The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "Get up! Rise and shine!"

  "Get out of bed! To the washrooms! Hurry up!"

  This is what I heard when I came to. Groaning, coughing, unintelligible sounds, shuffling feet, rattling of aluminum utensils, and again and again the beating of metal against metal and the jarring voice, "Enemy bombers above Mark Brandenburg. Full alert for Berlin!"

  My head was splitting. Now I noticed the smell. Wherever I was, the stench was nauseating. I opened my eyes. I was lying on a hard bed enclosed in an iron cage. An old man in faded blue-gray pajamas rattled the cage and yelled, "Go to the shelter, man!"

  At this point in my report it seems necessary to me to make one point clear so that you. Professor Pontevivo, and you, the judge at my future trial, will not interpret it as cowardice, evasion or concealment. Everything I reported up to now I remember clearly. After I awakened in the iron cage my memory was no longer perfect. It remained partially impaired for a time.

  For instance: I said "cage." I remember a cage. Perhaps it was only an iron bed which reminded me of a cage. I lived in a shadowy world. A world which sep-

  arates life from death, day from dream. What I am reporting now must have taken place this way. I have objective proof that it did; many people are my witnesses.

  When I tried to sit up in the cage my head bumped into its roof. I sank back. I felt dizzy and nauseous. I looked around. The room held about forty beds crowded together. In the narrow gangways naked and half-dressed men were bustling about. I looked at myself. I was wearing pajamas too.

  There was a closed door, three closed windows admitting a dim light. An adjacent room was also crowded with beds. Many had cages such as the one I was in. Men were lying motionless in some while in others men screamed and raged, rattUng the bars. Attendants in white coats were ordering everybody to hurry to the washrooms. The attendants were large and powerful. Two of them were dragging an old, incredibly dirty man past me. He was shouting, "I don't want a bath! I'm two hundred and fifty-seven years old! I was in eight wars! I don't need a bath!"

  A man next to me had dirtied his bed and proceeded to smear the wall with feces.

  A boy of about eighteen was kneeling by the window praying. The man who had rattled my cage and announced enemy bombers suddenly fell to the floor in a foaming convulsion. Two men came and carried him to his cot. One of the men told me, "Welcome, sir. Don't worry about this. He always has a fit in the morning." Then he held the epileptic down so he would not harm himself.

  The door opened and two attendants entered. One of them locked the door which had no handle. The other opened my cage and said, "Get up."

  "I can't."

  "Come on!"

  "I really cannot... I feel very sick..."

  The attendants looked at each other, reached for my wrists and pulled me up. I cried out with pain.

  Assisted by the two attendants I was swaying.

  "Where am I?"

  He gave me the name of a place I did not know.

  "I... I'm not in Hamburg?"

  "No. You're far away from Hamburg."

  "How far away?"

  "I told you, quite a way."

  "And what is this here?"

  "What do you think it is?"

  "I... I've no idea."

  "A mental institution."

  "A mental..." I staggered. "How did I get here?"

  "There is no time to talk. Put on the slippers and robe." The second attendant indicated a chair. On it were a pair of old slippers and a clean but shabby robe which strongly smelled of disinfectant. "Quick, now. To the washroom. Then you'll see the doctor."

  "Doctor?"

  "New admissions have to see the ward doctor before eight."

  The washroom, thick with steam, was crowded with about sixty noisy men. I was given a toothbrush, a washcloth and a cake of soap. "Brush your teeth!"

  I tried and promptly vomited.

  "Goddanm! Qeanitup!"

  I did, then washed myself. I had no recollection of the events of the most recent hours. I felt drunk and faint.

  Near me, a man, one side of his face missing, was washing an idiot child. He was talking to the cretin with the intonation of telling a fairy story. "And then, you know, then I said to Eisenhower if you bomb Monte Cas-sino just once more you'll see what is going to happen! Then I'll get Stalin and we'll push you into the Atlantic."

  "Atlantic! Atlantic! Atlantic!" cried the cretin.

  "I want to get out of here," I told the attendant near

  me. "I want to get out of here, right now! I can't be locked up with these crazy people! Fm perfectly sane!"

  "Of course, you are," said the attendant. "It's also perfectly normal to want to stab somebody with an ice pick."

  "Ice pick?"

  "Come on now. Let's go!"

  They held me, dressed me in the worn old pajamas and robe and took me back to the ward. The man who had rattled my cage was now running through the room, his arms extended sideways, loudly humming, imitating a bomber plane. A few patients were hiding under beds while others remained motionless.

  The boy by the window was now doing exercises. This man who had restrained the epileptic said to me, "Going to be examined, eh? Be careful they don't poison you."

  Suddenly a stark-naked dward, rags, broom and pail in hand, ran through the room and shouted, "Make way! Make way! Soraya is coming!"

  One attendant opened the door, the other pushed me into a hallway with many doors and several benches. Some patients were sitting there, smoking. I saw only men. We passed a high, finely-meshed, grated door which closed off the stairs leading to an upper floor.

  REFRACTORY WARD TO BE KEPT LOCKED AT ALL TIMES

  Two idiot boys were undressing in the hall, touching each other and one of them recited a counting rhyme. "This is the thumb, it shakes down the plums ..."

  I jumped as suddenly from the floor above came the most horrifying screaming.

  "What. .. what's that?"

  "Just one of the addicts," said one' attendant as he pushed me along. "You'll get used to it when you've been here a while."

  "What is your name?"

  The doctor, pale and fatigued, sat behind a desk. He made me stand even though I was swaying. The window behind him was also secured by iron bars. I saw a bleak, enclosed yard, a few bare trees and black, grotesquely fat birds waddling on the snow.

  "Why are those birds so fat?" I asked Dr. Trotha. I read his name on a name plate on his desk.

  "What—" turned. "Oh, the crows. Many of our patients throw their food out of the windows. The crows eat ever>1:hing. They are much too fat to fly; they can only waddle around. I asked you your name."

  My head had cleared in the washroom and the mention of an ice pick had somewhat revived my memory.

  Fleetingly I remembered the child's shoes. A bar. Goldstein. The fat man. Noises. Music. Screaming. "Police patrol will be here in a minute." A siren.

  In the washroom I had touched the back of my head where I found a dressing. Now I could guess what had happened. Somebody had knocked me out. Then I had been brought here.

  I had to be cautious now. If it became known that I, Peter Jordan, had been admitted to a mental institution—.

  I needed time to think.

  "Are you going to tell me your name?"

  "You already know my name."

  "If I did I wouldn't ask you."

  "You took my suit. My passport was in the jacket." I hoped fervently that I was wrong. Often I changed suits and would sometimes forget to take my passport, even the car registration. If I was lucky now . . .

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  "We only found some money and car keys. Now, will you tell me your name!"

  I was silent.

  "You're not going to tell me your name?"

  "Careful now. Think. Take your time, peter Jordan IN MENTAL INSTITUTION. Good God, if the newspapers were to find out!

  "Fm not saying anything unless I have an attorney."

  "You have no right to demand anything here. You
were arrested by the police when you stabbed a man in a bar while you were completely drunk."

  "Is he dead?"

  "Severely injured. The blade glanced off the shoulder-blade."

  "In that case I insist on an attorney. I'm not going to be locked up with these crazy people!"

  He got up His voice was strident. **We have one doctor to every seventy patients. The institution is overcrowded. We cannot reserve a private room for each person brought here in an emergency."

  "And you cannot lock me up with these mad people!"

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm not crazy!"

  "Are you quite certain?"

  I was silent. I was exasperated.

  "Why did you want to kiU this man?"

  "I'm not going to tell you anything."

  "Not even your name?"

  "No!"

  A door opened. An older doctor, looking every bit as tired as Dr. Trotha came in. He nodded to his colleague and sat down. Dr. Trotha continued questioning me.

  "Now, you are not going to tell me your name."

  "No!"

  "But perhaps you will tell me how much two and two makes."

  "Sixteen," I said, rage rising in me. It was a mistake. He froze.

  "You are misjudging the situation you're in. Will you let me test you now? Yes or no?"

  "Test what?"

  "The state of your mind. Even without a test I can see that you are an alcoholic. You're babbhng."

  What was he saying? I was talking rationally and distinctly!

  "Your hands are trembling. Your body is shaking. I think you're verging on d.t.'s."

  I looked down. He was right! "May . . . may I sit down?"

  "Please, do. The test will determine whether you are only an alcoholic or the degree of irreversible brain damage, if any. It will also determine which ward you will be sent to. As you see, the test is also in your interest. When you were admitted—at five in the morning—you were in no condition to be examined. And ward three happened to have had a vacant bed."

  "Test me," I said.

  The tests took about a half hour. I had to draw a tree, fit triangles to form a square, walk a straight line. I answered many questions. I made a few ridiculous mistakes, probably because I was still somewhat drunk and fatigued. I could not fit the triangles to make a square and when I walked the line I fell. He gave me a few words with which I was to form a sentence. I did and then I realized I had omitted one word. I tried to re-form the sentence. By then I had forgotten the words and I was embarrassed to ask for them again and gave up.

  After a few more tests he called the attendants. I was very weak. Fear rose in my again. I could not think and I was grateful to the attendants when they helped me walk. We had to wait a while before we went into another room. The doctor who had sat silently while Dr. Trotha had tested me sat behind a table. Dr. Trotha was on his

  left. On his right sat a male secretary. "Sit down." The attendants sat me down. "You know where you are?"

  I nodded.

  "You know how you came here?"

  "Ari-arl-ari-ari..."

  Dr. Trotha said something to his colleague, who nodded.

  "You were arrested by a police patrol and taken to a station house. From there you were brought here by a fire department conveyance. They are responsible for emergency cases such as yours. Can you follow me?" I nodded. "Do you feel very sick?"

  I nodded again.

  Dr. Trotha said, "It won't take long. In a few minutes you'll be given a sedative."

  The older man said, "My name is Dr. Holgersen. I have been appointed by the court. I come here every morning. It is my duty, on the basis of the results of the examination by the ward doctor and my own observation, to decide whether or not it is in the public interest that a patient who was admitted as an emergency is to remain in this institution." Holgersen looked at a paper. "Dr. Trotha's findings are very unfavorable. My own impression of you is no better. I'll ask you for the last time: Are you going to tell me your name?"

  I shook my head.

  "Do you have relatives?"

  "No."

  "It sometimes happens that people refuse to give their name because they are ashamed or frightened. But relatives search for them and in the end we find out anyway."

  "Attorney," I said with difficulty.

  "You want a lawyer?"

  I nodded.

  "You will see a lawyer."

  Thank God.

  "In about a month."

  I almost fell off the chair, the attendants were holding me.

  "I am ordering your temporary compulsory detainment in this institution."

  "Youcan^tdothat!"

  "I can and I must. As long as we do not know who you are, and considering your condition we cannot hold a hearing."

  ''A hear—hear—^hearing. .."

  "It is Dr. Trotha's and my opinion that you are verging on d.t.'s if that means anything to you. If you are sensible now and do not resist the doctor's treatment we shall consider you further in about four weeks."

  "Then what happens?"

  "Under the law we can detain you here up to six weeks. By then a judge will determine your immediate future—on the basis of medical findings."

  Something soft and warm was trickling down my neck. I touched it. It was blood. The wound on my head had opened.

  "Where will the hearing be held?"

  "Right here," said Dr. Trotha. "The judge comes here because we have so many alcoholics."

  Holgersen said, "For the hearing a lawyer will be assigned to you. The judge will decide if you are to be cured here at the state's expense or if you are to be allowed to be treated privately. Then you will be tried for attempted murder. Have you understood everything?"

  I was perspiring profusely. My hands shook. My pulse raced. I felt deathly ill. I vomited. This time I did not have to clean it up. Following that I passed out.

  I was still dizzy and weak when I awakened. My eyes smarted, probably as a result of the sedative I had been given. The room was smaller. The windows closed and barred. It stunk.

  The two old men must have been watching me sleep for they both began to shout as soon as I opened my eyes. Dizzy, I closed them again. Both men continued to talk excitedly.

  They introduced themselves as Herrenkind and Schlag-intweit, both Nazi bigwigs. Apparently one had destroyed a tank this very morning. Russians and Americans were fighting at the Elbe. What did the Fiihrer say? When will he give the order for the Americans to attack the Russians? What were the new orders? Heil Hitler!

  Meanwhile, thinking was difficult. I realized that Dr. Trotha or one of his colleagues had set this up as a trap for me. This was a test to see if I was disturbed or not. So two doctors, dressed as patients, put on an act for me. They made believe that it was still 1945, that the Russians were fighting to take Berlin—^fifteen years ago. They wanted to see how I would react to such insanity.

  Very calmly I said, "Stop this nonsense. There is no Fiihrer any more."

  That upset both of them. Was he dead? Who was his successor? We are loyal followers of the Fiihrer. Especially the dead one! Adolf Hitler, Sieg Heil! They raised their arms in salute.

  Still calm I told them, "Berlin was conquered by the Red Army fifteen years ago. There is no longer a Nazi Party, though there are still a lot of Nazis."

  There, I thought.

  The two disguised doctors looked at each other.

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  One finally asked, "Do you think we're idiots?"

  "I think this kind of testing is idiotic."

  "Testing? He destroyed a tank this morning—and you say the war is over? You can't think of anything better?"

  The other man suddenly yelled, "He is a Soviet infiltrator! The Russians dressed him in our uniform—"

  "I'm not wearing any uniform!"

  "You're wearing the same uniform as we do!" The doctor's voice cracked.

  No! This was going too far. Could this be a test?

  "We'll have
to kill the communist! Without delay!"

  They both lunged for me. In a spUt second I realized that I had made a mistake. Those were no doctors. This was no test, no trap, no examination.

  Weak though I was I managed to get off my bed, punch one or the other with my fists. They punched me. We rolled on the floor. Rolled over each other.

  "Help! Help! Help!"

  I yelled as loud as I could.

  As soon as I had shaken off one the other would be on me.

  "Sieg Heil!" they yelled while they were trying to kill me.

  "Help! He . . ."

  One of them was choking me. The door was thrown open. Two attendants ran in. I was still on the floor. They pushed back the two old men, pulled me outside. The door slammed shut. One attendant locked it. Dr. Trotha came hurrying down the hallway.

  "What happened? Why was this man in room seventeen?"

  "You gave the order yourself. Doctor!"

  "Incompetents! I said sixteen. Sixteen!" He bent over me. "Are you injured?" I shook my head. "Those two in there were buried alive by bombs in 1945 ... in Berlin .. . 1946 they were transferred here from Wittenau. Time has stopped foi: them, you know?"

  "Leave me alone."

  "It was a mistake. A regrettable mistake. One aspect of overcrowding and incompetent staff."

  "Just leave me alone," I whispered. The fist in the pit of my stomach was stirring again.

  No.

  Not this too. Let it pass, Shirley.

  It did. I did not have an attack.

  22

  "They are incredibly overburdened here," said the thirty-five-year-old architect, Edgar Shapiro. He was sitting on my bed.

  Some men in room sixteen were sleeping, some talking quietly to each other. One was lying underneath his bed, another standing, his face to the wall. I had Hked Shapiro the moment I saw him. He was polite, modest and charming. He had comforted me. My shock had subsided.

  "This is one of the quiet, ordinary floors. Above us is the refractory floor. Twice as many people there. Even more patients in the women's section. Not enough attendants, not sufficient beds, not enough money."

  "Dr. Trotha said one doctor for every seventy patients."

  "Maybe on paper. In reahty he has to take care of at least a hundred."

  "That is too much."

  "One of the reasons conditions are what they are."