move in. I hope it’s nothing serious?’
‘Just a little insomnia.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Of course! I didn’t actually want to see a doctor. Someone thought they were doing me a favour.’
‘I imagine the kind of favour that gets you an appointment with Max de Crinis is very difficult to refuse. But, in other ways . . .’
Engel looked at her the way a doctor should look, at once tender and professionally probing, scanning the jumping pulse in her neck and the signs of fatigue around her eyes. He hesitated for a moment, as though debating with himself whether to go ahead, then he said, ‘I have to tell you, there have been nights I heard you cry, and thought to come and comfort you, but I restrained myself.’
At his words a rush of misery came upon Clara and it was all she could do to prevent the tears swimming in her eyes. She could bear anything but sympathy. She had resisted the probing of Professor de Crinis with ease but the chance to confide her heartbreak to this kindly man was almost irresistible. It took all her will-power to restrain herself.
‘Thank you, dear Franz, but please don’t worry about me. Everyone cries in wartime, don’t they?’
‘That’s true.’ He plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘So what did de Crinis recommend?’
‘He tried to give me an injection and I was terrified so he gave me tablets instead.’
‘What’s in them, do you know?’
‘Only Pervitin.’
‘Only Pervitin! I hope you didn’t touch it. There’s nothing less likely to solve insomnia. If you take it you won’t sleep a wink.’
‘It’s very popular, though. Isn’t it?’
‘Of course. It’s a methamphetamine. Makes you feel invincible. Euphoric. It induces a heightened state of alert and increases self-confidence, concentration and the willingness to take risks.’
‘So that’s why the Wehrmacht like it. They’re giving it to the army
apparently.’
‘God help us all then. We’ve done observations of patients who take it. It may work in the short term, but in the long term it makes you agitated and aggressive. If our troops are taking it, then I fear for them. Ultimately it brings on psychosis, heart failure and hallucinations. Dreadful stuff.’ Engel ran a hand through his hair so that the sparse strands stood up rakishly then he looked away.
‘Though if things go on like this for much longer, I might turn to Pervitin myself.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Just work. I’m drowning in it. I have a new job.’
‘You’re not leaving the Charité, surely?’
‘No, but I’ve had a commission from on high. As a matter of fact it concerns the man you just saw. Professor Max de Crinis.’
‘What is it?’
Engel’s face was working with some suppressed emotion. He glanced around the quad, with its hundred overlooking windows, and bent closer. No one chatted in public places any more. Not unless they were discussing the performance of Union Berlin football club or what they thought of the latest war movie and even then there was the ever-present worry that the most desultory conversation might be mistaken for some kind of code.
‘We can’t talk here. Come with me.’
He led her through an arch, opened a door and turned sharply into a corridor lined with green-flecked linoleum and flanked by steel-framed doors. Through one of these they entered a laboratory, or some kind of teaching room, where serried ranks of tables were set out with microscopes, slides, test-tube ranks, Petri dishes and neatly arranged instruments.
Engel positioned himself at a table and bent over one of the microscopes, motioning for Clara to do the same, as though they were two medics, dissecting the origins of some dangerous and virulent pathogen.
‘I’m not sure how much you know about him, but de Crinis is a very important man. An éminence grise. He’s probably the biggest name in German psychiatric medicine today and more to the point he has impeccable government contacts. If he asks for your help, you don’t refuse.’
‘What does he want with you? Psychiatry isn’t your specialism, is it?’