by Sylvia True
Arnold had signed a contract that said he would stay for a year. Of course he could get himself disqualified, but that would jeopardize future prospects. Then there was the promise he had made to Rigmor—that he would be here for her. But he felt as if he’d been deceived.
“And when will we meet again?” Arnold asked.
Bohm waved his hand, ushering Arnold out of the office. “I will talk with you after I do an initial assessment of Rigmor. In the meantime, try to enjoy all that we have to offer here.” He grinned. “And perhaps a nurse or two.”
Arnold managed a light, appropriate chuckle, although he hardly felt light or frivolous. When he reached to shake hands, Bohm seemed not to notice. He was too busy for a man like Arnold, who was only here because a wealthy family had paid him to be not much more than a nursemaid.
* * *
Inga sat between Frieda and Rigmor as the black Mercedes sped them toward Sonnenstein.
“Are you carsick?” Inga asked Rigmor, who looked pale and withdrawn.
“A bit,” Rigmor replied.
The past two weeks had been dreadful, with Rigmor vomiting morning and night. Her skin seemed loose on her bones, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair, which she now always kept in a bun, had turned brittle. A devastating decline. Whenever Rigmor seemed a little stronger, Inga tried to get a sense of how her sister was feeling about going to Sonnenstein, and being around Arnold. Her answers, although spoken with little passion, were consistently favorable.
As soon as they pulled up to the main entrance, Arnold trotted down the steps and opened the back door for Rigmor. He held her hand as she exited the car. She smiled and pretended nothing was wrong, but her movements were stiff, as if she was in her seventies, not her twenties.
“Would you like me to show you around the grounds?” Arnold asked Rigmor.
“The journey was tiring,” Frieda said. “Please show us to her quarters.”
Inga believed a short walk might have helped Rigmor’s appetite, but this was not the time to bicker.
The air had a countryside freshness; trees were budding, and Inga imagined visiting Rigmor in the spring, taking walks along the river or into the hills, and doing watercolors of the landscape.
The lobby of the building was small and clean, decorated with a few armchairs and nice paintings. The first staircase they climbed was wide, had good light, nice carpeting, and freshly painted walls. A second staircase led to the tower room. It felt like something out of an old castle, with damp walls and a mildew smell. Frieda turned and glared at Inga.
Arnold nodded, seeming to note their discomfort. “The climb is well worth it,” he said.
When they reached the top floor, Arnold led them to Rigmor’s room. The lighting was excellent, something Inga believed was crucial. Other things could be changed—the furniture, the artwork—but not the light. Rigmor walked to one of the windows overlooking the Elbe. Inga joined her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Rigmor’s thin hand rested on the windowsill. “It’s nicer than I expected.”
A robin sang in the tree just outside of the window. “Look,” Inga said. “Someone has come to greet you.”
Rigmor touched the windowpane and smiled.
“It feels damp in here,” Frieda said, as she walked the perimeter of the room.
“I think that was only the stairway,” Inga replied. “The air in here feels dry.”
“To me it feels damp.”
Inga turned to her mother. “The light is good. And the bed is well positioned. The space is comfortable.”
Frieda walked to the bed and pressed hard on the mattress. Then she turned on the bedside lamp. “There is not enough light from this. If Rigmor wants to read at night, it might hurt her eyes.”
“I can look into getting another one,” Arnold said.
Rigmor crossed the room and peered out of another window facing the hills, dotted with sheep. “It’s so beautifully green,” she said.
Frieda tapped her cane on the sofa and claimed the springs inside of it were old. The paintings were bland, and the armchair too soft for good posture.
“Mother,” Rigmor said, approaching her. “I like it.”
Frieda’s gaze darted. Perhaps she was trying to find enough flaws to justify taking Rigmor back home.
“The room seems very satisfactory,” Inga said. “I think what we should be concerned about is the treatments. Arnold, when will we be meeting with your director?”
His face flushed. “I don’t believe he has a meeting scheduled with you today.”
“But that can’t be correct,” Inga said. “He knew we were coming, didn’t he?”
“I believe he does. But I’m afraid I don’t know his daily comings and goings.”
“But are you not his assistant?” Inga asked.
“I am.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Well then, I will go and see him now, and ask when he can meet with us.” She walked to the door, and turned. “Arnold, you can point me in the direction of Bohm’s office, and then perhaps get some tea and biscuits for my mother and Rigmor.”
Outside, Inga said, “My mother and I expected that we would have a meeting. I’m surprised you didn’t see to this.”
He glanced downward. “Bohm is a busy man.”
“Did you inquire about an appointment?” Inga asked.
He shook his head, looking rather small for such a tall, well-built man.
She patted his arm. “Well not to worry. I will go and see him now.”
Arnold walked with Inga to the main building, then told her to take her first right; she would find Bohm’s office at the end of a long corridor.
Inga stopped, opened her handbag, took out her compact and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.
Along the walls of the corridor were paintings of doctors—previous directors, she assumed. She approached an antechamber where a young man sat on a stool behind a high desk. His white-blond hair was cut close to his head.
“Is this the Director’s office?” she asked, ready to knock on the door.
The young man hopped off his stool and guarded the door. “You must have an appointment to see the Director.”
“Very well then—can you make one for me?”
He headed back to his desk and thumbed through a leather-bound book. “He has some time in two weeks. Would that suit you?”
“Absolutely not.” Inga walked to the door and knocked.
“You cannot.”
“He will see me,” Inga said confidently. And if he didn’t, she thought, then she would think twice about leaving Rigmor.
When the door opened, the young man said, “I told her you were busy. I told her she would have to wait two weeks.”
Bohm waved a hand for his secretary to go back to his desk, and then took his time looking at Inga.
“I am Inga Sommer,” she began. “Rigmor Blumenthal is my sister, and we have just arrived.”
“So good of you to come and see me,” he said, extending a hand.
His small eyes were alert and intelligent. “I did not mean to barge in,” Inga said. “I thought Arnold would have set up a meeting for us. But it must have slipped his mind.”
His eyes registered a vague acknowledgement. “Yes, of course. Dr. Richter sent you. And you are the sister of the patient. It is now all coming together for me.” He held the door open for her to come in.
His office was spacious, but she didn’t like that the curtains were half closed, or that the room smelled of cigar smoke.
“I would like to discuss Rigmor’s treatment plan,” Inga said.
Bohm gestured to the leather sofa. “First you must tell me all about your journey.”
“My journey was thoroughly uneventful.”
He laughed. “I suppose that is what we want from a journey.”
“It depends on the type,” she said. She had recently taken a train journey to Moscow with Fred. Their cabin was small and with every movement they
seemed to bump each other, which led to constant lovemaking. Far from dull.
Bohm glanced up at the ceiling as if he was following the path of a fly. “You have chosen the best institution in the world for your sister.”
“Her room is nice. But she is not here for the views.”
He laughed again. A nervous habit, she decided.
“You are so amusing.” He studied her. “And quite a beauty.”
It was a common remark, one she had learned to ignore with decorum. “My mother is here, and of course she will also want to meet you. But you needn’t go into too much detail with her about treatment plans, as she is not as well read as I am.”
“Yes, I see,” he said, and smiled again. “But I have not yet had the chance to meet your sister, so I’m afraid it would be impossible to give you any details.”
“You do know of her case. Arnold, Dr. Richter, has surely spoken to you about her. And we have also spoken on occasion.”
He slapped a hand on his knee. “I remember every word of our conversations. Naturally. I so look forward to meeting your sister and making sure she gets the best care.”
“You must have some ideas from what you have heard.”
“I do,” he said. “But sharing my ideas at this point would be a terrible mistake. Without the whole picture, and doing a full interview, I would not want to give you the wrong impression. Imagine if I was an art critic and I saw only the first rough sketch of what would later become the Mona Lisa. Imagine if I told Da Vinci he was hopeless?” He circled his hand and laughed.
He had a point.
“How long do you think it will take for you to give us your opinion?”
“Excellent question,” he said. “I like to have at least eight sessions, and also do some Rorschach tests. Have you heard of those?”
“Of course. I find the location aspects of the tests the most intriguing.”
“I see,” Bohm said. “You are very well read then? I think we will get along famously. Would you like a drink?”
“Not now. I will fetch my mother. Rigmor is too weak to come at the moment.” She glanced at her watch. “I will return in about fifteen minutes. Does that suit you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
She stood. “A word of caution. My mother can come off a bit hard sometimes, but you must understand that this is a very difficult day for her. To leave her daughter here.”
“I understand.” He hurried to the door and held it open.
Twenty minutes later, Inga was back in Bohm’s office, this time with her mother and Arnold.
Bohm asked his secretary to get them a bottle of champagne and four glasses. Then he directed Inga, Frieda and Arnold to the small sitting area.
“This meeting calls for a toast, does it not?” He grinned.
“I do not find this is a joyous occasion,” Frieda answered.
“Oh no. That’s not what I meant at all. I only meant that we are so grateful to have you here.”
Frieda held onto her cane as if it was a staff, and Inga thought Bohm overly solicitous.
“I have been told by my daughter, and Arnold, that you are an excellent clinician,” Frieda said.
He placed a hand on his heart. “How kind of them.”
Frieda shook her head. “We are not here for kindness or niceties. We have not come for tea or champagne. I am worried about my daughter and I would like to know what you can do here that we cannot do at home?”
Bohm nodded quickly, and Arnold shifted in his chair.
“I will myself be seeing her and providing you with a diagnosis and treatment protocol.”
“You believe she will be cured then?” Frieda asked.
“I’m afraid I cannot say that with certainty at the moment. I think sometimes people misunderstand psychiatrists to be some sort of seers. But we are merely scientists. Wouldn’t you agree, Arnold?”
Arnold sat straighter, like a student surprised the teacher had noticed him. “Yes, we are scientists.”
“We follow the scientific method,” Bohm continued. “Any deviation from that would be a mistake.”
“What is Arnold’s role in all of this?” Frieda asked.
Bohm turned to Arnold and studied him for a moment. “I believe him to be a good doctor.” It sounded a bit like a question.
“That is not an answer,” Frieda replied.
Inga cut in. “Will Arnold be keeping an eye on Rigmor? Making sure she eats well and goes on walks, and paints?”
“I see. Yes, that is exactly what he will be doing,” Bohm told Frieda.
The secretary brought in a bottle of champagne and four glasses.
Bohm popped the cork. Glasses were filled. Frieda refused hers, yet Bohm proceeded with a toast anyway. “To good health,” he said, clinking his glass with Inga’s.
Frieda coughed.
Inga understood what her mother wanted. “We do have a matter we would like to bring up,” she said. “I have read about your views on sterilization and although I do agree with them in theory, we are against Rigmor undergoing any unnecessary medical procedures. She is not physically strong.”
Bohm waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I know exactly what you mean. It’s when the practice affects someone we love. Then suddenly the whole thing appears in a different light.”
“Exactly.” Inga sipped her champagne, which was not very good.
“Can you promise that Rigmor will not undergo this process?” Frieda asked.
Bohm walked to his desk but he remained standing. “Unfortunately, I only have limited power,” he said. “The Health Courts decide who will undergo the procedure. I can assure you they are very objective. And if, well if, it should come to that. Then, we will see.”
“So there are ways to circumvent,” Inga said.
“I certainly have some sway, but it will depend on Rigmor’s diagnosis. Do you know that some studies have found that women have decreased symptoms of hysteria after the procedure? I am not suggesting that Rigmor has hysteria, but please do keep that in mind. It’s not a terrible operation. In fact, biologically speaking, it is very simple, and not very intrusive.” He looked at Inga, who smiled.
“I am firm on this point,” Frieda said.
“I see,” Bohm said. “And she is not promiscuous?”
“How dare you!”
“I did not mean to offend. But if I am going to defend her against the hereditary health courts and argue that she does not need to be sterilized, I must be completely prepared. Patients who appeal the court’s decision are asked invasive questions.”
Frieda leaned on her cane and stood. “I’m afraid this won’t be an acceptable place for Rigmor. I thank you for meeting with us.”
Bohm’s mouth opened. But for once he was speechless.
“Mother,” Inga said. “We thought long and hard about placing her here. Why not at least allow Director Bohm the chance to give us his professional opinion?”
“Under no circumstance do I want Rigmor to undergo any sort of operation.”
“I really don’t think we need to worry about that,” Inga said. “We have Arnold watching over her, and Doctor Bohm might provide us with insights that we haven’t yet heard.”
“Frau Blumenthal, I do understand that this is difficult, and that coming to this decision was not easy, but I promise, we will provide her with excellent care,” Bohm said. “Your daughter has been suffering now for how long?”
Frieda sat again. “For many years.”
“Exactly. And I am sure you have tried everything you could think of. So I ask you, why not try this?”
Frieda sunk her head.
“You have fought so hard for so long,” Bohm said. Inga watched him, pleased that he seemed to feel real compassion. “Let us try now. We have the skills, the medicine, and the facilities.”
Frieda looked at Arnold, then Inga. “All right,” she sighed. “But if anything happens, I will hold the two of you responsible.”
Inga nodded, relieved that Rigmor would be g
iven a chance. On their way out, Frieda stopped at the door. “Your plants need more light,” she told Bohm.
* * *
On the drive back to Frankfurt, Inga tried to focus on Fred, on how he longed to take her to Malta to see the Dwejra Bay, but all she could think of was Rigmor lying in bed at night, awake and terrified, seeing shadows and having no one to comfort her, no one to bring her a hot chocolate, no one to brush her hair.
The first few days of Rigmor’s absence, Inga shopped, read a book about Malta, organized her painting studio by subject matter, and met a friend for tea. But soon the novelty of freedom turned to a lack of purpose. Inga thought obsessively about Bohm’s findings. Every day, fifteen minutes before the post arrived, she paced in the foyer, her heels clacking lightly on the tiled floor as she assured herself the news would be good. Or at least not terribly bad.
After two weeks, she took a trip to a spa in Baden-Baden. It wasn’t a sanatorium, but it was a place of healing, of taking in the mineral waters, and though far from Rigmor, Inga felt the smallest of connections. She stayed at the finest hotel, soaked in the baths, and watched one couple in particular. The woman, fiftyish, had short dark hair and a round belly. The man, who looked younger, had broad shoulders and hair on his arms that reminded Inga of fur. But it was not what they looked like, it was the way he kissed the woman’s neck, the way she shivered with delight. They existed only for the other, and Inga thought if she had that, that singular vision, perhaps she would cease to feel so restless and in need of distraction.
Fred visited. The afternoon he arrived, they ate lamb chops on the balcony, but the meal was cut short by his need to touch her, and for the rest of the day she felt as if she’d found her center again.
The following morning, they had breakfast in the main dining room. After he asked her to pass the orange marmalade, she looked into his brown eyes. “Would you ever leave your wife for me?”
He laughed. “Is that what you really want?”