The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  We followed the river downstream. I took one side and my companions – a cousin of Maja Lukić’s and his wife – took the other. A short way from the village the river meanders for a half-mile or so. It is a place the fishermen like to go with their rods and lines because there is shade, and the shallow waters bring their quarry within easier reach. But here the banks had burst, flooding the meadows and the birch woods on either side. I waded up to my knees through muddy, tangled waters, fearing that I would be sucked under, so clinging and treacherous was the ground beneath my feet. I soon lost sight of the others on the far side of the river, but I could hear them calling Senka’s name, which I did also. Our voices did not carry far. Already the water was draining from the land, and it seemed to carry the sound away with it. I saw the cloying blackness of what it left behind and panic almost overcame me. I cried out for Senka until my voice was all used up, and nothing came from my mouth but sobs. Already in my heart I knew she would never answer.

  Then Maja’s cousin was shouting. He had seen something. I ran through the trees towards the sound, tripping and falling. I must have looked like a madwoman, soaked from head to foot and plastered in mud, but for a few brief moments I was filled with hope.

  Maja’s cousin was still on the far side of the river. He was pointing towards a clump of willows on his side. As I made for them, a handful of crows started from the trees and flew away. A moment later I saw what looked like an old tangled sheet caught up in the lowermost branches. It was only when I saw her dark hair trailing in the water that I knew it was my sister. She was dead: drowned and carried downstream on the flood. She lay on her back, one shoulder slightly raised, and an arm resting across her eyes, like one of those grieving figures carved in marble that guard the tombs of great men. I do not know how long she had been there: a day or so, I think, for the crows had already begun to feed on her poor, upturned face and mouth, the sight of which I have struggled these ten years to forget.

  The hours that followed are unclear to me: the order of things and what I myself did and said. For some minutes or hours, I was not in my right mind. I know that Maja Lukić found us and that she and her cousins took poor Senka down and covered up her face. Others came to help carry her away, then more people and the village priest too, all anxious to offer what help they could or simply to witness the horrible spectacle for themselves. They laid Senka out on the kitchen table, but then the priest said she must be taken somewhere cooler because in her state she would already have begun to rot and would rot faster being wet. And an argument broke out as to where such a place might be found and whose property was most suitable. The church was the coolest place that anyone knew of, but the priest would not allow Senka to be taken there until, he said, the circumstances of her death had been ascertained. So they wrapped her in a bed sheet and carried her away to some other part of the village, and I never looked on her again.

  The one person absent during these deliberations was our father. Maja Lukić fretted that, as the head of the household, it was his right to make the decisions regarding his daughter, but no one seemed anxious to go and find him. I think they enjoyed taking charge of affairs in the big house from which they had mostly been barred. So, in the end, it was Maja Lukić herself who commandeered a horse and trap and set off for the next village, leaving me alone in the house. She has often told me since how bitterly she regrets that mistake and wishes she had stayed with me. For years afterwards she blamed herself for what happened. But I do not blame her. She was in my father’s employ, not mine. She was only acting to protect the rights and honour of the family and the Draganović name, which in a place like Orlovat is what matters more than anything, more even than life.

  I sat for a long time in the kitchen – how long exactly, I cannot say. It must have been an hour or more, because by the time I stirred, the sun was low enough in the sky to peep beneath the canopy of the clouds. I lit a lantern above the table. Then I got up and went into the scullery and took off my filthy dress. I stood in my chemise before the mirror wiping the black mud from my face and arms and rinsing my hair under the tap. Why I did this, I do not know. I had a strong need to be clean, to scrub away all trace of the day. Even more, I wanted occupation, to keep from thinking any more. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin was raw.

  I was there in the scullery when I saw my father walk through the gateway into the courtyard, pulling his horse behind him. It was apparent to me that he was still oblivious of what had taken place, for he was humming as he came and even chuckling to himself, as if recalling some reprehensible joke.

  I have said before how I had learned instinctively to avoid being alone in that man’s company. But the cold anger I felt at that moment, the urgent need for revenge, eclipsed the habit of self-preservation. What I should have done, I suppose, was to leave by the back door. How different everything might have been if I had. For sure, I would not be here, now, writing this account for you. More than likely, our paths would never have crossed at all.

  But, as you will surmise, I did not leave. Instead, I calmly put down the scrubbing brush, went through into the kitchen and picked up the biggest knife I could find.

  Thirty-eight

  Berlin, 3 February

  Dear Professor E,

  Since my last communication I have learned the following regarding the matter of interest to you.

  The case in question is presently assigned to Dr Martin Kirsch (b. 1890, Wittenberg, Sachsen Anhalt). Kirsch served as a military surgeon during the Great War, attached to the 9th Army on the Eastern front. He received several commendations before being discharged in September 1918 as psychologically unfit for duty. According to hearsay, Dr Kirsch was on one occasion spared court martial (grounds unclear) by the personal intervention of his CO, Col. Gustav Schad.

  Dr Kirsch is considered by colleagues to be intellectually arrogant and politically apathetic. On occasion he has proven both disloyal and insubordinate. Such conduct would be more reckless, it is said, had he not successfully cultivated connections in wealthy and influential circles. In particular, he is engaged to be married to the daughter of the industrialist Otto Siegel. He has proven accommodating when offered professional or financial advantage.

  Dr Kirsch has taken an unusual interest in the Draganović case, reportedly at the expense of other duties. The fact that the case has been in the public eye (ref. newspaper cuttings, see enclosed) may account for this. Kirsch appears ambitious and, left to his own devices, is likely to exploit the case in any way he considers personally beneficial.

  Dr Kirsch recently took a leave of absence in Zürich, ostensibly to undertake research for an academic paper. There he visited the Burghölzli Psychiatric Hospital, where records show Fräulein Draganović was a patient for several weeks in September last year. To date, I have not been able to ascertain his exact reasons for doing so. However, given his persistence and his determination to uncover his patient’s history, it cannot be ruled out that Dr Kirsch believes a connection exists between yourself and her, which, if proven, could be exploited to his advantage.

  I fully appreciate the importance of anticipating such a development and am prepared to take all necessary measures to ensure that your interests are not compromised in this regard.

  Your servant,

  H. de Vries

  Thirty-nine

  Nobody spoke to him on his way through the building; so Kirsch was not prepared for what greeted him when he opened the door to his office. The room was empty. The filing cabinet had gone. His desk was bare: no typewriter, no papers, no files. The shelves, normally bowed beneath the weight of books and journals, held nothing. He pulled open the drawers of the desk: all that remained was an old bookshop receipt from Speyer & Peters and the stub of a broken pencil. Even his white coat, which he always kept on a hook behind the door, had disappeared. He picked up the telephone to call Frau Rosenberg, but the line was dead. He ran the flex through his hands and found himself looking at two tufts of bare wire.

&n
bsp; Kirsch’s briefcase now held the only evidence that he had ever been a psychiatrist at all. Had Bonhoeffer changed his mind again? Had there been another complaint? To be dismissed in absentia was unheard of, but then, Kirsch had been all but dismissed once already. He would have been gone by now – his desk cleared, his shelves empty (but what had they done with his books?) – had it not been for Dr Mehring’s unexpected change of heart.

  Outside, the rain was coming down steadily. He clutched his briefcase against his chest. His hands felt clammy. Was it possible he had imagined Mehring’s retraction? Or dreamed it? His dreams were so vivid, so bound up with his waking concerns, that it was hard to tell in retrospect if they were dreams at all. He fumbled for the telegram he had received in Zürich. Perhaps he had dreamed that too. He rummaged through the briefcase, then emptied his pockets one after the other. The Swiss francs were still there in his wallet, but there was no sign of the telegram.

  VACANCY POSITION DEPUTY DIRECTOR STOP

  RETURN BERLIN SOONEST STOP

  He had wanted desperately to see the back of Heinrich Mehring and his quackish experiments; to handle things his way without interference. And that was exactly what had happened. He had never stopped to question whether it could all be real. Rainwater dripped from his chin, making his collar wet. The barrier between perception and imagination was fragile, but crucial. He knew too well what happened when it began to break down.

  Max’s voice whispered in his ear: You haven’t much time.

  He made his way up to Bonhoeffer’s office. At the bottom of the stairs two nurses were talking. Before he could say good morning, they split up and walked away. Passing by the wards, he caught glances from other members of staff, but no smiles of recognition, let alone a greeting. A male patient was having his chest examined by a visiting physician. The physician was busy with his stethoscope, but the patient stared at him, as if at a ghost, his grip visibly tightening on the edge of his iron bed.

  How long had he been away? He’d planned on a week or so, but had it been longer? It felt as if an interval of time had gone missing. Was that why his things had been removed: because he had been away too long? Or perhaps he had never actually told anyone he was going. Perhaps that too had been part of the dream. As far as Bonhoeffer and his staff were concerned, he had simply disappeared. Outside the deputy director’s office he paused. If Heinrich Mehring was there, Kirsch would know, one way or the other.

  He knocked gently, then louder, but there was no answer. It was nine o’clock by his watch. Mehring could have been on his rounds, or down in the basement conducting his insulin experiments, making his patients less ‘complicated’ – but which patients?

  Kirsch pushed open the door. It was months since he had been on the other side. He remembered a smell of Turkish tobacco, a chaise longue with yellow tasselled cushions, tinted etchings on the wall of Vienna and Budapest, a coyly erotic slave market scene in the corner, partially obscured by a rubber plant. His heart sank: everything but the cushions was still in place.

  He left the door ajar and stepped inside. It was cold. Instead of tobacco smoke, there was a smell of disinfectant. He looked along the glass-fronted bookshelves and was surprised to see that Mehring owned many of the same books as he did. He even kept them in the same order. Here was Eugen Bleuler’s book on schizophrenia; here was Karl Jasper’s philosophical autobiography, here was a copy of Alexander Moszkowski’s Dialogues with Einstein. Kirsch took the Moszkowski from the shelf and flipped through it, finding annotations in pencil. He found more annotations in Emil Kraepelin’s Manic Depressive Insanity & Paranoia: the same annotations he had made.

  He knew then what had happened to his books, at least: Mehring had taken them. He must have thought his insubordinate junior had no further use for them. And what of his papers, his notes? Kirsch went to the filing cabinet and opened the drawers. Sure enough, the papers inside were his papers. He went to the desk. His letters – letters plainly addressed to Dr M. Kirsch – were there in Mehring’s in-tray.

  He picked up the telephone. The operator put him through to Frau Rosenberg’s extension.

  ‘This is Dr Kirsch.’

  ‘Good morning, Doctor.’

  ‘My office, it’s …’

  But what was it?

  ‘Is it to your satisfaction?’

  He sat down behind the desk. ‘My things. They’ve all been taken to the deputy director’s office.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She didn’t seem to think any explanation was necessary.

  ‘Well, I …’ There was a pause on the line. ‘My filing cabinet has been opened. I left it locked.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He wasn’t sure of anything. He was expecting any moment to wake up. But where, and when?

  Perhaps it’s a quantum story.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Is anything missing?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but …’ He noticed that a white coat was hanging behind the door. ‘Where is Dr Mehring?’

  Frau Rosenberg hesitated. ‘Dr Mehring is no longer with us.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He resigned.’

  Kirsch looked at the pictures and the chaise longue and wondered why Mehring hadn’t taken them with him. ‘I didn’t know.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  ‘Why did he resign?’

  ‘You’d have to ask the director. He isn’t here at the moment.’

  There was an unfamiliar hesitancy in Frau Rosenberg’s voice, a distance. In the past she had always been friendly, like an indulgent aunt.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ she said again.

  Kirsch’s gaze fell on a large envelope at the top of his in-tray. The words University of Berlin were printed on the front.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said, and hung up.

  He opened the envelope. It contained a short paper published by the Institute of Psychiatry together with a typed letter. But the letter was not from Professor von Laue, as he had expected.

  Dear Dr Kirsch,

  I trust your researches are proceeding well and that you will soon be in a position to start gathering data. Recent events on the political front have greatly improved the prospects of reforming the psychiatric profession both in Germany and elsewhere. Your work is now more valuable than ever in helping to change outmoded and self-serving attitudes.

  I enclose an article – one might call it a manifesto – just published by my friend and colleague Dr Ernst Rudin. Copies are being circulated to senior staff at all psychiatric establishments, with the approval of the authorities. As Dr Rudin points out, the interventionist approach to psychiatric medicine has failed. It is a science built largely on untested suppositions, and dubious classification. As such, it offers only false hope (cures, etc.). In the long run, the only way we can hope decisively to reduce mental disease and degeneracy in the population is through the introduction of mental and social hygiene programmes. These alone will empty our asylums and protect future generations. I believe Germany now has a government that is prepared to assume this responsibility, assisted, of course, by the relevant centres of learning.

  You will be pleased to see that Dr Rudin has quoted extensively from your preliminary study, published in the Annals of Psychiatric Medicine, as providing evidence of the unscientific nature of current approaches to schizophrenia. I hope this will convince you of its importance.

  Yours cordially,

  Dr Eugen Fischer

  The coat was his, but there was something unfamiliar about it. It was tighter than before and a more brilliant shade of white. It gave off a detergent smell. In his absence, Kirsch realised, it had been laundered and starched.

  He put the coat on and made his way to the women’s wing. In the recreation room a sewing class was in progress, the patients in their grey smocks sitting in a circle, heads bowed over their work. Mariya Draganović was not among them. He went up to her room.
A new patient, a woman with wild hair, lay on the spare bed, but on what had been Mariya’s bed there were neither sheets nor blankets. The mattress had been rolled up. He opened the wardrobe: her clothes were missing.

  ‘Where is she?’

  The woman propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair was long and grey like a fairytale witch.

  Kirsch pointed at the naked bedstead. ‘Mariya. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘On no,’ the woman said, sitting up, slinging her legs over the side of the bed. ‘It’s my turn now, Doctor. I’ve been waiting.’

  * * *

  He found Nurse Auerbach smoking a cigarette outside the laundry room, blowing the smoke through a tiny window that overlooked the kitchens. Seeing him, she threw the cigarette away and gathered up a pile of sheets.

  ‘I’m looking for Fräulein Draganović,’ he said. The nurse looked blank. ‘Patient E?’

  ‘I know who you mean, Doctor. She’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’

  ‘They took her away. A couple of days ago.’ Nurse Auerbach put her head on one side, adopting an attitude of concern that was no more convincing than it was genuine. ‘Didn’t you know?’