Emilia’s been going to the League of German Girls for three weeks now. I haven’t told her any of our misgivings, as she should be able to take part in summer camps with other girls without any preconceived ideas. She’s so obviously having fun and has already asked me if she can go on their spring trip to a youth camp. I’m letting her do all this because she needs the change of scene and I don’t want us to become conspicuous. The girls play various sports, sing together, learn how to do roll call and salute the flag, and even do cross-country activities like the boys. Emilia thinks this is all wonderful and has already made friends among the girls. She’s got a lot of pluck as well as being bright. And it does no harm that they learn a bit about housekeeping and cooking too. Sometimes I find myself looking back at how Fritz used to enjoy the bright side of this new Germany in the days before the war because he could do nothing about the dark side of it. That’s how Emilia is. She should be free to enjoy anything that bears some semblance to a happy childhood.
You’d like what I’m doing for Professor Ewald. We treat patients very much in line with your own thinking and are dealing with the kind of problems that preoccupied you too. I’ll tell you more when you’re back on home leave.
I’m wondering if your organisational genius, Walter, knows where he can get his hands on some decent civilian clothing. Grab some if you can! Because we were living at the allotment at the time of the bombing, we had most of our clothes here with us, but we couldn’t salvage any of yours. It pains me to think how all our books are gone for ever and how we’ll never replace some of them, like the Stefan Zweig. Still, we’re all alive. And I hope our optimism will carry us through the dark days ahead, because good can come from bad if we really believe it. Here in Göttingen there are hardly any air raids.
I hope you’re all right. Please do send news soon.
Your loving Paula
Fritz noticed how quiet Richard had gone. ‘Bad news?’
‘Mixed. The last letter seems to have got lost in the post. Paula’s moved to Göttingen with the children. Our flat’s been bombed.’
‘Your flat?’ said Fritz in horror.
‘That’s right. Paula had gone down to the allotment gardens with the twins. All our neighbours are dead. She says I wouldn’t recognise our street now.’
‘God, I’m so sorry.’
‘But that’s not what matters. At least they’re all safe. They’re alive. What’s the news from Doro?’
‘Just the usual. She hasn’t said anything about Paula or your flat. In fact, she never writes about the bombing. I thought there was less of it. She’s probably trying not to worry me.’
Richard looked bleak. Being on the other side of the world while loved ones were at the mercy of British and American bombing was unbearable.
Chapter 44
The new life in Göttingen and her daily work in psychiatry came as a relief to Paula and at least now she had no need to worry for Georg’s safety, although it was a matter of some regret to her that he only had private tuition at home and wouldn’t find new friends the way Emilia had.
Professor Ewald and Paula’s father had been students together and held similar views concerning euthanasia. Paula knew from her father she could trust Professor Ewald, so she told him about Richard’s attempt to protect and save patients – and about his failure.
‘That’s the crux of the matter. If we overdo things and try to save everyone, we end up saving nobody because the supervisory commission in Berlin is on our backs. We have to make the decisions – that’s what we’ve done here from very early on. We’ve been able to save two thirds of our patients from death, but I regret to say there have been some we couldn’t do anything for.’
‘So a third have lost their lives?’ Paula was shaken.
The professor nodded. ‘In asylums with really staunch Nazis at work only about a fifth of patients survive, if that’s any consolation to you. My sources tell me they’ve stopped using gas in some large asylums and instead they create a category called something like “the unproductive sick” and leave them to starve or give them an injection of Luminal.’
Paula stared at him, her eyes wide, as she took this in. ‘That’s horrific! How can any doctor allow this? And we really can’t do anything?’
‘We can. We can’t override the system, as you know. But what we can do is give individual attention to each and every patient and bring as many as possible to safety. That’s where I need you, Frau Doctor Hellmer. Do what your husband did, but don’t repeat his errors. We can’t claim full productive capability for everyone – that gets noticed – but we can intervene sooner. It’s not only about the registration forms. It’s also about discharging patients early so they can go back to their families or find jobs in workshops whose owners put humanity above profit. Your father told me how your father-in-law saved three lives this way.’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s how to do it. At the moment a mental hospital is one of the most dangerous places in Germany for anyone who is sick. Whatever the bombs don’t get rid of, our own people do. Make yourself known to the families and encourage them to take their loved ones home. Frau Doctor Hellmer, you are a highly gifted and insightful doctor. Use these gifts to persuade the healthy to help the sick.’
So that’s how Paula came to carry on with Richard’s work, but in Göttingen. She had always known that he’d carried a heavy burden but only now did she fully appreciate what it meant to hold a life in your hands. Over and over again she told herself she wasn’t the judge, she hadn’t decided that these were the people to die, but at the same time she knew what would befall those she couldn’t protect. For a moment she envied Richard, as he hadn’t allowed himself to get involved in a selection process but had instead simply refused to participate by declaring all patients economically productive. Unlike Richard, she now knew she wouldn’t be in a position to save anyone if she refused to make a selection.
What gave her the most satisfaction was to visit a patient’s relatives and persuade them of the wisdom of their loved one coming back home. In most cases, the families were grateful for her candour and for the warning, but not all. Otto Krahl’s father was a case in point. Otto was a young man of only twenty-one. He suffered from spastic paralysis and had never learned to talk. He was able to laugh and show emotion but had to be cared for like a baby. His mother had always looked after him at home, but with her death a few weeks before Paula’s visit, Otto’s father had decided to place his severely disabled son in the asylum.
He gave Paula a warm welcome to his home, even offering her the luxury of an ersatz coffee as she took a seat in the old-style German living room. It reminded her a lot of her father’s front room. Framed photographs of rather severe-looking men and women hung on the walls. There was one of a young woman holding a baby.
‘My wife with Otto soon after he was born,’ explained Herr Krahl when he saw Paula studying it. ‘He was still well at that stage. A few weeks later he caught meningitis.’ The man took a deep breath. ‘All the doctors said Otto wouldn’t survive, but my wife was like a lioness fighting for her young. You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve felt it would have been better if she’d lost that fight.’
Paula listened in silence.
Herr Krahl continued talking. ‘You might think I’m being completely heartless, but Otto was our firstborn. If he’d died, we’d have mourned him, of course, but we might have gone on to have another child, a healthy one. But my Hannelore put all her energy into caring for the child, even though it was clear from the start that he’d stay a baby for ever. She refused to let him go into care. He was her purpose in life. She didn’t want any more children and I, well, I stood by her because a decent man doesn’t leave his wife and a handicapped child, but it wasn’t a life. Everything revolved around Otto, and caring for him left Hannelore completely drained. She became terribly thin. I suspected she was giving Otto most of her food ration, although he didn’t need much as he didn’t move about. She grad
ually faded, and died of pneumonia six weeks ago. She’d lost all resistance.’ He paused to compose himself. ‘And you’d like me to bring Otto back home, Frau Doctor Hellmer? How can that work? I’m expected to work ten hours a day in an industry that’s essential to the war effort – that’s why I haven’t been sent to the Front. And on top of that, I haven’t got the will to have him near me. After all, he sent my wife to her death.’
‘I’ve told you what it would mean for your son to stay in the asylum.’
Herr Krahl nodded. ‘Yes, I know. What am I supposed to say? Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. Perhaps death is a blessing for someone who’s never been a son to me, only a burden, and who lost any purpose in life with the death of his mother. We should break free of all the sentimentality that drove my wife to her grave. Otto should have died twenty years ago instead of being a parasite taking up the place that the healthy children who were never born would have had.’ He wiped away a tear.
‘Herr Krahl, thank you for talking to me.’ Paula stood up. ‘I hope you’ll never regret your decision.’
‘I know I won’t. But I have always regretted letting my wife keep him at home. I should have put him away twenty years ago. That would have spared us all.’
Paula was lost for words. Part of her was shocked at Herr Krahl’s cold-hearted approach to his son’s certain death and yet she found she could understand why. If he had ever felt any love for this child, it had been eaten away by years of worry and privation, and by the destructive effect on his marriage. She wondered whether those who believed in letting the sick and disabled die had experienced something similar but in different, distant surroundings. How else could people bring themselves to take the lives of those entrusted to them?
When she got back to the hospital, she sat down with Otto Krahl’s form. She completed it according to the rules. Capacity for productivity compared with a healthy individual . . . zero per cent. She took the form out of the typewriter and signed it. This was a life she couldn’t save, but it could save two others from transportation because she would have met her quota. As she sat there thinking this through, she felt the tears flow, and one dropped straight on her signature, making the ink run. She nearly did a fresh one but decided not to. The murderers weren’t interested in whether her signature was legible or smudged by tears.
Chapter 45
The war pressed ahead without let-up and in autumn 1942 Richard and Fritz were deployed to a field hospital at El Alamein. Fritz’s brilliance as a surgeon and Richard’s effective treatment of the mentally shattered, together with his noticeably improved surgical skills, had, in the eyes of their superiors, made them the perfect team for El Alamein.
‘I’ve always wanted to see Egypt, but not like this!’ commented Fritz. ‘Oh well, at least we can get a beer here.’ They were sitting on the steps of the only solid building in the place, now the hospital, drinking their beer straight from the bottle. Over the last few days it had become a bit quieter on the front line, but they’d had a spate of emergency operations to perform after an attack by fighter aircraft. Although their own fighter squadron had scrambled and shot down a couple of enemy planes, medical help had come too late for seven German soldiers, and four others were so badly wounded they had to be swiftly operated on.
‘I’d love to see that famous museum in Cairo – you know,’ said Fritz to Richard, ‘the one with all the treasures of Tutankhamun and the mummies of the pharaohs. Then there’s the Valley of the Kings. When I told the children about it, they were really excited and wanted to come straight over to see it all.’ He gave a wistful smile.
‘Yes, I’d like to see all that. Especially those old Egyptian burial caves with the wall paintings. Or the Pyramids. You went to the British Museum when you were in London, didn’t you? Did they allow photography there?’
‘Don’t know, to be honest, as I didn’t have a camera anyway. But I did buy a book with pictures of all the exhibits and really detailed descriptions.’ Fritz sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder what Maxwell’s doing now, whether he’s still in London in his favourite operating theatre, or whether he’s at the Front as well. It scares me just to think about it. We last met up in London in May ’39, with both of our families.’
‘Oh, I remember, yes – we were looking after Rudi for you!’
Fritz nodded, lost in thought. ‘Isn’t life mad? Seems as though, yesterday, he and I were good friends and colleagues, swapping ideas, and now we’re all throwing bombs and shooting each other down. And why? Can you tell me? You were always interested in politics. Why are we fighting this bloody war? What was the reason again?’
‘No idea,’ said Richard, taking a slug of beer. ‘Something about Lebensraum in Eastern Europe.’
‘So why are we sitting here in Africa?’
‘Because the world’s gone mad, as you have so eloquently put it.’
‘Aha, this is where the doctors are! Caught you both lounging around!’ Walter came dashing energetically up the steps towards them. ‘Come and look at this.’
‘What – an emergency?’ asked Fritz.
‘No, no emergency, just a nice change! There are a couple of Bedouins over here selling all sorts of fancy stuff, and there’s something for the gentlemen too!’
‘A cold beer? This stuff’s too warm,’ commented Richard.
Fritz laughed and Walter rolled his eyes suggestively. ‘No beer, but a couple of luscious lovelies worth looking at.’
‘Hey, you know we’re decent married men!’ replied Fritz. ‘Luscious lovelies don’t do anything for us, but the rest sounds worth a look. Richard, shall we?’
‘Let me get my camera.’
‘Same old Richard! Anyway, how d’you manage to get new film and developer out here in the desert?’
‘I’ve got stuff left over from when we were in Tripoli.’
‘I remember him buying a whole crate of it in Tripoli,’ added Walter. ‘It would have lasted the war photographer a whole year, but Richard zips through it in a couple of months.’
Richard grinned and went off to fetch his stuff. When he returned, they followed Walter to where the Bedouins had set up their camp.
‘Isn’t anyone wondering whether they’re British spies?’ asked Richard.
‘What on earth is there for them to spy on? The British aerial reconnaissance fellows have known for a long time what’s here, and our own security forces have questioned everybody in the area.’ Walter pointed at the army jeeps parked not so far from the camp. ‘Our lads need a bit of variety. Good for morale.’
But the Bedouin camp had little of the exoticism usually shown in films about the Middle East – no colourful tents with huge interiors littered with silken cushions fit for a sultan, just small, gloomy canvas shelters, outside which sat a few scruffy, undernourished camels. The Bedouins themselves were dressed in grey-brown gowns and their women, hanging around outside the tents, were of indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, with bad teeth and weather-beaten faces.
‘Please tell me our men won’t be that desperate,’ whispered Fritz to Richard. ‘They’re not exactly luscious lovelies.’
‘They’ve made some nice stuff, though. Look,’ Richard said, pointing to a stall full of carved scarabs and gods from Egyptian mythology. Fritz picked out a wooden scarab the size of a man’s fist, turned it over and showed Richard the hieroglyphics on its underside.
‘This is a really good reproduction of a heart scarab,’ he said.
He asked the trader how much he wanted for it and got immersed in a protracted haggling process in a mixture of German, English and Arabic while Richard browsed his way around the other goods. He noticed a boy of around twelve squatting behind the traders’ tents carving out more figures. Richard went over.
‘Do you make all the figures?’ he asked.
The lad indicated that he spoke no German but a little English.
Richard switched to English and asked him what he used as models for his work.
‘P
icture in caves, many picture,’ he said.
‘Caves? What caves?’ asked Richard.
‘Dead people there. No far, no far.’
The boy looked around all the time, as if to be sure no one was watching or listening, then pulled out a battered old scarab and passed it to Richard. ‘Look, is from dead people in caves.’
Richard took the object from him and gave it a good hard look. It came across as genuine, but Richard knew the local traders had a knack for producing convincing fakes and the probability that the boy was spinning a yarn was high. He replaced the scarab among the carvings still to be worked on.
‘You think not real? Can say where found. I got good map. Me and uncle know all about caves.’ His uncle was still haggling with Fritz.
‘What kind of map?’ Richard’s interest had been sparked now.
‘Wait.’ The boy vanished inside one of the tents and came back with a piece of parchment. It was well worn, stained, tattered and some of the symbols were faded, but Richard knew his own map of the area well enough to be sure that this carefully drawn document was accurate.
Meanwhile, Fritz had bought the heart scarab and a statue of Anubis. ‘Have you bought anything?’
‘Not yet, but this boy doing the carvings reckons the originals of all their merchandise here come from a burial cave nearby. He wants to sell me the map.’
‘Map good!’ The boy nodded eagerly. ‘Secret grave, pictures on walls. You buy map?’
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Hang on there, Richard. You don’t believe all this nonsense, surely? These desert shopkeepers will tell you anything to earn a bit of money.’
‘Tell me about this old winged scarab.’ Richard gestured towards the battered object sitting on a rug in front of the boy.
A Fight in Silence Page 30