by Sylvia True
Now he understood. “No.” He pushed back his chair, bumping it against the desk.
“You don’t have to rush to a decision,” she said.
“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“She is not a patient. My mother was wise about that. And I think Rigmor has real feelings for you.” She scuffed her foot along the carpet. “The question is, and I do realize this is delicate of me to ask, do you have feelings for her?”
“I care about her.” He glanced at the window, as a few clouds drifted past. “Very much,” he added, turning back to Inga.
“Do you care about her in the way…” She paused. “In the way a man cares about a woman?”
“What you are asking is quite ridiculous.”
She tucked her head down, and for a moment seemed to realize the blatant outrageousness of her request. “It first seemed crazy to me as well.”
“It is crazy,” he said, hoping to end this conversation.
“It is unconventional. I will give you that. But it is well thought through and researched. And if you would like to call Dr. Benedek and have this conversation with her, I would urge you to do so.”
But Arnold held firm—in appearance, at least. “I understand the theory, and I’m sure Benedek is a good doctor but I don’t think that this is appropriate.”
“You know by now how much I love my sister. I am only looking for ways to help her.” She placed her handbag on her lap. He expected her next words to be stinging.
Instead she smiled. “I thought this would be your reaction. I’m neither disappointed nor dissuaded. You would not be the man I thought you were if you said yes. But I am planting the seed. That is all. I ask only that you and Rigmor consider it. And of course it will take time, should you both decide affirmatively.” She stood, walked to the door, and then turned to him. “It would be best not to discuss this particular plan with Mother.”
With that she was gone.
* * *
Inga continued to bring Rigmor cups of hot cocoa and made sure to always check that the door was properly closed.
“He makes me feel exquisitely alive,” Inga said one evening, when she talked about her latest adventure with Fred. “Perhaps it’s something you want to try.”
Rigmor laughed. “You do have a way of saying whatever is on your mind.”
Inga picked up a silver brush from the bedside table and brushed Rigmor’s hair, transforming the curls into soft waves. “I am not so blunt with everyone.”
“It is your bluntness that makes you such an interesting person,” Rigmor said.
Inga grinned. “Perhaps you should inform Mother of your opinion.”
“You are too much alike, strong-headed. That is the problem.” Inga did not like the comparison to her mother, although Rigmor was hardly the first to point it out.
“My opinions,” Inga began, as she kept brushing, “come from factual information, not from some old tales passed on generations ago.” The brushstrokes lengthened and slowed. “I know a woman, Therese. She is exceedingly bright. She studies women’s ovulation cycles and how they relate to mental illness.”
“Light reading again?” Rigmor asked.
Inga laughed. “Hormones influence mood, and I think they play a part in your ups and downs. Just as menstrual cycles affect us, so does sex. I would never have thought that until I met Fred. But I can tell you that I feel such pure tranquility after we have been together. It is as if I have taken some very potent, wondrous medicine.” She stopped brushing mid-stroke.
Rigmor shook her head. “No.”
“Would it hurt to try?” Inga resumed brushing.
“I couldn’t,” Rigmor said. “Besides, I have no one.”
“What about Arnold?” Inga spoke with caution. “You both care for one another.”
Rigmor pushed Inga’s hand away and turned. “I would never.”
“Because it frightens you? Or because you think it is morally wrong?” Inga picked up a strand of Rigmor’s hair, and gently caressed it.
“I’m not morally against it,” she said. “I think women have a right to do these things.”
“I would help you.” Inga let go of her sister’s hair, and reached for a hand. “On my wedding night with Klaus, I had no idea what to expect. I was frightened. I would not leave you in that kind of predicament.”
Rigmor pulled away her hand. “And Arnold? What if this wasn’t something he wanted?”
Inga took this as a positive sign. “I am sure it is.”
“You haven’t?” Rigmor asked.
“I have talked to him about my conversations with Therese, and how she believes that I might be onto something.”
Rigmor covered her mouth as if to hide the shock. “He doesn’t think I proposed this idea?”
“Of course not.”
“Please. Let’s forget this whole conversation took place.”
“But my dear, things are not getting better. There are bluish circles under your eyes. You are not sleeping. You imagine worms under your skin. Why not try something that might actually help?”
Rigmor ran a finger under her eye. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” Inga said. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so forceful. I only want to make things better.”
“I know.” Rigmor paused. “Mother told me about the roses.”
Inga felt her face heat as she shook her head. “It was meant…”
“I know how it was meant. And I love you for all of your crazy, preposterous ideas. But we are both grown women. Soon you will have a family, and move away, and I will have to look after myself.”
“I am not having children.” She was cautious with Fred, making sure he always used a condom.
Inga climbed down from the bed. “I won’t bring up my idea with Arnold again.”
“Thank you,” Rigmor said.
“But just because I won’t talk about it, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t think about it.”
“You’re impossible.” Rigmor grinned and slid under the eiderdown.
* * *
On a midafternoon in late August, Arnold and Rigmor strolled in the Palmengarten. She wore a powder blue dress with a light cardigan and beige pumps that were good for walking.
They took the path around the lake. A few men wearing brown shirts and Nazi armbands passed them. Arnold reminded himself that it was a movement of fanatics and ultimately unsustainable.
Rigmor and Arnold sat on a bench that faced the water. The day was hot, and Arnold took off his suit coat.
“Are you too warm?” he asked Rigmor.
She tugged on the sleeve of her cardigan. “No,” she replied as more men in Nazi uniforms walked by.
“I tell myself we are, above all, a sensible, analytic race,” he said. “This will pass. People are not by nature bad.”
“It cannot last,” Rigmor agreed.
They gazed at the water, flat as paper. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, waited and then asked how she was faring.
“I feel a millimeter away from completely losing my mind,” Rigmor said. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I have tried sketching my fears, as you suggested, but they are still there in the middle of the night. I desperately want to feel normal. I would like to go into town, to shop for a new dress, to eat at a nice restaurant without worrying that I will faint, or feel my heart pounding so hard it will leap out of my chest.”
“Have you tried the breathing exercises?”
“I have. I lie in my bed and tell myself to only pay attention to my breaths. But I’ve failed. I can’t push away my thoughts.”
“It’s impossible to erase all thoughts. The main thing is to be gentle with yourself.” He took a few breaths to demonstrate.
They sat, watching families with children, women in fashionable dresses, gentlemen walking with canes, and servants carrying packages. It was a colorful cast. People who appeared solid and hard working—of good quality. These were the Germans he knew
.
“My sister doesn’t care what anyone else thinks once she’s set her mind on something,” Rigmor said.
Arnold nodded. “I believe that is true.”
“She’s always been like that,” Rigmor continued. “I remember when we were girls and we were skiing. She was told to stay with our instructor. But she didn’t, and I don’t know how, but she got herself to the top of the mountain. She flew down, better than any other skier. She was a sensation that day. People congratulated her, told her she was a natural. Mother was furious.”
“I can imagine,” Arnold said.
Rigmor pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. At first he thought the marks on her arm were a rash, possibly from the heat, but when he looked at them more closely, he noticed scabs, small red dots, four of them.
“What are these from?” he asked her. “Were you bitten?”
She pulled her sleeves down. “Nothing.”
He waited, guessing she had wanted, perhaps not completely consciously, for him to see the marks.
“Sometimes,” she began. “I feel as if I have botfly larvae crawling under my skin. I know it can’t be. But when I’m so tired and haven’t slept, I think they’re there, and I have to get them out.”
“And how do you get them out?”
“I’ve tried to poke them with a needle. Sometimes a knife.” She lowered her head. “In the light of day, I realize I have none of these worms under my skin. But at three in the morning, the world is so different.”
He sighed, wishing she didn’t have to suffer so. “Next time you feel them, is there a possibility that you could tell Inga, or phone me? So you wouldn’t have to hurt yourself?”
“I will try.”
“Things have been difficult,” he said, and put his hand next to hers. “But overall you have been managing. I think it’s important to focus on what’s working.”
“I hang by a thread.” She gazed at the lake. “Inga talks to me. She doesn’t hide anything, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to be some sort of breakable doll.”
“No, of course not.”
She poked the toe of her shoe in the grass. “Inga can sometimes have unusual ideas.” She moved away, just enough for him to know what lay ahead. He could have stopped it right there. He should have stood up, said something about the sun being too hot, or the hour getting late. But he didn’t.
“She cares deeply about you,” he said.
“I know that.” Her shoulders rounded. “And she talked to me about what she proposed to you.”
This time it was he who moved away, just slightly. “She is admirable. I looked up the doctor she has been discussing this with, Therese Benedek. A very respectable woman.”
“I have to ask,” Rigmor said, gripping the seat of the bench. “Do you think it would help?”
“I do not.”
“I see.” She tucked her chin to her neck. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Of course you should have. And it has nothing to do with you. I mean, nothing to do with how lovely you are.” He wiped his brow. “It’s that we’re such good friends.”
“I know. I would never have brought it up, but I’m feeling so desperate.”
“We’ll keep trying new treatments,” he said.
A child threw a pebble in the water and the ripples, the movement, came as a great relief to Arnold.
“Do you have a woman in your life?” She jumped up and then added, “Oh dear, please forgive me.” She covered her face and sat down again. “It is not my business.”
“I have no one in my life,” he said, smiling. “I wouldn’t have the time. But I want you to know something.” He held her hand and looked into her gray eyes. “I understand why Inga suggested what she did, but I would never take advantage of you. You must know that.”
“I was the one who brought it up. You would not be taking advantage of me.”
Yet he would have been, or at least he felt that way, because he did have selfish motives of his own. “Yes, but you are a woman, and I am a doctor, and people would think the worst.”
“You always tell me not to worry so much what other people think.” Her voice lilted.
She was right—he did say that, too often. “We will not give up.” He put an arm around her, needing to protect her. As she rested her head on his shoulder, Arnold felt a change. He had not said, you can’t give up. He had said, we, as if they were a couple. He felt lighter, hopeful, not just for her, but for himself as well.
* * *
Arnold always looked forward to his visits with Rigmor. Even when her mood was bleak, her empathy for others remained remarkable. She did not judge in regards to money, class, education or beauty. She made the assumption that humans behaved from a place of best intentions, which Arnold believed left her vulnerable. There were times she insisted she was fine, but he saw through that, saw the pensive stares, heard how her voice shrunk to a whisper, noticed the slight tremor in her hands that she tried to hide.
Twice more the topic of Dr. Benedek arose. Rigmor spoke of Inga’s theory in halting sentences, and Arnold found himself opening to the idea. He had never been attracted to a woman the way a normal man might be, but perhaps it was because he hadn’t given it a chance. And if there was ever a woman he felt love for, it was Rigmor. He even caught himself daydreaming about having a family with her. She would make an extraordinarily kind mother. But life was not a fairy tale: there were the complications of her illness that might very well worsen, there was the disparity in their social status, and there was the talk of new laws that would make it impossible for an Aryan to marry a Jew.
Nevertheless, they continued to talk about “Inga’s idea” as they had come to call it. They discussed whether or not there might be chemical shifts in the body after sex, and finally they decided to try. They chose a date in December.
The plan was that he would pick her up for the symphony at the Festhalle but they would go to his home instead. As the date neared, Arnold occasionally fell into panic, fearing failure, recognizing it wasn’t just Rigmor’s mental health at stake but his very manhood too. At other moments he felt exhilarated at the prospect of a future with a woman he cared so deeply for.
The evening of the concert, he dressed in his tuxedo and took a taxi to the Blumenthals. He and Rigmor had promised each other that if either one felt any unease, they would stop immediately. They also swore that they would never tell anyone. Not even Inga.
The butler led Arnold to the large drawing room. A fire crackled behind Frau Blumenthal, who stood in the center of the room wearing one of her typical dresses. Her face, though, looked anything but usual. Her skin glowed, and Arnold might have even gone so far as to say she looked happy.
“This is one of Rigmor’s favorites,” Frau Blumenthal said. “Beethoven’s Seventh. I’m so pleased she wanted to go. When she was only six, she already had an advanced understanding of classical music.”
When the potbellied grandfather clock began to strike, Rigmor walked in. She wore a sleeveless black silk gown with matching gloves. Her only jewelry was a pair of earrings made of pearls that hung from a short string of diamonds. Her dark hair was twisted along the sides and rolled at the back.
“Thank you for coming,” she said to Arnold as he passed her a bouquet of flowers.
Frau Blumenthal reached for the bell. “Shall we all have a drink?”
“I think we should go,” Rigmor said. “Arnold has hired a taxi.”
“No,” Frieda protested. “You must take our car. It is much more comfortable. Safer too.”
“That is kind,” Arnold began. “But I’m afraid the taxi is waiting, and it would be unfair for the driver not to be paid.”
“I will take care of it.” Frieda rang the bell. The butler came in. Arrangements were made, as Rigmor looked at Arnold and shrugged. He smiled, to show her that it would be fine. A small obstacle would not thwart their plans.
In the car, Arnold instructed the driver to let them off at his home, and
to pick them up at eleven. He gave the man some money and asked him to be discreet.
“My home is nothing compared to yours,” Arnold said, as he unlocked his front door. Inside, he took her fur shawl and led her to the sitting room.
She looked at a painting he’d bought when he first moved to the city two years ago. Two horses stopped at a stream. An upper-class man, of the seventeen hundreds, sat on one of the horses.
“This is well done,” Rigmor said.
“The dark tones obscure,” Arnold answered, “to some degree, the vitality of the horses.”
“I noticed that right away. It’s as if the artist is pulling you inward, forcing you to look more closely, to not be fooled by the first glance.”
“Yes,” Arnold agreed. “I have actually looked at this painting for hours with a magnifying glass. That the man is missing a button on his shirt, and that his pocket is a little askew, is brilliant.”
“Did it come from your parents?”
Arnold grinned thinking of the few paintings in his childhood home. They were of the German countryside—nice, but with no variation in tone.
“No, I found it on one of my very first walks around the city. It was in a small shop, in a little alleyway. I have been back there a few times. The owner is proud of every piece he has.”
“Perhaps you can take me there one day.”
“I would like that.” He paused. “May I get you a drink?” “Please.” She pulled off her gloves.
In the kitchen, he poured them each a glass of red wine, and finally, after sitting and drinking, his nerves settled.
“It is a smallish sitting room,” he said. “But I’ve grown quite comfortable with it. I sometimes imagine a dog at my side.”
“Yes,” she exclaimed. “I can imagine you with a Spaniel.”
Rigmor appeared perfectly poised and, if she felt anxious about the evening’s agenda, she hid it remarkably well.
“I’d prefer a smaller home without servants. Mother and Inga seem to feel the servants are invisible, but I don’t have the ability to pretend they aren’t there.”
They chatted about their childhoods, how she wanted to do everything Inga did, climb trees, ride bicycles, run from their nanny, but Rigmor was too timid, even with Inga’s cajoling. He spoke about how ordinary his boyhood was. How he worked hard to get where he was today, how he envied his colleagues who seemed to pass exams with such ease.