This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Melanie Metzenthin
Translation copyright © 2019 by Deborah Rachel Langton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Im Lautlosen by Tinte & Feder in Germany in 2017. Translated from German by Deborah Rachel Langton. First published in English by Lake Union Publishing in collaboration with Amazon Crossing in 2019.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, in collaboration with Amazon Crossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Lake Union Publishing and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542093682
ISBN-10: 1542093686
Cover design by Ghost Design
First edition
CONTENTS
PART ONE The Weimar Republic 1926–1932
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART TWO The Third Reich 1933–1945
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
PART THREE Zero Hour
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
AFTERWORD
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
PART ONE
The Weimar Republic 1926–1932
Chapter 1
Hamburg, 1926
Days like this unfailingly reminded Paula that Hamburg’s university was still in its infancy and taking its first baby steps, a long way off from catching up with its older siblings, the renowned Faculties of Medicine for which the German Empire was famous. Her father, the distinguished psychiatrist Dr Wilhelm Engelhardt, had repeatedly advised her to do her medical studies at the highly respected University of Göttingen, where he himself had been a student. He had emphasised over and over to her that those with the means to do so studied in Berlin, Heidelberg or Göttingen. At a proper university hospital.
But Paula loved Hamburg, this big, wealthy city which had so swiftly recovered after the war and regained its former glory – a cosmopolitan, Hanseatic port with a spirit of fun. Why go any further afield when Hamburg had founded its first university just seven years earlier? No matter that it lacked a recognised university hospital and had hastily given professorial status to a few doctors from Eppendorf General to give the appearance of having a Faculty of Medicine – Paula had not regretted her decision.
Days like this, however, made Paula wonder if she should have followed her father’s advice after all. Days when students had to queue outside the lecture halls of the impressive main building at Dammtor to hear lectures by respected guest academics from well-known universities, academics who wouldn’t usually find themselves in Hamburg.
For weeks now, she’d been looking forward to today’s evening lecture by Professor Habermann from the University of Munich on the nature of mental illness and the state of mind of sufferers. Her friend Leonie, also a doctor’s daughter and medical student in her second semester, had come along with her. Dressed in the latest fashion, her hair stylishly bobbed with a few rebellious curls peeping jauntily from beneath her cloche hat, her skirt short enough to draw attention to her silk-stockinged legs, Leonie looked more the starlet than the student.
An innocent observer might easily gain the impression that Leonie was using university less to develop her knowledge than as a shop window where she could assess the worth of potential husbands. But Paula knew better. The image she portrayed was Leonie’s personal weapon in the battle of the sexes, because an attractive appearance could turn male students into true gentlemen. Today was a case in point, as the men had let the two girls go straight to the head of the queue while they all stood in line for the caretaker to open the doors to the lecture hall.
This was one of the few benefits of being a woman, but it didn’t remotely compensate for the disadvantages all the girls encountered throughout their studies. Academic staff frequently went in for ambiguous remarks and disrespectful jokes. While Paula’s approach was to fight back with hard work and high achievement, Leonie simply laughed it all off as though she had no idea that the pointed remarks were aimed at her. Having seen her do this on numerous occasions, Paula eventually asked why she didn’t put up more resistance.
Leonie was dismissive. ‘Weak men are scared of intelligent women and only weaklings crack stupid jokes at the expense of others. If they choose to think I’m naive and simple-minded, what do I care? I’m here and I’m allowed to study and that’s all that matters,’ she said.
Paula had thought about this for quite a while. Did it really make life easier, or was Leonie doing herself and other women a disservice by behaving so superficially and thus confirming all prejudices towards women students?
But today Leonie’s easy-going attitude to life had paid off. The lecture hall doors opened and they were the first in. Paula wanted to head straight down to the front, but Leonie grabbed her arm and drew her towards the middle rows.
‘The handout said there’ll be slides. We don’t want to have to lean our heads back as though we’re in a barber’s shop, surely?’ Leonie bent her head right back as if trying to watch a film from the front row in the cinema, then winked conspiratorially at Paula, who giggled. She’d known Leonie a long time now, but couldn’t say with any certainty whether she was genuinely interested in this lecture or more in the men attending alongside them. Whatever the case, Leonie was clearly pleased to see how fast the adjacent seats were filling up. The young gentlemen who’d let them go in first were also keen to enjoy female company, during the lecture at the very least. Conversation initially revolved around whether certain seats were free and Leonie’s gracious nod of the head in reply was embellished by her fabulous smile.
To begin with, Leonie listened attentively, then she turned to Paula and whispered, ‘It’s more like a cabinet of curiosities than an academ
ic lecture, don’t you think?’
Paula nodded, but she also shushed her friend.
‘. . . and so the recurring question is what distinguishes man from beast?’ The professor’s voice echoed around the hall. ‘There are many who say it’s the creative mental energy, the desire never to give up and to set ourselves major objectives. I’ve brought some images with such power of expression that they speak for themselves.’ He gestured towards the hapless lecture hall assistant charged with the awkward task of operating the huge and ungainly projector. The picture now displayed against the wall showed a lunatic with no hair and the grin of a simpleton.
Leonie gasped audibly. ‘Told you – freak show. Like at the fairground!’
Paula took no notice. As the daughter of a psychiatrist who had never concealed his work from his family, she had known people like this as a child. At first sight, they could be frightening but behind that was often a naive trust that had intrigued Paula right from the start.
‘Here we see a classic case of dementia praecox,’ the speaker went on. ‘A form of schizophrenia. Notice the staring eyes and the vacant smile. Many tend to speak of an empty shell, of someone mentally dead. A being devoid of all humanity.’
Applause came from somewhere in the hall but faded the moment Professor Habermann looked sternly in its direction.
‘So, what constitutes humanity? The second image, please.’
The projector hummed, then displayed the next slide. This time it was a drawing of two faces which merged into one another.
‘Professor Wilmanns of Heidelberg University Hospital has kindly made these portraits available to me,’ Habermann explained. ‘They have been collecting the work of the mentally ill for many years. Sadly, I can’t show you the colour original, but even this monochrome photograph gives you an impression of the power of expression inherent in this poor soul.’
‘And proves that he’s truly insane,’ murmured Leonie. ‘Nobody of sound mind paints anything like that.’
‘It’s reminiscent of Surrealism,’ came a male voice from the row behind them. Paula turned. In the half-light she couldn’t see much, only that the man had dark hair and was clean-shaven.
‘Surrealism?’ she asked.
‘A style of painting that makes everything dream-like and unreal.’
‘I haven’t heard of it. Is that—?’
Before she could finish the sentence, she received a prod from Leonie. ‘Just look at that! Puts any theatre of horrors in the shade.’
Paula turned back. A new picture flickered against the white wall with another male face, another smile. But this was not the classic picture of the mentally ill. The man’s skull was deformed: the left half of the head looked completely normal while there was an odd sort of dip on the right, as if the cranial bone were missing, leaving only hirsute skin to cover it. For a moment Paula wondered whether the man had been born like this or whether it was the result of injury, but unlike Leonie she didn’t find his appearance shocking, more something that aroused the deepest sympathy in her.
‘Here we have a particularly interesting case. As you can see, part of the skull, the calvaria, is missing. The few babies born like this do not usually survive the first few days of life. This person graduated from art school but then sustained a serious head injury during the war. It borders on the miraculous that the man survived. He demonstrates only minor motor deficiency, such as, for example, a discrete paralysis in the left side of the body, but this places little restriction on him. There has, however, been a sustained personality change that means he is unable to control his natural urges or live unsupervised among other people because his every physical need must be met instantly. Unfortunately, these needs are not restricted simply to social norms, such as enjoyment of food, but include an uncontrolled libido which means he cannot be left in the proximity of a woman.’
A gasp of outrage rippled through the hall but ceased as soon as Professor Habermann continued speaking. ‘This personality change is apparent in the style of his art. Before this young man sustained his horrific injury, he had been an exceptionally gifted artist, probably destined for enormous success. I’ll now show you one of his pictures, created before he sustained mental and physical damage.’
The projector clattered, and they saw a portrait of a young woman that was so true to life that at first sight it could have passed for a photograph.
‘As you can undoubtedly see, the young man showed a real flair as a portraitist. From what his relatives have told us, art was his whole purpose in life and, even now, painting is the only way in which he can remain calm without being forcibly restrained. When he picks up his brush, he demonstrates a level of perseverance and patience not seen in any other interaction, even though the results are somewhat modest.’
The next picture appeared.
It was another portrait, this time of a man smoking a pipe. It lacked all naturalness and softness of line, but in spite of the harsh qualities and rough brushstrokes that gave it the feel of a caricature, it still demonstrated the artist’s innate talent.
‘There are many explanations as to why his art changed. The current school of thought among psychiatrists is that his brain is no longer able to perform complex operations, to perceive things with accuracy and then reproduce them. What is interesting is what happens when these works are shown to art experts who know nothing of their provenance, only that the first came before a young man’s wartime experience and the second, after,’ the professor said. ‘The critics praised a strength of mental energy that this poor soul no longer enjoys in actual fact. His acquired deficiencies are celebrated as the honesty with which he removes the gloss from things to reveal the true horror experienced. His work has been compared with that of Max Beckmann, an artist with whom some of you will be familiar.’
Paula couldn’t help but turn and whisper to the young man behind them. ‘Does this Beckmann mean anything to you?’
‘No, but I’ve noted the name.’
In the half-darkness she could just make out the gentle smile on his face.
‘Are you really a medical student? You seem more like an art student passing through.’
He laughed softly. ‘Doctors are allowed a feeling for art, surely?’
Before Paula could think up a clever reply, she felt Leonie dig her in the ribs and heard the unmistakable hiss of her friend telling her to be quiet. Paula felt a flash of irritation. Since when had Leonie been so diligent? It was usually the other way round in lectures, with Paula asking her friend to pipe down. But then she realised why – someone wanted to ask a question from the floor. Revolutionary behaviour. Paula could not call to mind a single occasion of a student daring to disturb the flow of a professorial lecture, and by an esteemed guest at that, with a banal question. But Professor Habermann was unperturbed and permitted the interruption.
‘Looking at these pieces of work, which so clearly show the subject’s deficiencies, could we apply the idea of a reverse conclusion and use the painting as a diagnostic tool in the discovery of early-stage mental illness, as yet undetected?’
‘An interesting question, to be sure,’ replied Professor Habermann, ‘but the findings would be very non-specific as there are modern art forms using similar styles and techniques without the artists in question having any mental illness at all.’
‘But that’s precisely the question,’ retorted the student. ‘Are not modern art forms in themselves an expression of the disturbed, created in the first place in the depths of a troubled or broken mind and then taken up by a society shaken to its foundations? Surely this decadent art is already an expression of a sick society? And the artists creating it are then, by definition, to be assessed as mentally ill, or at the very least neurotic in the Freudian sense?’
There was unease in the lecture hall, and murmurings rippled throughout the room until Professor Habermann raised his right hand and regained calm. ‘I fear this is a philosophical question which has little to do with the clear objectives o
f the treatment of the psychologically ill. It’s important to decide just how insanity is defined,’ he said. ‘With these pictures we are delving into illness that is comprehensible and unambiguously described, the symptoms of which are not limited to art. Look at the two patients whose pictures I showed you. In both cases we are dealing with people who are seriously ill, are unable to participate in normal social interaction and can no longer support themselves. Art therapy gives people the opportunity to express themselves and, in doing so, enables us to learn more about their minds so that we can develop different treatments. New methods of treating schizophrenia are on the scientific horizon and could help in the future to cure this illness, or at the very least give a normal life to those affected, in so far as it is possible.’
Professor Habermann paused. No further questions came and so he continued his lecture.
‘That was August Lachner,’ Leonie whispered to Paula. ‘He’s very strange.’
‘D’you know him?’
‘A little,’ Leonie whispered in return. ‘I once made the mistake of taking up his invitation for coffee.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He told me all about his doctorate and then spent ages enumerating how much it costs the German people to care for the mad and the idiotic, and how there ought to be ways of releasing the mentally dead as this would help the whole of society.’
‘You’ll have to be more careful in your choice of companion.’
‘And you’ll end up an old maid,’ shot back Leonie.
‘Better that than with August Lachner,’ hissed Paula, and was gently elbowed in the ribs in return.
Professor Habermann presented several more case histories, but Paula retained little after the unsettling story of the painter maimed by war. One memorable exception was the work of a nineteen-year-old schizophrenic whose depiction of cows and horses Professor Habermann said was on a par with Stone Age cave paintings.
While the speaker had the pictures flashed up on the wall, Paula looked over at August Lachner in expectation of another interruption, but he said nothing.
By the time the professor was concluding his lecture to general applause, Leonie was already deep in conversation with the young man to her left as he tried to talk her into spending what remained of the evening in some fashionable café. Leonie feigned hesitation, her usual trick when flirting, but her body language indicated that she’d already agreed. A second young man seemed hopeful that Paula would join them but, unlike Leonie, this empty coquetry wasn’t her style. She stood up and turned to the man in the row behind them, now busily packing away his pen and lecture notes in a brown briefcase of grained leather. Paula faltered. She hadn’t brought anything to write with as she’d seen the lecture less as work and more as an interesting pastime.
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