by David John
Taking a notebook and pencil from the desk drawer Denham began an English translation as he untangled each word. The scrawl was dreadful—that of a tired doctor writing his notes late at night, his only peace after a heavy day’s caseload.
Chapter Thirty-five
19 OCTOBER ’18
This morning a requiem mass is held for Grubitz in the chapel. A depressing, meagre service. I must have heard tens of hours of his life story during our meetings and he never once mentioned he was a Catholic. The men look shaken. His ‘accident’ has appalled them. They know. Suicide is not a soldier’s death.
The cantor sings ‘Voca me cum benedictus’ and Captain Gutmann is whispering in my ear: ‘I’ve a gift for you,’ and I know at once it is anything but. A blindness case. Mustard gas. When I ask why this one cannot be treated on the appropriate ward, he gives me that thin smile.
Later in the mess I learn that the soldier in question refused to allow Gutmann to touch his eyes because Gutmann is a Jew! The man’s outburst on the subject (the Jews) being so emotional that Gutmann is pointing to neurasthenia as a pretext for getting rid of him. I am not pleased. I remind him that simply keeping my men from harming themselves and each other is a terrible strain on the orderlies, without throwing a racialist into the mix. Also that my ward NCO is a Jew. But Gutmann pulls rank: ‘Forster, he’s yours.’
21 OCTOBER ’18
First thing today I examine Patient H in my office. He is pale and lean, with a long Hungarian moustache. He is deferential towards my rank.
I ask him a few questions in order to observe him. He tells me he is from the River Inn region of Austria and lived in Vienna before the war, where he hoped to become an architect. He enlisted in the Bavarian army, he says, because he did not wish to serve under the Habsburgs, having suffered great hardship in Vienna. He is silent when I ask him if he has a wife or a sweetheart.
He has no tic, twitch, or stammer that I can discern. When I put a glass of water into his hand his movements are coordinated; there is no shaking. He has no nightmares, he tells me, because he sleeps hardly at all. No outward signs of any disorders of the nervous system, though there is a slightly odd prosody to his speech. He is agitated from insomnia, which may indicate depression. The only observable symptom is impaired vision from the gas. Eyelids are severely swollen and inflamed, as is to be expected. Conjunctivitis will persist for some days. I warn him not to rub his eyes.
I am annoyed with Gutmann.
24 OCTOBER ’18
We have a problem with Patient H. The ward NCO, Singer, complains that he is waking the ward at night with his wandering and incessant muttering, which is often very loud. Also, he will not tolerate smoking in his presence and this unnerves the men.
I summon him to my office. My intention is to reprimand him. Standing before my desk he makes a visible effort not to talk, but then to my great surprise he launches into a tirade, his words like hot steam from a boiler. I let him speak. Of course, he has found out that Singer is a Jew. He has a fierce and obsessive hatred for the Jews. When I ask him why, he becomes speechless with rage, shaking almost, but summons his will in an attempt to calm down. I too try to stay calm. His hatred repels me. His voice has a coarse energy to it—I would recoil if I heard it on the street . . . and yet . . . I listen to the whole rant.
When he is gone I realise that I have not reprimanded him. I feel cast down and wish I had not seen him.
27 OCTOBER ’18
I do my evening rounds. Without him knowing, I observe Patient H in the ward. The men torment him for his eccentricity and his politics, leading him for a walk in the grounds and abandoning him, or putting meat in his bowl, knowing he is a vegetarian.
Yet I see that he has attracted a few adherents who sit near his bed listening to his monologues. When he’s not speaking they spend hours reading newspapers to him. Some papers are proposing a negotiated peace. Indeed, while I am in the ward one such article provokes our blind prophet into a sermon, railing against betrayal. He refuses to be quiet.
I say ‘Forster here’ to announce my presence and angrily tell him that others have the same right to peace and quiet as he has. He turns his swollen eyes in my direction.
6–7 NOVEMBER ’18
Rumours here all week of something momentous about to happen, of the war’s impending end. A group of sailors who had mutinied at Kiel have been spreading sedition in the wards. The men are highly agitated. I go to visit Patient H.
I expect to find him spitting fire and brimstone, so I am very surprised that he is curled on his bed, silent, a newspaper torn into shreds all around him. The men leave him alone now.
I stand next to him and remark that the swelling in his eyes seems improved. He tells me simply that he is blind. I remind him that mustard gas does not harm the eyes themselves. With the tips of my fingers I open his inflamed lids, and am greeted with a dead, sightless stare.
Later:
—I cannot get that stare out of my mind.
At 10:30 p.m. I call him to my office, knowing he will be awake. One of his adherents leads him in. I see he is agitated. I half expect him to start raving, but he does not speak.
In the darkness of the room I point the electric lamp towards his face and look into his eyes with the ophthalmoscope. The cornea reflects the light, as a blind eye would. But the eyes are healthy—with no signs of damage.
So I have a genuine case after all. Because I am in no doubt that his blindness is a symptom of a psychopathic hysteria.
I’ve seen enough of him to know that he can be possessed of great energy and self-mastery when he needs it. And now I find myself admitting an odd thing. I am impressed with him. I think I understand. Unconsciously he has willed himself not to see. He has blinded himself rather than witness Germany’s defeat.
Chapter Thirty-six
At this time of morning Primrose Hill was deserted. He peered ahead, glimpsing the bench at the top before it was shrouded again in fog, his footsteps loud in the chill air.
When he was close enough to see the bench again, a figure was seated there, silhouetted against the glow of the lamps, which were still lit.
The figure stood as Denham approached, a tall, dark stovepipe.
‘Mr Denham,’ David Wyn Evans said, tipping his hat. ‘I wasn’t expecting to meet you again.’
Denham glanced about. No sign of Bowler Hat Man.
‘Let’s walk,’ Evans said. ‘The bench is damp.’
They set off along a path beneath the trees, their footsteps waking a crow, which began a harsh cry above them.
‘I assume you didn’t arrange this meeting for the benefit of my health,’ Evans said. Beads of dew glistened on the black felt of his homburg.
‘I’ve got it,’ Denham said. ‘Here, in London.’
Evans came to a halt. A stunned pause, before he began walking again at a slower pace. ‘How?’
Denham explained briefly the sequence of events. ‘For now, it’s secure in the bank.’
‘When can we collect it from that bank?’ Evans said.
‘Give me a few days.’
‘My God, man. Do you realise—’
‘I said, a few days.’
Evans nodded reluctantly.
‘Who else knows?’ he said.
‘Only one other person—and she can be relied upon.’
Evans sighed. ‘The sooner it’s in our hands, the safer for both of you.’
They were quiet for a minute; then he said, ‘You’ve heard that Sir Eric Phipps has b
een recalled from Berlin?’
‘I saw that.’
‘He’s been replaced with someone more . . . accommodating.’
‘I hear the new ambassador goes hunting with Göring . . .’
‘Yes, quite,’ Evans muttered. ‘Well, replacing our knight with a pawn is not considered the wisest move by some.’
‘You mean Winston Churchill and the SIS.’
Evans looked ahead into the fog and gave a signal with his hand. Some thirty yards away the outline of a man in a bowler hat acknowledged him.
‘What I mean is that it’s more vital than ever that we get our hands on that dossier, Mr Denham, and as soon as possible.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
10 NOVEMBER ’18
It’s all over!
In a sorrowful speech the pastor addresses the staff and patients in the refectory. Every phrase he utters is a dreadful blow. The war is lost. Revolution in Berlin. The Kaiser has abdicated and Germany is a republic! We must put ourselves at the mercy of the victors, and hope they are magnanimous.
I see the relief on the faces of some; others weep bitter tears, myself included. I can scarce believe it. Were all those lives in vain?
There is a commotion and I notice Patient H stumbling among the men, feeling for the walls. The door is opened for him and he gropes his way along the corridor in the direction of the ward. I go after him.
On his bed, his head is buried in the pillows. He is sobbing loudly, hitting the mattress with his fist.
11 NOVEMBER ’18
Like Patient H, I do not sleep. I am exhausted.
The armies are demobilising; soldiers are returning to their homes all over the country. But most of the men in my ward dread the world outside the hospital. They cling to me like a father. Society is in no state to care for them. I continue my duties as if with a fever.
In the long hours of the night I think how hard the peace will be for Patient H. How utterly unsuited he is to a life dependent on the care of others. A life darkened and curtailed, not able to be an architect. Maybe over time he could learn to view the defeat in context, and in the end regain his sight.
On some patients with a hysterical symptom, in particular with mutes, I have used hypnotic suggestion to free their minds from the event that caused the breakdown. But as hypnosis is effected through the eyes, how would I use it to cure Patient H? It just would not work.
Unless . . .
Eleanor had set out for work earlier than usual. Along with most of the embassy staff she was putting in extra hours in preparation for the influx of American press and guests attending the coronation in May.
She was about to turn the corner into Grosvenor Gardens when two figures in the long line of émigrés waiting for American visas caught her eye. One had on a suit faded to purple by the elements, and a hat with the rim turned up at the front. He was seated cross-legged on a bashed leather case with his head in a book. The other, leaning against the wall next to him, sported a gorse bush of tangled hair and was whistling with his eyes half closed.
‘Friedl?’
Two thin faces looked her way, alert. A moment’s suspicion, and then Friedl dropped the book and drew her into the arms of his old suit, releasing a heady smell of camphor and stale fish. ‘Eleanor.’
‘You made it out?’ she said, the questions beginning to crowd her mind.
He made an effort to smile. ‘I did. And here I am, bound for America. What can I say? Hollywood needs me. Maybe you remember Nat. From the Nollendorfplatz Theatre?’ He nodded towards his companion, and Eleanor nodded back in response. She recognised him. The youth who’d tried to slip his arm around her at the door.
‘Of course.’
A moment’s hesitation. ‘And Richard? He’s well?’
‘He is well,’ she said, hearing the coolness in her own voice.
‘You’ve heard from him?’
‘Actually, we’re engaged to be married.’
Both men looked surprised. Then Friedl laughed. ‘Congratulations.’
‘He’ll want to talk to you, I’m sure.’
‘Yes,’ he said, colouring. ‘Much has happened since we last met.’
Keeping her eyes on his, she said, ‘They arrested him and questioned him for three days.’
To Friedl’s credit, he looked stricken. She half expected him to make a show of not knowing what she was talking about, but he said nothing.
‘Here, let me have those,’ she said, taking their application forms. ‘Meet me back here at four.’ She opened her purse and gave Friedl a ten-shilling note. ‘Get yourselves something to eat. Then you’re coming home with me.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
12 NOVEMBER ’18
I am restless with energy, nervous at what I am about to attempt. Before breakfast I send for him.
He enters; he is wary and sullen. I guide him to the chair. Through the window the dawn is beginning to light the room.
My intention is to master his subconscious . . . with an overwhelming Idea.
I make a long pretence of examining his eyes once more. I tell him that, on this more careful examination, I can indeed discern physical injury caused by the gas.
He nods and clasps the iron cross pinned to his tunic, as if to tell me that he would never feign blindness to avoid duty.
I allow a long silence to intervene. Now, dropping my voice in the manner I use to put patients into a hypnotic trance, I speak slowly, telling him that no doctor in the world can help him now. There is no cure for blindness.
I watch his face fall into dejection, but I continue.
Rare indeed is the man who might overcome such an affliction, I tell him. But wonders do happen in nature, maybe only once or twice in the Age of Man—to those whom Providence shows especial grace, to truly exceptional men whose destinies she throws open to greatness. Ordinary men she does not see, I tell him, but you are no ordinary man.
He looks taken completely by surprise. As though I have voiced a profound truth about him, a truth known only to himself.
‘Yes.’ His voice is a whisper.
‘What need have you of medicine if you possess this rare essence, the will to rise to the call of Providence and all the power she bestows? To overcome the damage in your eyes, and use this power to see . . .’
Perspiration breaks out under the hair on his brow.
‘How?’
‘Trust in yourself absolutely. In your will. You alone can achieve this. See the sun in front of your eyes!’
His hands are agitated in his lap. He stands up; I take his elbow and turn him towards the window, where the first rays of the sun are shining through the bare trees.
‘Do it. See the brightness in front of you.’
He is in turmoil.
‘I see nothing,’ he says.
‘Open your mind,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘See everything. Let your will triumph. There is no limit to your will!’
His breath quickens, and now I see that he might do it. So I shout at the top of my voice, ‘Now, see it now!’
The tension on his face is tremendous. Then his eyes flare like an animal’s exposed to bright light. The room is filling with light.
‘Yes . . . I see it,’ he says, his voice tight. ‘I see it.’ He turns quickly. He is seeing the desk, the books, the room.
I breathe with relief. He has done it! I have done it.
Laughing, I throw my hands in the air. I want to shake his hand and say well done.
But he is not smiling. He seems stunned, shaken to the core. His face has turned a dead white.
The large eyes focus on me now for the first time, as if I am a creature i
n an aquarium. They have a most unsettling effect. I wait for him to speak but he says nothing.
‘You have your sight,’ I say. ‘You’ll be an architect.’
My words seem to travel across a great chasm to reach him. ‘An architect,’ he whispers. ‘You think after this total . . . unpardonable betrayal, I would be an architect?’
I know he is speaking of the war. Standing in the light he begins to tremble all over, as if from extreme cold, and his breath comes in short gasps; then he covers his face with his hands and lets out a low cry, as though he is being reborn into the world.
Too surprised to speak, I wait until he is more composed.
Go back to the ward, I say.
Without thanking me, or uttering another word, he pulls open the door and leaves.
In those few moments I was more frightened of him than of my own father.
Chapter Thirty-nine
It all began when I met Captain Kurt Rogel,’ Friedl said.
He was on the sofa in the sitting room, across from a fire Denham had made from the last of the winter’s wood. After getting over the shock of finding Friedl and Nat at his door, after a dinner over which the young men had recounted the tale of their escape—on a Danish herring trawler from Warnemünde on the Baltic coast—Denham stood at the mantelpiece listening, with Eleanor next to him in the armchair. Nat had gone to bed.
‘He picked me on the Ku’damm, must have been June ’32. Invited me to Horchers, the best restaurant in Berlin. Got to know me over a bottle of Pfälzer. Military bearing, Prussian blue eyes, French manners. Forty-five years old and with a permanently amused expression. From an old family in Pomerania. Soon I was more or less living at his house in Zehlendorf. Much later, he told me about the network . . .’
Friedl turned his glass of whisky, watching the fire’s light through the crystal.
‘Kurt was a career army officer. Had been since the war. He’d paid little regard to Hitler throughout the ’20s. I mean, there was something just absurd about him, so odd after all, and his support came and went. But by the winter of 1930 the Depression was biting deep, and Kurt and his colleagues, officer friends, became seriously alarmed by the little corporal. Every time this man spoke the crowd was tens of thousands larger.