by Sylvia True
Helen raised her impeccably shaped eyebrows. “Really,” Sabine declared. “My mother was perfect.”
Helen picked up her cup. “The perfect is the enemy of the good,” she said to Sabine, before leaving her alone at the table.
The room had filled. Patients ate their toast and Cornflakes. Hot breakfast was served in the large cafeteria in another building. You had to have privileges to go there.
Sabine thought of her mother—her tall, beautiful, made-of-honey mother, who had been a champion skater, who people gathered around at the pond in wintertime when she did a sit spin on the ice, whose accent made everyone ask her where she was from. Who said vonderful and vhat instead of wonderful and what. Who was too terrified to speak to Sabine the night she was admitted. Who still hadn’t called, after five days. Who had once whispered to Sabine that being mentally ill was the most terrible thing that could befall a person, and God forbid if it was schizophrenia.
Chapter Four
An Invitation
Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1934
Arnold glanced at his diary; three patients in the morning, and research in the afternoon. He carried his breakfast dishes to the sink and heard a knock on the front door. Odd. He had neighbors, but none he was close to. His stomach lurched. What if it was the Gestapo coming for him because he owned some of Freud’s books? The raids were happening more lately, especially to intellectuals and left-leaning socialists but, thankfully, no one he knew personally.
He opened the door. A man in a chauffer’s uniform handed Arnold a wax-sealed envelope, gave a bow, and turned away.
There was no family crest Arnold would recognize. He was not a man of high society. That he had worked his way up to a solid academic life was a tremendous accomplishment, considering that he’d come from a small farming family in Holdstadt.
On the front of the envelope, his name, Herr Doctor Arnold Richter, was scripted beautifully.
It seemed a shame to break the seal, but he could hardly just stand there admiring it. He opened the letter and discovered it was an invitation to a dinner party hosted by the Blumenthals, a well-known Jewish family. Arnold had heard the name from a colleague who had received a visit from one of the daughters. His colleague had reported that this woman was interested in psychiatry, but that after about thirty minutes, she left in a huff, dismissing his ideas as old-fashioned. Arnold found the story amusing. What sort of woman waltzes into a doctor’s office and criticizes his ideas?
He held the cardboard invitation and wondered if this Blumenthal woman wanted to speak with him about psychiatry. But why invite him to a dinner party? Why not just make an appointment? Puzzled and intrigued, he left the card on the front table in the foyer and headed to his office.
The brisk April air was particularly good walking weather. He decided to take the route along Bockenheimer Landstrasse, and identify which home belonged to the Blumenthals.
His thoughts drifted back to when he and his mother would take the train to Berlin once a year. She wasn’t interested in shopping or architecture, or theater. She only wanted to see the big houses. Together they strolled the tree-lined streets, as she would invent all sorts of stories about the goings-on of the wealthy. The servants, she imagined, were always relegated to horrible rooms in the attic. One afternoon, two women emerged from one of the homes, and Arnold’s mother stopped and gaped. One of the women, who wore a hat with a blue feather, looked at him and seemed perplexed. Young farm boys in lederhosen didn’t walk those fancy streets. He tugged at his mother’s hand, anxious to hurry away. Shame snaked around his heart, tightening the muscle. But his mother, who felt only joy at being in such close proximity to the women, turned to Arnold and proclaimed that one day he would marry such a lady.
Her dreams for her only child were of immense proportion. She was sure he would become a doctor, which he had, although disappointingly not a surgeon. She came from more educated stock than Arnold’s father, who was a hulking farmer with dirt permanently etched around his fingernails. After Arnold was born, his mother, once a nurse, stayed home to raise her son, milk the cows, and slaughter the pigs. Never one to shy from hard work, she did whatever was needed to save her pennies so that Arnold could go to boarding school.
Her husband had little interest in their boy. He never understood Arnold’s attraction to books, and he claimed to be too busy on the farm the day Arnold graduated from Wurzburg Medical University. Arnold had been relieved not to have to introduce his father to his classmates.
Now, as he strolled along the wealthiest street in Frankfurt am Main, Arnold thought of his mother’s prophecy regarding his marriage. She believed in the mystic arts, and sometimes read palms for the villagers. He adored his mother, but he was a man of science, and had no faith in her divinities.
Arnold stopped in front of the Blumenthal home, set back from the road but still visible through the budding trees. Smoke curled from the chimney. Here lived people with old money and social currency, whose connections might prove useful. He imagined himself standing behind a podium in a large lecture hall filled with doctors and professors, everyone dazzled by his latest discovery.
On the evening of April 13th, Arnold dressed in his new black tuxedo. He had researched the latest operas, and given himself a hurried course in modern art. He already possessed solid knowledge of literature, and could quote Goethe. Boarding school had not been for nothing.
He tried to make a fair assessment of how he would be viewed. His features were plain, but he had a sturdy physique and a full head of brown hair. He had a large forehead, which a colleague, an expert in morphology, had once commented was a sign of intelligence.
The butler took Arnold’s overcoat and led him from the enormous foyer to the drawing room, where cocktails were served on golden platters. Arnold sipped champagne as he scanned the room, recognizing no one. His gaze stopped on a painting of a woman above the mantel. Unlike most portraits, in which the subject stared out directly, this woman looked downward. She was pretty, although not classically beautiful. Her dark hair, swept up off her neck, was arranged elegantly. She wore a red gown that showed off her pale shoulders. But what struck him most was the innate gentleness he sensed. That a painter could capture something so internal and private impressed Arnold.
“You must be Dr. Richter.” In front of him stood a true beauty. Her wavy hair, cut in a modern angle, framed a perfectly symmetrical face with a strong chin and striking green eyes.
“I am,” Arnold said, and shook her hand.
“I am Inga Sommer, daughter of Frieda Blumenthal.” She glowed.
“Your home is magnificent.” He glanced at the walls, covered with oil paintings in gilded frames.
“Technically, it is my mother’s home,” Inga said. “Although my husband and I reside in the east wing.” She smiled. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“You must meet my husband, Klaus. He is also at the University. A chemist.” She turned and tugged at a man’s sleeve.
Klaus, who by any standards was extraordinarily handsome, gave Arnold’s hand a firm shake. “Good of you to come,” he said, as he puffed his pipe.
“I will leave you two to get acquainted,” Inga said and dashed off.
Klaus carried a certain bemusement in his eyes, as if this was all an entertaining game.
“Is the painting above the mantel of Frau Blumenthal?” Arnold asked.
Klaus’s deep laugh complemented his tall stature and wide shoulders. “I shouldn’t think anyone would want to be in a room in which her portrait hovered.”
Arnold smiled, the acceptable response, but wondered what undercurrents lay beneath this family. “This Frau Blumenthal, your mother-in-law, is she quite a character then?”
“She is steel,” Klaus said, not seeming to care if anyone overheard them. “A mixture of an iron will with the darkness of carbon.”
“Spoken like a true chemist,” Arnold said.
“All
oys are my specialty.” He smoked. “The painting,” he said, gazing up at it, “is of the favored child, Rigmor.” He tipped his head to the corner. “She is over there, more than likely attempting to fade into the background.” Taken at face value, the words could have sounded caustic. Yet Klaus’s tone was considerate, almost warm.
Arnold saw a woman who held her glass close to her chest. Her hair was in a bun, and her ivory dress was simple and understated. She watched rather than mingled.
“Are they alike, your wife and your sister?” Arnold asked, although he had already guessed they were not.
“How they came from the same parents is a mystery. But one can never be sure of paternity, can one?”
The question was stated so objectively that Arnold wasn’t sure if Klaus was asking earnestly or making a joke.
“One of my interests is the genetics of personality,” Arnold answered, mirroring Klaus’s impartiality.
“Well, the two sisters would certainly make a good case study.”
“And their mother? Which daughter is more like her?”
Klaus gave Arnold a hearty pat on the back. “Answering that question could mean the end of my marriage.” He winked. “Enjoy your evening.”
The dining room was something out of a picture book. Each place setting had multiple silver utensils and the chandeliers were lit with real candles. Arnold found his name card. He was seated next to an elderly woman who wore too much perfume and kept asking him if he really was a psychiatrist. “I simply don’t understand why you would get a medical degree to become a mind reader.”
Dinner consisted of five courses, and everyone, aside from himself and the woman next to him, was absorbed in conversation.
After dinner the party moved back to the drawing room.
Klaus sat in one of the larger armchairs smoking his pipe. Arnold had thus far met no artists, writers or doctors. Klaus was the only person he felt any connection to. Just as he headed over, someone tapped his arm. He turned and saw a woman, in her mid-forties, wearing a plain black dress.
“I am Frau Blumenthal,” she said.
All evening he had tried to guess which lady was the matron of this home. He couldn’t even remember seeing the woman who now stood in front of him.
“A pleasure.” Arnold held out a hand.
She glanced at his hand as if he should put it away. “Would you be so kind as to have a word?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.” Finally, the purpose of his invitation was to be revealed. “What can I do for you?”
“Not here,” she murmured.
He followed her to a small sitting room where the paintings were light in color and theme, mostly of flowers and fruit—a ladies’ parlor, he guessed.
Frau Blumenthal’s hair, wrapped around her head, looked like a turban, the kind he’d seen in pictures from India. He declined her offer of a drink.
“Please sit,” she said, pointing to the sofa.
She sat across from him, holding herself unnaturally straight. Arnold liked to think of himself as an expert in body expression. Her stiffness, he surmised, was due to nerves. He had absolutely no idea what she wanted with him, but her posture told him it was something of great concern.
She took a deep breath. “Inga found your name.”
“Oh?”
“A man by the name of Ernst Rudin gave it to her. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course I have heard of him,” Arnold answered. “I think any reasonable psychiatrist in the country—in the world—knows who he is.” He crossed his legs. “I have attended a few of his lectures. I am a great admirer of his work.”
He restrained a smile, wanting to put on the façade that it was nothing out of the ordinary that he was known by someone like Rudin. In fact, it was a shock of the most pleasant nature.
“Inga feels he is something special as well,” Frau Blumenthal said. She folded her hands on her lap with her index fingers pointing upward like a steeple, an unusual gesture, as if part of her wanted to pray.
“I must say I am very curious how I play into all of this,” Arnold said.
“I have two daughters. Inga, who you have met, and Rigmor, who you might not have had a chance to speak with yet.”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
“She suffers from fits.” Frau Blumenthal held herself completely still. Arnold nodded.
“She has some sort of nervous disorder.” She paused. “I hope this will stay between us.”
“Of course.”
“I am no expert on these types of illnesses. Inga, on the other hand, seems to throw herself into learning everything that she can. I believe she and Rudin are on friendly terms.”
“And he knew of me?” His voice squeaked, betraying his lack of ease. He re-situated himself.
Frau Blumenthal shrugged. “How else would he have known to recommend you?”
“I did publish a paper last year on manic depressives. Perhaps he read that?”
“I am not familiar with his reading habits,” she said.
He smiled. “So you are worried about your daughter.”
“I am her mother.”
“Are you looking for my professional opinion?”
“In a way, yes. What we are looking for is a bit out of the ordinary. She has seen many doctors. We have had many opinions.” She took a labored breath. “None have been particularly useful.”
“Even Rudin’s?”
“I am not interested in his opinion. He seems to focus only on a particular type of mental illness that Rigmor does not have.”
Arnold doubted that Rudin would be so narrow-minded. But he understood. Rudin’s work was primarily on the genetics of schizophrenia, and that was a diagnosis that no one wanted.
“The doctors you have seen, what have they said?” he asked.
“She has a combination of hysteria and depression.”
“Do you think their assessments are correct?” He believed that parents, if they were willing to be completely honest with themselves, were the most reliable source of information about their children’s illnesses.
“Their words mean nothing to me. What I see is a young woman who gets herself worked up over nothing. Sometimes she cries for days, pulling at her hair, and saying that she just can’t carry on anymore.”
“I have no doubt you are telling me the truth, but the few times I glanced at her this evening, I saw a woman who seemed very self-contained.”
“But of course. She would hardly be joining the party if she was in the middle of an episode. If I gave the impression that she suffers from these all of the time, please excuse me.”
“No, you have been very clear. May I ask what she means when she says she can’t carry on anymore?” Arnold asked.
“Well that is the thing, is it not? There is nothing for her to do. She can relax all day, and yet still she has a lack of control of her nerves.”
“Has she always had these fits?”
Frau Blumenthal exhaled. Her posture softened. “She was a sweet child, shy and kind. I remember how readily she felt shame. It saddened me to see her suffer.” She hesitated, her eyes distant for a moment. “But the fits didn’t begin until she was fifteen.”
“It’s not uncommon that women begin to suffer from illnesses around the time their bodies develop. Has anyone else in your family suffered this way?”
She relaxed her hands from their rigid formation and sliced one through the air. “There is no mental illness, no deformities of any type, on either side of the family. I do not want to make it sound as if we are superior. I am horrified at the recent talk of a superior race. But genetically speaking, we are above the norm.”
Arnold nodded. “So how can I be of assistance?”
“I believe she needs a compassionate friend.”
“She doesn’t have any friends?”
Frau Blumenthal shifted and sighed. “I am speaking of a compassionate friend, who is also a psychiatrist, and is not terribly far from her in age.”
“I have watched you all evening. I think you have a kind nature.”
“That is generous of you to say.”
“I am not here to give false flattery. I am here to offer an arrangement. I want you to become her friend. She will confide in you, and feel as if she has someone to talk to about her problems. It will not be a secret that you are a psychiatrist, and you can offer casual advice. In this way she can stay clear of other doctor’s offices, where people look at her as if she is a subhuman specimen.”
He didn’t like to think that any of his colleagues would view a patient that way. “And if she doesn’t want to become my friend?”
“You are an intelligent man. You will figure it out.”
How absurd. It wasn’t as if he could just snap his fingers and become friends with a strange woman.
“I appreciate your faith in me, but I am not sure I’m a suitable candidate.”
“Don’t think we haven’t done our research. You are the right age. You have the correct background.” She paused. “May I assume you are not a Nazi?”
He laughed. “Most certainly not.” He thought it best not to inform her that doctors, especially psychiatrists, were leading the way in joining the Party.
“Then I will invite you to a smaller dinner party next week and you will be able to spend time with Rigmor. After that, you can go on walks, or play cards, whatever suits you. I will come to the University to talk to you every so often and find out how things are going.”
“I could not share anything that was said in confidence.” If she wanted a pawn, she would need to look elsewhere.
“You will not technically be her doctor, so you needn’t worry about that. If there is someone with whom she can relax, be honest with, not be afraid of some horrible treatments they may prescribe, then perhaps we can get to the bottom of why she has these fits in the first place.”
“Would she be aware that you would come to talk to me?”