What It Takes to Be Human

by Marilyn Bowering

  Ron is shocked at my terminology. He ducks his head. “Well. I know, Sandy, I know.” He sighs and lifts his gaze to the distance. Who or what is he thinking of? Ron, one of my most constant companions in my time here, is a mystery to me. I know nothing of his home life beyond the little daughter who used to but no longer rides her pony in the ring beside staff housing. Things change. Mutatis mundi.

  From the corner of my eye, and through the brush and trees, I catch sight of Pete Cooper and two of his helpers as they emerge from the barn.

  “The trouble is, I can’t be in two places at once, Sandy.” Ron chews his bottom lip.

  “Don’t you trust me on my own? You used to, Ron.”

  His neck above the buttoned shirt collar reddens. “It’s not that, Sandy.”

  I believe I understand the dilemma. When I’m at the pond he can stretch his legs, bird-watch, smoke cigarettes. Fiddle with the radio. Deceased Property, on the other hand, is boring: There’s nothing for him to do but look in on me through the window. He can’t just sit there and babysit me, can he? How close has Dr. Frank told him to stick?

  “Dr. Frank’s away, Ron.”

  “It’s not Dr. Frank.”

  “What is it, then?” I ask, but Ron just shakes his head. Pete and friends disappear into the trees.

  “I’m on patrol this afternoon; I’d only be able to check on you every now and then.”

  “What’s the problem, Ron, you can tell me.” I’m genuinely puzzled. He shifts back and forth, cleans the toes of his shoes on his trousers, plucks invisible threads from his shirt sleeves.

  “Nothing, there’s no problem, Sandy, I’d simply prefer it if you came with me to the pond.”

  “Whatever you think best, Ron.” I don’t look at him. I, too, can examine the distance. “But it’s a terrible thing to lose a loved one, no matter how it happens.” I give a gentle—as-if-disguised—sorrowful sniff. I believe I can count on his humane instincts and his laziness, and I’m right.

  “For the families, you say? I thought that everything to go to the families was removed already?” He offers me a stick of American gum.

  Here it is, make or break. “Supposed to be, Ron,” I answer, taking the gum. “But you know how it is. Things are missed; no next of kin may be marked down on admission—they’re ashamed, see, they don’t want their families to know—but I’ve found the names of family in books, or overlooked letters or twice—I swear it, Ron—on pieces of paper tucked into shoes.”

  “These are hard times, hard days…” he opines.

  I keep quiet.

  “Well,” he says, obviously still somewhat troubled by my request, but weakening, “I can’t see it will do any harm. You’ve worked hard on the pond. We’ll have it finished in a few days. You go on over there”—he points in the general direction of Deceased Property—“and I’ll drop by when I can.”

  I’m on my way to the old Chinese quarters, cutting across a corner of the main building’s lawn, when I spot Dr. Love sitting on the fountain wall. He’s got his jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He dips one hand in the water and flicks droplets onto the walk. When I am close to him, he looks up and I’m shocked at how gaunt he’s become. His skin is the colour of the pale fountain stone, and with a haze like its green scum. “Dr. Love!” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Sandy.”

  “Who else?”

  “I was just thinking about you. I’ve come from a meeting of the Board.”

  “About me?”

  “Among many.” He dries his hands on his good, but crumpled, grey trousers.

  I take another look at him. “You’ve shaved off your beard!”

  “My wife says I look like the walking dead.”

  “You have a wife?”

  “I am human, Sandy, whatever you may think.” He stands and I walk along beside him as he heads down the drive. I’m taller than him, now; I’ve grown; or maybe it’s that he’s begun to walk with a stoop. The war, and his work, all the people he tries to help—it’s been hard on him. I look away. The surrounding trees have been trimmed back, the hedges given a military clip. Oh, for Bob and the care that went into his gardening.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Sandy.”

  “About the Board, sir?” I’ve been waiting, my heart in a flutter.

  “I know you’re anxious about the result. Your case is a difficult one for them. More difficult than some.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “There’s some dissension. There are the opinions advanced by Dr. Frank in his report: He believes that you’re cured, that the narcosynthesis sessions have been a total success.”

  “You were there, Dr. Love. I’m sure you know what to think, as well.” I twist a button on my shirt. I shove my hands into my pockets so as not to further betray my nervousness.

  He stops, and I stop. I am permitted to go no farther towards the wall and gate. The soldiers, who guard us day and night ever since they began using the rooftop as a battery, have their eyes on us. “Yes, I was there, and on the whole I agree with Dr. Frank.”

  “On the whole?”

  “What happens to young children can affect their perception of reality. It may lead, in later life, to serious mental illness.”

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. “You think I’m ill—in that way?”

  “You’re a clever lad, Sandy. I don’t think this is the right place for you.”

  In my pocket, my fingers find, and roll back and forth in its cylinder, the still unread message from Georgina.

  “They—the Board—see it as one way or the other: You stay here and receive treatment, or you go to jail and serve your time. Dr. Frank, on the other hand, has put forward an alternative.”

  A skirling wind picks up leaves from the grass and blows them onto the walk. The maples and alders are shedding their bright leaves, quickly. I look into the trees, and catch sight of two crows: They jump from branch to branch, setting the tree limbs shaking. “Just tell me, sir.”

  “You’re to be released, under strict supervision, and beginning with a series of day visits, into the care of your parents. In order to minimize the possibility of”—he pauses, waits until I meet his eyes—“any unfortunate incidents, you’ll be put on a new treatment program.”

  “What kind of program?” I ask, although I’m still trying to absorb the words “in the care of your parents.”

  “Insulin.” He watches my face closely. What does it show? I have no idea, but it feels frozen as my life divides neatly, as it has done at least twice earlier, into before and after. I will not allow it to happen: I will not live with them and I will not undergo insulin shock. I don’t care what the Board has decided, I won’t. The crows lift into flight together, and they’re away, over the wall, gone. “It’s done routinely when patients go on day trials,” he finishes.

  “You agreed to this?” I remember the men I’d seen in the East Wing visitors’ room, slack-jawed, slack-minded, waiting for their families to take them out for an airing. I take in his face once more: its hollow shadows, its defeat.

  “It’s rare that a patient doesn’t derive some benefit from the treatment, Sandy.”

  “I’ve been in the East Wing, Dr. Love. I’ve seen what happens.”

  “You’ve seen the failures. In our experience, half make good recoveries and can return to normal lives.”

  “Will I have a normal life? With my parents? Like that? With all that you know can you truly say you believe that?”

  “Would you rather be in jail, Sandy?”

  “Would my father press the issue?”

  “If you do not go home with them, he will prosecute to the full extent of the law. It could mean years, many years, of further incarceration.”

  One of the crows—if it’s the same one—flies back and sits on the wall. Caw caw, it cries, are you coming?

  “Your life is different now, Sandy. There are people—friends—in it who care for you. Mrs. Jon
es-Murray; the young woman, Heather, you write to…you’re not alone anymore.”

  “You, Dr. Love? Do you include yourself as a friend?”

  I wait for him to say he’s done his best, to offer excuses, to indicate that I’m just one of many patients in his life. Instead, in full view of the soldiers, he sets down his doctor’s bag and puts his arms around me. He sets his forehead against mine—I feel its heat and sweat—and he whispers, “Never give up, Sandy.” He clasps my hand in his long thin fingers before he goes, leaving behind, in my palm, a wad of money. “That’s the best I can do. God be with you. I couldn’t help your friend Karl, either,” he says. “I guess I’m a bust.” He turns once, and waves, and I know I will never see him again.

  —

  The pain of the heart is unlike any other pain. It is fluid, it sloshes back and forth through memories, good and bad, and yet it strengthens because of its sincerity. Because of its purity, it opens the world of alternatives. In this pain I turn my back on the front gate and cross the lawn and then the dry, harvested fields to the empty Chinese quarters.

  I have my work cut out for me. I estimate it will be only about another hour before Ron comes to check on me. I wipe away dust and spider webs from one of the waiting cardboard boxes, open it, remove the contents list and spread some of the items on the table—bills, receipts, photographs, a broken watch, a miniature chess set: The lot belongs to G. Tupovich. I set out the categories—for the poor, garbage, and questionable—and do a superficial sort. Then I take out the pen, ink and onion skin paper I have brought with me and quickly write the letter about Pete Cooper I’ve been composing in my head.

  It outlines his fraudulent use of farm supplies and equipment for personal gain; his theft of gas and oil, beef, paint, lumber, cement, poultry, milk and cheese for personal use or to sell on the black market; his forcing the helpers, sometimes at the point of a gun, to work on his personal projects, his pointing his rifle at me when he loads and unloads it in the kitchen. It contains as much as I can remember of what I’d put in the missing notes. I fold the onion skin scrap as small as I can, take the messenger cylinder from my pocket, remove Georgina’s note and replace it with my letter.

  A deep breath now. I go to the windows and wipe away enough dirt so that I can see there’s no one approaching. I open George’s note and read it: It says only: Help. Please! The brevity of the note underlines all too clearly both her distress and her fear of discovery.

  —

  So much in my life has changed since I met Georgina. Some would say it was for the worse, since it marked the point of my loss of freedom; but I believe it has all been for the best. Was I free before? Did I know who I was? What was I before she entered my life but a lost soul, a boy who one way or the other was about to give up? George saved my life and bought me time in which to grow, and if it hasn’t been on the terms I’d have selected, well, never mind. I’ve not been idle: I’ve done my work and become ever stronger; I’ve learned to write a decent story, I’ve helped construct a glider, I’ve built enough of a case of miscarried justice to launch an appeal on behalf of Alan Macaulay. None of my suffering has been useless. How many on the outside could say as much? Georgina has been my angel. Of course I’ll help her, whatever her trouble.

  I must hurry. I’m just finishing with G. Tupovich when Ron Signet barges in. He’s huffing and puffing but looking pleased with himself as he places another Deceased Property box on one of the tables. He blows dust from the surface, brushes his hands on his blue cotton trousers. “Geez, Sandy, you should take the time to clean this place up.”

  “Who’s got time, Ron?” I open the next box. He watches me sort, and I can see him working himself up to a question. I know the signals: the little cough, a polish of the glasses on his shirt sleeve, a practice or two of a smile.

  “Say, Sandy, I saw you talking to Dr. Love earlier.”

  “Yes?” I put some collar studs and a watchband into the Salvation Army tackle box.

  Another throat clear. “Well”—Ron shuffles his feet—“did he say anything?”

  “Say anything?”

  “Well, you know he’s resigned.”

  Now I look up. “I didn’t know that, Ron. He didn’t tell me.”

  “Oh…I just thought…” Suddenly he’s got on my nerves.

  “You thought what? That he was my friend. Well, you know what, Ron? I once did too. But now I’m not so damned sure.”

  I wait for the reprimand about my language, but I don’t care; not just that I don’t care what Ron thinks, but I’ve noticed a pencil drawing on the side of the box that Ron has carried in. It’s Winchell’s hammer and sickle.

  Now it comes. “Sandy! You can do better than that!”

  “I’m sorry, Ron.” Three deep breaths: I consider the ways I can deal with him. I pick the shortest. “It’s just that…what he told me…I never thought he’d agree to send me back to my parents.”

  “Aw, Sandy, that’s not it, not it at all! That’s why he resigned! He wouldn’t stand for it or for the Board saying that the German, your friend, has to have his brain done.” Ron makes the scooping motion that is a reference to lobotomy. “He asked for you to be released to him and for Karl to be sent to a POW camp but they said no.”

  What Ron has revealed about Dr. Love finally sinks in. “He asked for me to be released to him? He stood up for Karl?”

  “Yes, that’s right!” Ron nods furiously. “He said he’d take care of you himself.” I slump against a table. Have I misjudged Dr. Love? His defeat isn’t a moral one after all, it’s tactical. He’s been outmanoeuvred, outgunned. The poor sap! So what, in that case, is the money for if it’s not, as I’d assumed, blood money? What do I need money for? Everything is done for me here, I don’t pay for anything.

  The answer, when it comes, is startlingly obvious. I need money for when I’m on the outside.

  “Look, Ron,” I say, digging in my pocket. I pull out the message cylinder with the Pete Cooper letter squashed into it. “Would you see this gets to Dr. Love?”

  “What is it, Sandy?” Ron jiggles the grey cylinder in his hand.

  I hold his eyes: He has washed blue eyes—like a sky that can’t imagine either snow or hot sun. “It’s best if you don’t know.” Ron drops his gaze. “Can you do that, Ron? Just get it to him? Otherwise…” I put out my hand to take it back.

  “No, it’s all right. I can do that for you, Sandy. I won’t even look.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But I won’t!”

  “I said it doesn’t matter!”

  A stiff breeze rattles through the loose boards of the walls, and a swirl of dust scurries across the floor. The Chinese must have been cold here in the winters. Did anybody know? Or care?

  “That’s it, then. I’ll be on my way.” He backs out the door, either to do as I’ve asked or to betray me. Which will it be this time? “So long then, Sandy.”

  “Yeah. So long, Ron.” I lift my hand, but he has already walked away.

  Time is running out. Now Sandy—it’s as if Dr. Frank is speaking right into my ear—you’d better start with the bird in the hand before you hare off into the bushes. Georgina’s message is urgent, but there’s also Winchell’s box to open. Georgina or Winchell?

  I open Winchell’s box.

  TWENTY

  September 22 and following, 1942

  To follow knowledge like a sinking star

  Beyond the utmost bound of human thought…

  —The Storehouse of Thought and Expression

  “I’m a party man,” Winchell writes. “Ever since Stalin’s historic call to action of the Soviet people, this war has been my war. If we don’t unify against the fascist armies we face complete Nazi victory and enslavement and the return of the Dark Ages. Such are the fundamental alternatives confronting mankind, Sandy, and such they were in Spain. Not that anyone gave a pig’s ass then or will now, but I’m in again.” It’s Winchell at his most literate—a sure sign of his desperat
ion.

  I wipe my sweating hands on my shirt. It’s midnight. There’s been much to do since I received the note from “Boris Godunov” in the Deceased Property box. It said that Dr. Love had been to the mortuary with medicine for Winchell’s tuberculosis—he does this regularly because he’s treating him, keeping him in the land of the living while Winchell sorts the East Wing corpses…. And it’s a good job for the Spanish Civil War veteran—his bloody handkerchiefs are burned along with the clothing of the dead, he eats well enough, and he sleeps alone; on fine days he sits in the sun in the loading bay, waiting for the ambulances or for Bob to pop by. It’s just as good as—better than—a sanatorium….

  The reason Dr. Love visited Winchell this time, though, was to tell him that Karl is scheduled for lobotomy—“the brain scoop” is how Winchell, like Ron, puts it. So Winchell wants to do a good deed. Get Karl out and go to Russia to fight. No easier said than done! Bob’s your uncle! Or, as The Storehouse tells us, we simply watch the flower unfold.

  My role is simple: Watch for the lights to go out. Bob—yes, Bob!—will stash his motorcycle at a distance, arrive quietly on foot, and cut the power lines from the road. The door of the ambulance bay will be left unlocked by the fellow-traveller politician Winchell knows. He’ll do this because he’s ashamed that the government refused to help bring home the shattered remnant of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion from Spain, and because the war hero Winchell is incarcerated here, and because of the pro-fascist attitude of some of Mackenzie King’s cabinet, and because the Communist Party supported the conscription plebiscite—in short, for no shortage of reasons. Or, as Winchell says, people who can’t do much, do what they can. Guilt is a wonderful thing. It turns mediocre men into heroes; it really does open doors.