by Sylvia True
One day Tanner would do well in his field of work. He was a natural salesman, confident, but not too loud. He listened attentively, nodded at the right moments, and didn’t seem to have any nervous habits or tics. In fact, there was something almost a bit too polished and Inga wondered what was under his veneer. As the waiter cleared the dinner plates, Tanner leaned back a bit and allowed his arms and legs to take up proportionately more space than what his chair called for.
Inga ordered tea. Tanner asked for a coffee. She was pleased he did not have a third scotch.
Inga dropped one sugar cube into her cup and stirred. It was time find some answers to more difficult questions.
“It must be trying for you at the moment, with Sabine not well.”
Tanner gave a weary nod. “I don’t get to sleep as much as I want. Mia wakes up once or twice in the night. By the time I pick her up from daycare, it feels like the rest of the night is feeding her, feeding me, and then getting ready for bed.”
“That is a lot,” said Inga, although she hadn’t meant the question quite as he interpreted. “Are you worried about Sabine?”
“She’s had this kind of thing before, and she gets through it.”
So, as Inga had feared, this was not a simple postpartum depression. There was indeed a history, one that had been kept from her. “When you say she’s had this type of thing before, what do you mean?”
“When she was in grad school. She dropped out because she couldn’t leave the apartment,” Tanner said. “Sometimes she wouldn’t sleep at all, or sometimes she’d sleep too much. Sometimes she’d have nightmares. It was like she couldn’t get regulated.”
Inga recalled getting a letter from Lisbet telling her that Sabine had decided to change her field of interest. At the time Inga thought it a good thing. Sabine might find herself isolated as a woman scientist.
“I never really understood, what the problem was,” Tanner went on. “I mean, there wasn’t anything actually wrong with her. Like once, she had this thing in her throat.” He touched his Adam’s apple. “She said it was a lump that wouldn’t go away, and she made me take her to the emergency room. The doctor called it Global Hysteria. Sabine thought she was dying of throat cancer.”
“I have heard of that,” Inga said, thinking she could have helped years ago had she known.
“I told her that she should start jogging, get fresh air,” he said. “Maybe eat grapefruit.”
Inga nodded. “Grapefruit is good for digestion. And fresh air is vital.”
She smiled at him but wondered how much he really grasped. Fruit and walks could certainly help, but they weren’t cures.
“You care very much about Sabine,” Inga said.
“She’s my wife. I love her.”
His words sounded more reportorial than passionate. Still it was nice to hear him say them. “That is good to know,” she said.
“Sabine’s a good person. She’d pretty much give anyone the shirt off her back.” He paused. “She’s not really into material things.”
“And you?” Inga raised her eyebrows.
He laughed. “I can’t deny that I have some pretty substantial desires.”
“Such as?”
He drank his coffee. “I love boats and skiing. Bicycling. I’ve always wanted to ride through the countryside in France. Champagne tastes on a beer budget.” He laughed again, this time with a bit of defeat.
But he had a zest for life, an attractive quality.
“May I be blunt?” Inga asked.
“Sure.”
“Let us, just hypothetically speaking, say Sabine doesn’t recover fully, that she won’t be able to ski, or bicycle through France. What if she will need help? Around the house, with the baby. Would you find that terribly distressing?”
“I’ll manage.” He smiled. “She’s never really been much of a cook anyway. Spaghetti is about the only thing she can make.”
“So you will stay with her, through all of this?” Inga asked, mentally jotting that it might be helpful to look into cooking lessons for Sabine.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with a shrug.
For many reasons Inga thought. He was naïve and rather simple. Not in the way of a simpleton, but rather in a lack of life experience. He had had no great losses.
“You are young still. And happy, which I am glad for. But I worry that this problem with Sabine could be more difficult than you realize.”
He leaned forward, looking more pensive. “Like how?”
Inga folded her serviette, and considered how to word what she wanted to say. “For instance if Sabine doesn’t show you the affection you need. It sometimes happens to people when they are not well.”
His eyes grew wider. “Affection?”
She pursed her lips for a moment “Her drive. It might come and go. It is sometimes hard on the spouse.”
“Right,” he said with a slightly mischievous smile.
Inga sipped her tea, taking a moment before broaching the next topic. “And money,” she said. “If Sabine can’t work. If you need to hire someone to help with her and the baby?”
“Not work,” he replied, his mouth going a little slack, as he rubbed his chin. “Don’t know if we can afford that.”
“But if she can’t work,” Inga repeated, her voice dropping a note. She needed to get a clear sense of what his terms would be in order to stay with Sabine.
“Not sure,” he said as his brow creased.
This was the most concerned he had looked, and Inga knew that money was his Achilles’ heel. Not such a bad thing, she reasoned. There was no knowing how Sabine’s illness would progress, or what other obstacles would present themselves. But barring another world war or stock market crash, she could help.
“I would very much like to pay for the child care.”
“That would be great. Really great.” His eyes brightened.
“And if in the future, if you might need a bit more, you can write to me.”
“You know, I told Sabine the first time I met you that I thought you were a great lady. I…” he stopped.
Inga guessed he was about to say something to the effect of Sabine having a different opinion. It was wise for all of their sakes that he not continue.
Back at McLean, they found Sabine squatting on the floor next to the door of the nurses’ station. The pretty woman, the one who looked nothing like a patient, sat next to her.
“Where is the baby?” Inga asked.
Sabine sprung up like a cat and wiped her mascara-smudged eyes. “The nurses took her. They said that a family member has to be here when she’s here.”
Tanner cleared his throat. Inga guessed he was about to admonish Sabine, say something to the effect of—I told you that was the case. Inga held a finger to her lips, advising him to stay quiet. Then she stepped toward Sabine.
“Be patient,” she said quietly. “Stay in control. Do not give them the power to hurt you.”
Sabine ignored the advice, banging on the door to the nursing station. How Inga would manage to bend the rules to Sabine’s favor was unclear at the moment, but she would most certainly find a way.
A nurse handed Mia to Sabine, and they returned to the dining area. As Sabine talked and played with the baby, her transformation was staggering. Her eyes were more alert, her posture straighter, and it was clear that above all else, she needed to be with her child.
Ten minutes later, Tanner said that he needed to get going. He had to work, and it was Mia’s bedtime. All understandable, and yet watching Sabine’s mouth quiver at having to say goodbye made Inga wish they could stay a bit longer.
Chapter Eight
A Treatment Plan
Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1934
Arnold’s third-floor office had once been used as a storage closet. Even so, it had a good view of the Frankfurt Cathedral, and easily accommodated two chairs, a desk, and shelves holding books on medicine, genetics and psychiatry. Books were the true window into a person’s soul, Arnold bel
ieved. Although recently, he’d wrapped Freud’s books in his mother’s linens and hidden them in the attic.
He pushed his chair back, reclined, and swung his feet onto the desk, something he did when no one was watching. He flipped through The New England Journal of Medicine, a periodical he never missed.
‘The burden on society resulting from this increase in feeble-mindedness is tremendous. For one thing, persons with subnormal intelligence are always potential criminals… The financial loss to the country is appalling. Including both the direct cost of supporting these sufferers from mental disease, and the loss of productive capacity due to their incompetence… the annual total cost of mental disease for the United States is around three-quarters of a billion dollars. We should recognize this danger that threatens to replace our population with a race of feeble-minded; we must study its causes and the sources from which it springs. If we wait too long, this viper that we have nourished may prove our undoing.’
Most German clinicians held similar views and although Arnold didn’t like to think of the ill being a financial burden, he understood the reality. As he turned the page, a knock on the door startled him.
He hurried to the door, and there was Inga—confident, smiling, wearing a conservative blue skirt and a gray blouse, not her usual chic attire.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone. I would have tidied.”
“No need.” She glanced around. “It shows you are involved in your work. That is a positive thing.”
“Well then.” Arnold smiled. “Would you like to sit?” He moved the chairs, offering Inga the one that had once been his mother’s.
She sat upright. Arnold thought of something Rigmor had told him. Inga didn’t like photographs of herself that made her look too attractive. She liked people to be surprised by her appearance, for them to say, you are so much prettier than in the picture I saw.
“A cup of tea?” Arnold could run down to the dining hall. “I’d prefer something stronger.” She dipped her head. “If you have it.”
He kept a bottle of scotch and one glass in the bottom drawer of his desk. Turning his back, he leaned over the drawer, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and buffed the glass. He poured a small amount. He didn’t want to seem stingy, but he also didn’t want to offend her by serving too much.
Inga noticed the journal.
“And what do our American friends have to say?”
Arnold wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. “Their views parallel ours in many respects.”
“And they are?” she asked, sipping her scotch.
The fact that she wanted a drink, and the almost brusque tone of her questions, made him think she was nervous about something.
“It’s all rather technical,” he said about the journal. “Is everything all right?”
“I also read that publication,” she said. “I am quite familiar with what is going on in this field.”
“Of course,” he said. They talked about the article—about feeblemindedness, about the Law for the Prevention of the Genetically Diseased Offspring. Inga told him that, had she gone to university, she would have studied genetics, and had that been the case, she would have made a fair and compassionate impartial judge on the newly formed Health Courts. Arnold was not entirely convinced.
Inga asked for a refill. Partway through her second scotch, she announced she had come to talk about Rigmor, and took out a small spiral notebook and a pencil. She flipped through a few pages, and then looked at him.
“Rigmor complains of difficulty swallowing sometimes, as if she has a fishbone stuck in her throat. Have you ever heard of something like that?”
It seemed far too easy of a question. “Yes, it’s a common symptom caused by anxiety, due to tightening of the esophagus.”
“I thought so.” She turned to another page, then picked up her glass from the floor.
Arnold’s job was to put people at ease when they had to broach difficult subjects. He smiled, showing her that she was free to tell him what was on her mind.
“I have done quite a bit of research on my own,” she said.
He nodded. “I had gathered as much. You seem to really persevere. Your desire to learn is impressive.” He left unsaid that even the most knowledgeable lay person could easily misunderstand some of the more complicated gradations of the field.
“I have selfish reasons.” She glanced out the window before turning to him with her chin lifted. “I would do anything to help Rigmor.”
“I admire your loyalty and dedication,” he told her. She bowed her head as if uncomfortable with the compliment.
“I have met with another doctor,” Inga said, “a psychoanalyst from the Berlin Institute.”
Arnold felt his stomach sink. He was being replaced. Somehow, he knew the time would come, that he would not be good enough for the Blumenthals.
“Her name is Therese Benedek. Have you heard of her?”
“I have not,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“She was born in Hungary, and also trained there.” Inga paused. “Political reasons. That’s why she moved here. And now, well.” She brushed a hand along her skirt. “I suppose that isn’t important for our purposes. But it does feel so unfair. That she had to leave Hungary because she was Jewish, and here she is, once again surrounded by people in government who hate her.” Inga shook her head. “But there is nothing we can do about that at the moment. Therese is a small thing, a sprite really, and full of energy. When I met her, I found her physical appearance somewhat unappealing. I suppose that is not a nice thing to say, but with her hair a mess, and her big black glasses, I couldn’t help but think it. But then as we talked, I found there was something charming about her, something so intuitive, my feelings on her appearance completely changed. Interesting how that happens.”
“Yes,” Arnold said. “What we consider to be so objective is often much more subjective than we might think.” He thought of the first time he saw Rigmor and Inga, how he judged Inga the more beautiful sister. And now it was completely reversed.
“I have become quite fond of Therese,” Inga continued. “She and I have talked about so much, and there is one thing in particular I think you might be of help with.” “Please.”
“She researches women’s hormonal and sexual cycles and correlates those to psychological behavior.” Inga entwined her fingers. “She looks at the mind-body connection.”
“Oh,” Arnold said, feeling his neck grow hot. He had read things, of course, and would without hesitation or embarrassment discuss women’s hormones with a colleague. But Inga was not a colleague.
“Her studies on women are mostly about the differences between the pre and post ovulation states. But with me, she talks about sexual relations, and orgasm, and how that can affect psychological wellbeing.”
Arnold focused on the lines in his knuckles and hoped his face wasn’t too red. Inga crossed her legs and sat back in the chair.
“I began this study purely by accident. I had been reading a lot about hysteria, since that has been a common label doctors have placed on Rigmor. In my readings I came across an older practice, used fifty years ago, in which doctors would stimulate the vagina so the woman could have a paroxysm.”
“I know of this.” His eyelid twitched. If she was going to suggest vaginal massages for Rigmor, Arnold would be clear that he didn’t agree with the practice.
“I found it interesting, as does Therese, that the doctors didn’t think these paroxysms were orgasms. What do you think?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t given much thought to the matter.”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t have either, but I think there is a connection between orgasm and a feeling of calm. I think that’s what those doctors stumbled on, even if they called it something else.”
Arnold cleared his throat. “It could be.”
She sipped her drink. “I can only speak from my own experience. But I do find a certain peace after I have had relations in the bedroom.
Have other patients talked of this?”
“I can’t speak about what patients tell me.” Again, he felt much too warm.
Inga nodded. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean to pry,” she said. “I am used to speaking about it with Therese quite openly, so I apologize if I have been too forward and made you uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine.”
“You know my sister—you know that under no circumstances would she feel comfortable going to a doctor’s office and getting any kind of vaginal treatment.”
“I don’t believe it’s prescribed any longer,” he muttered.
“The point is, I think it would be very helpful for Rigmor to have relations with a man. I realize that might sound crass, but I have thought about it long and hard, and I believe it might really help her. She’s had suitors in the past, but she has a natural shyness that has kept her from developing a more intimate relationship.”
“Has she always had this shyness?”
“I’m not here to speak of myself, but I do remember liking boys from a young age, and asking Rigmor who she liked. She never really knew. When I was a girl, I thought she was hiding it from me, but then I realized, she is made of a different type of cloth, and she just doesn’t have the same drive that I have.” Inga laughed. “Sometimes, believe it or not, my behavior even catches me off guard.”
“It sounds as if you were a lively child,” Arnold told her.
“I was.” She smiled, her face relaxed and young for a moment. “But that’s hardly the point. I have talked to Rigmor about men, and how having sex can be calming. I can see by the color of your face that I have astonished you. Please,” she lowered her voice. “Remember that I have always been Rigmor’s elder sister and she is quite used to listening to my ideas and thoughts. She is much more modern in her way of thinking than you might know.”
It was true, Arnold had never seen this modern side. “Is there someone she is interested in?” he asked.
“That brings me to my next point.” She looked directly at him, her eyes wider.