THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

Somehow life sailed along with her presence in it: the days changing, the nights coming even though she did not participate in them. Strange, she thought. In the past she always believed that you created motion by being in motion. She would get up, get dressed, go to the market, cook meals, take them up to Ernie, look after his well-being as best she could, come home, sleep, and another day came. Now, nothing happened, and the days came and went without her feeling present.

  It was in this state of emotional coma, when one evening she turned on the TV and, while watching an old movie, a phrase jumped out at her: ‘dead man walking’. She was a dead person walking. She was breathing, eating, moving, but not actually living. She was essentially a dead person. And with that realisation came a deeper one: that had she been the one to die first, the last thing she would want was for Ernie to remain on earth and be a dead man walking.

  She stared at the TV some more. Then slowly the realisation deepened that life had not ended for her; a state that hitherto she had not contemplated. There were things to live for yet, albeit without Ernie. And with that realisation she began trying to imagine a life without her lifelong companion. What would she do? What would her life be like? She had her son, Jacob, and her daughter-in-law and the two grandchildren that brought so much joy to her and Ernie. She had her friends and their mutual friends. And there were the things that, even when Ernie was alive and present, she had done by herself: charities, community work, bridge nights.

  Despite this realisation she still felt paralysed by her loneliness; it was as though, by getting off the couch and actively resuming her life, she would be severing her life from his. Somehow by being a dead person walking she remained linked to his passing: he was dead and she was dead. And with that bond their life together remained intact, even though he was no longer here.

  She let her eyes wander around the room with its many mementos scattered throughout. A lifetime of accumulated memories. There was not a single thing that belonged solely to her: everything they had bought and owned together. Even those few times when they disagreed about the acquisition, in the end either she or Ernie compromised and the item became their shared possession.

  How could she bring herself to collect all his clothes and belongings and donate them to charity as Jacob had suggested? How could she celebrate her life with Ernie and continue to live? She couldn’t see past that point, even though the realisation had come to her that she was alive, but dead to the world around her.

  She was alive. But if she started to live, the bond with Ernie, ethereal though it maybe, would cease to be. If she remained in this comatose state she might as well be dead. It was a question of preference; what did she want more: to live with the memory of Ernie forever, or to resume her life without him?

  The predicament took her back to another time in her life, before such impossible choices had to be made. When she realised that her parents had been taken from her forever. Her last remaining memory after they both put her to bed and kissed her warmly to sleep. In the early hours of the morning her world was upended and within hours she needed to make a choice between following her parents to a terrifying future or setting out on a path that would take her from the madness that engulfed her homeland.

  The friends who rescued her from the tentacles of the Gestapo made the choice for her. Many times throughout her journey that eventually brought her to Australia and her new life with Ernie, she had contemplated that choice. Whether, left alone, she would have followed her parents, or fled.

  The will to live is certainly more prevalent than the desire to die, except when the choice to die is made easier by realisation that living is more painful. She hadn’t realised until this moment that it wasn’t so much her loneliness that was paralysing her but the pain of her loss, exacerbated by the loneliness. As long as Ernie had been alive, even in a vegetative state, she had not been alone, except at night. But in the morning, she would return to his little room, clean and feed him, talk to him, read to him. He was there, even if he didn’t respond. Somewhat akin to her life now: she was here, even if she didn’t participate.

  But his death had left a gaping hole that she could not fill. A painful daily reminder that she could only assuage either by following Ernie to his grave, or by starting a new life and letting Ernie drift into the ventricles of memory.

  The ‘dead man walking’ realisation wasn’t so much about her being alive but emotionally dead to the world, but more that she was as dead as the actor in the movie, with only the final deed separating her from the fact. Unless she chose a new life for herself. Long ago, in another time, she had been rescued. Now there was no such hand to lift her from her dilemma. She was alone. She was an adult. And she had shut the door to her world as it was before Ernie died. No one was going to walk in through that door at the last moment and rescue her. No one thought that she needed rescuing, just time to be left alone to heal.

  She stared blankly at the TV, the pictures swirling past as if in a haze, the early-morning light streaming through the open blinds. It would be easy, very, very easy to exit the pain, quickly and painlessly. Yet, like a runner in a relay race, she would be leaving another kind of pain behind, with her son and grandchildren and close friends of many years. They would be left to wonder at their complacence in not doing enough, not seeing the signs.

  Yet one can never measure the pain in another person’s body. But how was she going to leave that message behind so that her pain would end here and now and not infect others?

  A soft knocking on the door stirred her from her reverie. She became frightened. Who would be knocking this early in the morning? It wasn’t even five. She almost laughed at herself. Here she was contemplating taking her life but worrying about it being taken by a stranger. Wasn’t the latter the better way? At least no one would feel guilty about her death.

  The knocking resumed. She moved her aching feet from under her onto the floor and padded to the door, listening intently, frightened to make a sound. Maybe the intruder would walk away. Then she realised that the TV was on and that whoever was outside the door could probably hear the muffled sound.

  Her voice, rather cracked and dry from lack of use, reverberated in the small vestibule. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Sammy. Sam Steimatzky from next door.”

  She relaxed. Relief washed over her that danger was not lurking behind the door. “Is there a problem?” Her voice was gaining in confidence now.

  “No. No problem. I just heard the TV and thought you were awake; maybe you wanted some company?”

  Ruth hesitated a moment, thinking on whether she was keeping him awake, or whether the sound of the TV had betrayed her wakefulness. She finally decided on the former.

  “I am very sorry. I will turn it off.” She turned to go back into the living room.

  “No need. I just thought that maybe you were not able to sleep. That’s why I was asking.”

  Now what? Was this the same hand that had reached out all those years ago; rescued her from death? Then it was a dear neighbour; now, a friend - more Ernie’s friend than hers, but a friend nonetheless - appearing at her time of loneliness and loss. If she turned him away, she could continue with her decision or deliberation. If she let him in then she would be turning away from solitude and letting someone into her moment of indecision.

  He was Ernie’s friend. Ernie had sent him, sensing her pain and fearing her decision. She reached for the latch and drew the chain back. She unlocked the door and looked out into the hallway. Sam stood there, erect as ever; his face handsome even in old age, his light blue eyes glimmering behind sandy lashes. His fine blond hair, streaked with grey, was carefully combed back over his full head.

  Certainly he appeared more Aryan than Jewish, as she had repeatedly told Ernie, who’d just as frequently dismissed her suspicions. She’d even pointed out that his initials were SS, which Ernie pooh-poohed by reminding her that the husband of one of her best friends was called Adolf and another friend’s last name was Reich. Clearly
the separation of German Jew and Gentile went beyond the notion that because Sam Steimatzky appeared more German than Jewish and his initials were SS, that automatically made him an impostor.

  But now he was standing here, a warm smile on his face, ready to march in if she stepped back. Well, if she was right, he might proceed to harm her, which was fine and according to plan, and if she was wrong, then history was repeating itself. Either way, she stepped back and let him walk in.

  UNIVERSITÄT LEIPZIG

  AUTUMN 1934

  Times are different now. Germany is on a rebound. Four years ago, just as I started pre-med at Universität Leipzig, the country was slipping into anarchy for the second time in fifteen years. I was one of the fortunate ones. My father still had a job at the Benz factory in Bremen. Millions of others did not; six million to be exact. His pay was halved but we had an asset that couldn’t be rendered worthless by inflation: my grandmother’s house, which she willed to my father. It was rented out and made up a little of the pay he had lost. It is ironic that one of the songs that typified the era was We’re Drinking Away Grandma’s House.

  Back then in 1930 as I arrived as a first-year student, the situation was precarious and remained that way all throughout my pre-med. At any moment my father could have lost his job and I would have had to drop out and come back home to Bremen. I don’t know what I would have done if that had happened, other than loiter around the welfare office collecting my forty marks per month, then like a discarded newspaper drift from the pavement to the gutter. Looking for work would have been an idle pursuit: emotionally grinding without any prospect.

  But like I said, I was one of the lucky ones. My father kept his job, and I continued to study. There were others like me, and four of us shared a house within walking distance of the university: Franz Heidegger from Dortmund; Martin Keller from Hanover; myself, Friedrich Becker, from Bremen; and Johann Ziegler, a local from Leipzig.

  Today we are graduating. There is a sense of relief, both for having survived the four years and for passing our exams. We are seated at Café Krüger, our favourite daytime hangout, halfway between the university and our house, enjoying coffee and pastries before we pick up our bags and part ways.

  “So, Becker, where to next year? Back here?” Martin Keller, the son of a grain merchant, is resplendent in a starched white shirt, bow tie, light blue blazer and dark trousers. His face is oval and jovial, his blond hair cut short and parted on the right. His eyes are brimming with confidence.

  “I am not sure. Certainly back to Bremen to see my parents, then maybe a trip to Holland to look at this teaching hospital in Utrecht.”

  “Utrecht? What’s wrong with here, or even WWU at Münster?” Johann is leaning towards the table to pick up his cup, looking at me with stark bewilderment.

  “Yeah, Becker, what’s wrong with here? Johann’s father teaches here. Isn’t that right, Zeigler?” Franz, whose father is a senior banker, jabs me playfully in the side. “Maybe it’s not just the university. Maybe there’s more, huh, Becker?” He continues his ribbing, not getting an answer from me. His unfashionably long hair falls over his brow, and he absently flicks it back. He is dressed similarly to Martin, except not as dapper: his shirt is creased, his tie exhibiting memories of past meals, his trousers slightly rumpled, his shoes scuffed, hungry for polish. Ironically he is expected to be fastidious in his attire, yet he looks more like a grain merchant scion, whereas Martin looks more like the banker.

  “Yeah, he’s always the secretive one. A Dutch maiden in clogs, is that it, Becker?” Martin joshes me from the other side.

  “I have never even been to Holland. But it would make a good change from Germany.” I look around the table. “Don’t you guys agree?”

  “I don’t know. Things are starting to look better. Weimar is gone, thank God. I don’t think Germany could have withstood another election.” Martin, mulling the prospects, munches on his muffin.

  “Are they?” I look around the table again.

  “Well, like Martin is saying, Weimar is gone. That is already a step forward. The Nazis appear to have the Reichstag reined in, better than Von Papen and that other idiot that was booted out - what was his name?”

  “Brüning. Germany was doing very well until the stock market crash in the US.” Johann answers Franz’s question.

  “Well, that tells me that our Weimar prosperity was propped up by American dollars. For how long? Sooner or later the gravy train would have ended. Germany needs to stand on its own, not with the help of outsiders, Americans or anyone else.” Martin rattles the coffee cups and plates by jabbing his point on the table.

  “I agree. But is Hitler the answer? He has, after all, some rather bizarre ideas, not to mention that the National Socialist Party is a workers’ party.”

  “Come, Becker, what is wrong with that? Workers are the backbone of the economy. We manufacture things and then export them; that’s how the country makes money. Your father works at Benz?” Martin dusts the last of his muffin from his fingers.

  “Yes, my father works at Benz. And it is doing reasonably well. But I don’t know: the burning of the Reichstag and blaming it on the communists; the Enabling Act; blaming all of Germany’s problems on the Bolsheviks, the stab-in-the-back thing, the treaty, then the French annexing the Ruhr in reprisal for non-payment, and then suggesting that the whole mess is orchestrated by an international Jewish conspiracy. Does that sound to anyone like Hitler has a rational policy?”

  “It’s good policy if it gets the German economy going. Besides, since when does political policy make sense?” Franz breaks out in guffaws, and we all join in.

  “It may get the economy going, but giving anyone, never mind Hitler, total control, like Hindenburg has, with his peculiar ideas, is not a good start. Weimar before the crash was great. That tells me that if we can get the economy going without the Americans and keep our democracy, it is better for Germany long term.”

  “That’s a big if, Becker.” Franz looks dubiously at me.

  “Maybe Herr Hitler is right; maybe it is a Jewish conspiracy,” Martin pipes up, only half joking.

  “I doubt it,” Johann answers quietly.

  “Why, Ziegler?”

  “I am Jewish. My father is a professor here. He fought in World War I. Matter of fact, Hitler just awarded him a medal, as he did all of the front-line soldiers who fought in World War I. Where is the conspiracy in that?” Johann replies guardedly.

  “Ouch. I didn’t know you were Jewish, Ziegler.” Franz looks across mockingly at him.

  “That’s the point, isn’t it? It shouldn’t make a difference.”

  “Anyway, to return to the main point of this discussion, why is Becker off to Holland? This is more interesting gossip than cuckoo Hitler.” Franz is prodding me again.

  “Yes. Becker. You cunningly evaded the question by stirring up a political debate. That is the conspiracy.” Johann perks up.

  “Why don’t you come to Bologna with me? Italian women are much prettier than the chunky Dutch, very voluptuous. The food is great. No more bratwurst.” Martin is looking eagerly at me.

  “I didn’t know you were off to Bologna.”

  “I just found out yesterday that I have been accepted to Collegio Superiore.” Martin doffs an imaginary hat in the air.

  “OK, Keller, my turn to ask you: why Bologna? What is wrong with here or WWU?”

  “It is a chance to travel and study at a great school.”

  “Good enough; same answer to all of you. It is a chance to travel and study.”

  They all chuckle at my deft rejoinder, and with that we rise up from the table, taking our individual rucksacks, and head out of the café.

  On the pavement, despite our exultation at coming to a successful end of our studies at Leipzig, we are sad to depart. We have formed strong friendships, and take away happy memories despite the grim four years overshadowed by the bleak events in Germany.

  We exchange our addresses and promise to stay in t
ouch. I can’t help but notice that to a man we all shake Johann’s hand more firmly, with generous wishes of good luck. If Hitler sticks to his fanatical belief that the Jews are the root of Germany’s woes then the Zieglers could be in for a rough ride.

  I catch a taxi to Leipzig Hauptbahnhof to take the train to Bremen. Johann is heading back to his family home in Leipzig, which he shared with his parents and two sisters before we lived together. Martin Keller catches a separate cab to the regional airport to fly to Milan and from there go by train to Bologna. Franz Heidegger is staying on at Leipzig to do his medical degree and move into the dormitory on campus by himself. He promises to stay in close touch with Johann; however, now that Jews are accused of being the grand conspirators behind Germany’s downfall, I doubt that Franz will be knocking on Johann’s front door any time soon.

  It’s a good thing that I have traversed Leipzig Hauptbahnhof previously, otherwise it would be very easy to get lost and miss my train in this colossal, cavernous hall. It makes Bremen’s train station look like a country stop. I board the 10.15am.

  As I recline into the cracked leather seat, or what passes for leather, I glance around me at the other passengers. Many are students like me, going back home. Others painfully remind me of how far we have fallen since 1929: families huddled together, clutching their meagre belongings, shuttling from town to town in the desperate hope of finding work, food, lodging. They all look the same: numb with hunger and fatigue.

  A short four years ago this was not Germany. We were living the high life: jobs were aplenty; the money was good; people were well fed; the arts, music and theatre were flourishing; and it looked like we had finally walked back from the abyss of 1923.

  Yet here we are again. But this time the drop has been far more precipitous. We started at a higher point than post World War I. Nevertheless, it never ceases to amaze me how fast and far a family can fall.

  It pains me because it could have been us. The Beckers. We are a middle-class family living securely in a respectable neighbourhood. Regardless, we could have just as easily tumbled to the gutter. The post-war years wiped out our savings. My parents had scrimped and saved a small nest egg for my sister and me, and their golden years. But the value of the currency got swept away under the deluge of inflation.