by Sylvia True
He was a pretender. Like her mother. Pretend you never feel anxious. Pretend you are Jewish in front of Jews and Christian in front of Christians. There is no harm in playing both sides.
But now it occurred to Sabine that she didn’t have her mother’s gift of pretending. She never had. Sabine pushed Tanner away. Yes, this was what she’d wanted when they’d met. But the conditions had changed.
“Your Omama was telling me that this might happen,” he said.
“What might happen?”
“That you might be frigid for a little while.”
“She used that word—‘frigid’? About me?”
“Not sure about the exact word, but hey, she was only trying to help. Don’t be so hard on her. I mean look at everything she’s done for you. She hired that Nazi nurse.”
“Don’t call someone a Nazi,” Sabine snapped.
“Jeez. Relax. I was joking. It’s just an expression.”
“Don’t use that word in front of Omama.”
“You know, you have her all wrong. She’s generous and nice, and she never criticizes like you always say she does. I think it’s kind of up here for you.” He tapped his head.
“She’s always liked men better.”
“She likes your friend Helen.”
“Maybe it’s just me then.” Sabine scooted away from her husband.
“I think you shouldn’t be so hard on her. She came all the way here. She’s paying for daycare.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
That Omama was paying for daycare wasn’t a surprise, but the way he slid it in felt off, as if he was considering keeping it a secret so he could take credit for paying all of the bills.
“You’re not working,” Tanner said. “Money is tight.”
Shame prickled her skin. The thought of getting a job was overwhelming. She didn’t even have privileges to leave McLean yet, nor did she really want them. She felt safe and protected here, and she knew that was wrong and weak.
“You’re right,” she mumbled. “I would just rather we didn’t take anything from her. That’s all.”
He chuckled. “You don’t think that nurse she hired costs anything? You think all of those fancy tablecloths and flowers are free?”
“I didn’t ask for those.”
“But you have accepted the nurse, because then you get what you want. So maybe you’re being hypocritical.”
She shrugged. Sometimes she hated the scoreboard of their marriage, the way he kept track of who did the chores—shoveling the driveway, mowing the lawn, washing the dishes, putting oil in the car—and who had a debt to pay. He always wanted to be paid back in sex, and she was always behind. Especially since this last episode, before being admitted to McLean. She needed rides, and needed him to go to the grocery store. She had become an incredible burden, and she hated herself for that.
Tanner slapped his hands on his thighs and smiled as if he knew he was in the lead, as if he’d been reading her emotions, which, after all, wasn’t that difficult.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Since you’re in here, and it’s sort of like you’re getting a break from everything. I could use a break too. I haven’t been skiing in a while, and some of my friends are going to Sun Valley.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You should go.”
She didn’t point out that he’d just said money was tight. She didn’t want to argue; she wanted him to go, and that made her feel guilty, because it wasn’t that she wanted it for him—she wanted it for herself. Not only would he be away, she’d also gain points on the scoreboard.
Chapter Eighteen
Another Ward
Prina, Germany 1935
Bohm kept a regular routine with Rigmor’s sleep treatments—four days on Somnifen, three days off. The drug flowed through her blood so that even on her off days, she barely woke.
Summer came with bright flowers and lush green leaves. The spring rains had been good for the flora. Arnold walked in the woods and along the river. He spent time on the east ward, visited Rigmor, and sometimes even ate dinner with a colleague.
Wilhelm applied for an appeal and Rigmor’s operation was delayed due to her weakened condition. As far as Arnold was concerned, she could always be in need of getting stronger, so therefore the procedure could be indefinitely postponed.
One evening in the dining hall he made the acquaintance of a young doctor named Guenther.
“I work on the east ward,” Arnold said, trying to get a conversation started.
“Do you like your work?”
“I do. And you, where do you work?”
“On a small ward.”
“Which one?”
“Children’s.” Guenther looked at his watch. “I must get a move on,” he said, leaving his unfinished meal.
“I didn’t know we had a children’s ward,” Arnold answered, though by now Guenther was halfway across the dining room.
Over the next week, Arnold investigated, and finally received his answer from a cleaning woman. She explained that the children’s ward, if you would even call it that, was very small indeed, and that in order to get there, Arnold should walk all the way around the west wing of the building, then almost when he thought he had come to the end, he would see a few steps leading to a white door in disrepair.
As he debated about whether or not to visit, he did some brushing up on treatments for children, and came across an interesting paper by Hans Asperger, an Austrian physician, who seemed to have a special talent for understanding children who had trouble communicating emotions.
Arnold knew it would be heartbreaking to visit sick children, but he had free time in his schedule. He could play ball, or take a child for a walk in the garden. Wilhelm could teach the patients about flowers. The more Arnold thought about it, the more ideas sprang to mind.
On a warm evening, he found the rear of the building. Broken twigs and old branches littered the area. The uncut grass looked coarse, and the few blossoms that survived were more than likely weeds, although his knowledge of flowers, even with Wilhelm’s instruction, was still limited.
He climbed the four steps and knocked on the door. No one answered. He was surprised to find it unlocked.
A nurse sat reading a book in the reception area. She kept her head lowered as Arnold carried on. He pushed a glass door that he guessed led to the ward. The smell of urine and mildew startled him. Sonnenstein prided itself on hygiene, and signs posted throughout the hospital read, cleanliness is next to godliness. Arnold covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. Although the evening light still shone outside, the ward looked like a maze of shadows, with a few dim bulbs plugged into the baseboards. Arnold guessed that the children, if there were any, had been moved elsewhere. Still he walked on, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. There were small cots on either side of the room. He heard nothing.
To his right Arnold noticed a lump under a blanket, probably a pillow. But when he approached the cot, a stick-like arm rose. Some sort of optical illusion, he thought—a trick of sight or a shadow on the wall. He moved closer to the bed and to his horror saw a child, too weak to call out. Arnold could not tell if the child was male or female.
“Good evening,” he whispered.
The child’s hair, short and fuzzy, reminded him of down on a baby bird. Arnold knelt next to the bed.
The child, he guessed female, because she had such fine, delicate features, reached out a hand. Her fingers were so light and frail, Arnold felt as if the bones of a small animal rested in his palm. He looked into her wide eyes.
“What is your name?”
She opened her mouth, but the only noise that came out was a whimper.
“My name is Arnold.” He glanced around the ward, wondering why the girl had been left alone.
Her fingers curled around the side of his hand. He used his other hand to feel her forehead, which burned with fever. Then he felt her pulse, weak and slow.
“I will take you out of here.” Arnol
d pulled down the blanket, ready to scoop her into his arms. Her legs, no more than sticks, appeared deformed from rickets. Her stomach protruded from starvation, and every rib was visible. Without the best of care, this child didn’t have a day left in her life.
Just as he threaded an arm underneath her, he heard a sound coming from another bed. He covered the child and went to see if there was another forgotten patient.
As he tiptoed from one bed to the next, Arnold witnessed similar conditions. He counted eight children, some asleep, some with wide, desperate eyes—all starving.
It seemed unlikely that they were all forgotten.
At the far end of the ward Arnold found a sink and a few tin cups. He went from bed to bed giving the children water. He kissed their foreheads. He planned on getting help, but before he left, he once again knelt by the bed of the first patient he had discovered.
“Blau,” she managed to whisper.
“Blau,” he repeated, confused.
She turned her face toward him and closed her eyes. At least for the moment, she seemed comfortable. He caressed her hair and said a silent prayer.
“Good night, dear one.”
The girl looked as if she wanted to smile, but then, suddenly, her body seized. A few seconds later, she released a long breath. Her skin was cool to the touch, even though her forehead burned. Arnold could not leave her. He sat on her bed, cradled her in his arms and sang Silent Night. Another child hummed along. Blau died fifteen minutes later.
Arnold hurried out of the ward and approached the nurse he had seen when he first arrived.
“Excuse me.” His voice faltered. He pointed to the ward.
“Oh dear.” She closed her book and slid it under the desk. “Why are you here?”
“A child… A child has expired.”
She gasped. “You were in there?”
“A child has died!” He pointed again, frantically.
“We don’t allow visitors. No one gets past this desk.” Her dark hair was pulled back, her lips painted a bright red. “It is not allowed.” She glanced over her shoulder and appeared relieved that it was only Arnold.
“It is my job to make sure no one goes in there. I have three children to care for at home and no husband to help. My God, I could lose this job—and then what?” When she covered her face with her hands, Arnold noted she wore a thin wedding band.
“A child has died,” he said again.
“You won’t tell anyone. Please sir.” She grabbed onto the lapel of his jacket. “I could lose my position. I was wrong to be reading. But it’s just that sometimes, sitting here, day in, day out, it gets dreary and lonely.”
“I do not care about your job or your book.” He slammed his hand on the desk. “I have been trying to tell you that a child has died. Can you please call the doctor who heads this ward?”
She shook her head. “No. They like to wait until the morning. It can be frightening to the others if we come in and turn on the lights and remove the body. It’s much better in the daytime, when we can create a bit of commotion so the children who are still with us can look away.”
“But the doctor needs to know.” He shook his fist. “A doctor will need to write the death certificate, and time of death, and cause.”
“Yes, yes. He will do all of those things. But sir, please do not tell anyone you were allowed in. I promise you that all will be looked after.” She was like a train with no brakes barreling down a mountain. “We write kind letters to the parents. We tell them that their child did not die in pain, that he or she had pneumonia or some sort of heart trouble. We assure them.” She stroked her hand along the counter as if she was patting a cat.
“But who runs this ward?”
“Well, the Director of course.” She looked at the entrance. “Was the door open? How did you get in? It should be locked. I always check it. But maybe it was because the director brought that fellow here. Have you heard of Pfannmuller? From Elfging?”
Her hands clasped as if she was praying. “Dear God,” she said. “If the director finds out someone just walked in here, I will lose my job.”
“The door was unlocked.” His voice rose. “I am a doctor here, so I would have been able to come in anyway.”
“No, no, you can’t come in. It doesn’t matter. I have to have a phone call from the Director himself. They are doing some sort of secret experiment.” She put a finger to her lips. “What is your name?”
“Dr. Richter,” he said, exasperated. “I am very concerned about the child who died. Can you call the Director and ask him what should be done?”
“I know what should be done. We lose children here. We wait until the morning. That is how it’s done. That is the order from the Director. I know the rules. It might be different than on some of the other wards.”
He was done with the nurse. He would go now and speak to Bohm about this situation. Whether this woman, who could not shut up, lost her job or not, did not concern him.
Outside, as stars sprinkled the night sky, Arnold’s body raged. How could a child be allowed to die and not one person come to her aide? The invisibility of the event shook him. That the other children were in the room with the dead child shook him further.
He could feel the purpose and anger in his stride as he walked toward Bohm’s office. Appointment or not, he planned to see the Director.
Stefan sat at his high stool behind the long desk.
Arnold ignored him, and opened Bohm’s door.
“You cannot,” Stefan screeched.
A nurse was bent over Bohm’s desk. Her arms were stretched forward, and her fingers gripped the opposite side from where Bohm stood. She looked back at him as he pushed himself inside of her, giving a moan of satisfaction, and Arnold remembered the sheep dogs from his youth, how watching them mate had been disturbing. But not nearly as disturbing as what he saw now.
Arnold cleared his throat.
“Why on earth are you here?” Bohm asked, stepping back from the nurse and pulling up his trousers.
“I have visited the children’s ward,” Arnold said. Having adjusted her uniform as best she could, the nurse scurried from the room.
“That is a private ward,” Bohm whispered angrily. “You have no right. We are in charge of protecting innocent lives.”
“Protecting? They are starving.”
“Out with you!” Bohm yelled at Stefan, who was standing behind Arnold.
Bohm buckled his belt. “You must get ahold of yourself,” he said to Arnold. “You can’t waltz around the hospital spouting such things. We will have a riot on our hands.”
“They are starving.”
Bohm paced behind his desk. “I have been asked to help in a study.”
“Do the parents know?”
“They know their children are incurable, and have been sent to a place that can treat them.”
“But that is a lie.”
Bohm patted his potted plants.
“Why?”
Bohm turned. “You are naïve. We are certainly not the only ones conducting such treatments.”
It couldn’t be true. “I have never heard of it, and I’m sure when I tell other doctors here what is going on, they will be equally shocked.”
“Be careful. It would not be a good idea if you began to spread this information.”
“Why? Because you’d be put in jail?”
“Do you think I came up with this idea? Do you really think me that sort of monster? This is what we must do. This is what the authorities are telling us to do. Expenditure must be cut, and it was decided that the least cruel way was to let the children go in an easy manner.”
“Starving is not an easy manner.”
Bohm paused for longer than usual. “No, I suppose it is not.” He sat and picked up a pen, began to tap it on his knee. “Pfannmuller believes that the use of injections can be traced, and that might provide a slanderous campaign for the foreign press.” He set the pen on his desk. “I do what I am told.”
“So you are against it?” Arnold asked.
Bohm pondered the question. “I am not against euthanasia for our sickest patients, and starvation has its benefits. It appears a more natural cause. But none of this is easy for me. This position comes with great responsibility.” He looked at Arnold, his expression unusually subdued.
Arnold could do nothing but shake his head.
“I must tell you,” Bohm said. “If you begin to spread the news of this, it is not I who will get into trouble, but you. You will be considered a political prisoner, and very quickly you will be sent to a concentration camp. I am not saying this to be difficult or threatening. I find you a kind man and a reasonable doctor. I would very much like you stay on here. But that will not happen, I guarantee it, one hundred percent, if you talk about this.”
“A child died in my arms,” Arnold said. Tears sprung to his eyes. “While I held her and sang to her. She might have had rickets, but otherwise she could have been perfectly fine. And now she is gone.”
“She would not have been perfectly fine. Trust me. We do not make these decisions lightly. There are numerous forms to be filled out and those are then studied in Berlin by experts.” Bohm stood and walked to Arnold. “Come and sit for a moment. You have had a very upsetting evening.”
Arnold sat because he didn’t know what else to do.
“When I first heard that this was something to be carried out,” Bohm said, returning to the chair behind his desk, “I was mortified. I almost quit that instant. It seemed to me that I would be carrying out the devil’s work. But as I slowly—very slowly—came to terms with it, I began to understand that there is mercy and relief for the children, and the parents.”
“No.” Arnold would never believe that losing a child, of any kind, at any age, under any circumstance, would bring relief.
Bohm opened a drawer and took out a few letters. He began to read. We were terribly saddened to hear of the death of our dearest Ruddy. He will always occupy a large portion of our hearts. We are grateful for the care he was given, and also that he no longer has to suffer.
“And did they know that Ruddy was starved? Or was another cause of death given?”