Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  Lisbet cooked a roast beef, boiled the potatoes and ladled peas into filo pastries. All very well done.

  During dinner, Robert and Gerald argued about Reagan economics, and although they sounded acrimonious they were both actually on the same side of things. Inga might not like Gerald, but she had to admit that at the moment, he seemed very interested in Robert’s views, and Robert appeared quite pleased about that. She remembered how much Fred had always liked Gerald, how he tried to explain to Inga that Gerald just had an excitable nature—that he was an electron unable to find its ground state. Inga had tried to soften to Gerald, but that had been impossible after the way he kicked Henri.

  Robert’s girlfriend was nice enough, but Inga doubted she would be anything permanent. She had remarkably long brown hair, large hazel eyes, and added very little in the way of conversation, just that one day she hoped to visit Switzerland.

  Lisbet, as was always the case, could not sit still. She jumped to get another spoon, or to refill Gerald’s ginger-ale. Sometimes she went to the kitchen and came back empty-handed. She had always loved movement, and skating had been a good match for her. When she wasn’t on the ice, she was practicing moves in the garden or the drawing room.

  Inga turned to Lisbet now, and could not deny that her overriding feeling was one of pride.

  Just as they finished their main course, Gerald patted Lisbet’s hand, stood, and walked upstairs.

  Mother and daughter would have peace, a gift Inga hadn’t expected.

  “I should check on him,” Lisbet said, and glanced behind her as if she might have done something wrong.

  “Leave him,” Inga suggested. “He is a grown man, and you have done nothing.”

  But Lisbet’s mouth quivered, and Inga found herself of two minds, feeling as if Lisbet was performing and, at the same time, feeling a bit heartbroken for her daughter, who had made such an effort, not only with the dinner but also in her appearance: her hair was in a well-shaped bun, and she wore red lipstick and a blouse with a silver sheen.

  Gerald returned a minute later, took his place at the head of the table, and held up his glass of ginger-ale.

  “I would like to wish everyone a very happy Christmas and good health for the New Year. And to my beautiful wife, who works too hard and never sits down, I am very grateful to have you in my life.”

  Lisbet leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Oh darling.”

  Gerald handed her a small box wrapped in gold foil. Lisbet tore off the paper. “You shouldn’t have.” She picked up the miniature blue Faberge egg, another charm for her bracelet.

  “It’s beautiful.” Lisbet kissed Gerald again. She was a tall, happy sunflower.

  After tea and strudel, Jessica pawed Robert amorously, hardly shy about what she wanted. A few minutes later they said they had to leave to meet friends and Gerald announced he would retire to his study.

  Inga helped Lisbet with the dishes and then suggested they sit in the living room, furnished in part with the few pieces the family had been able to save from Germany, including a very old dollhouse that had once belonged to Inga’s grandmother.

  “I remember playing with that doll’s house when I was a child,” Inga said. “I always wanted a canopy bed like the one in there. It’s nice that you take such good care of it.”

  Lisbet had added some new pieces, each made by her own hands, something Inga found tender, a thread that linked the generations of women. One day it would go to Sabine, and then Mia.

  Lisbet sat on the smallest chair in the room, her finger racing back and forth on her eyebrow.

  “Dinner was excellent,” Inga said. “And Robert seems well.”

  Lisbet’s finger paused. “Yes, he likes his new job at the bank.” “I am a bit surprised to hear that. It all strikes me as too conventional for someone who has such a good mind. But he has time to change.” She smiled, wanting to show Lisbet that she was not criticizing, but rather being open to the future.

  “His girlfriend is nice,” Lisbet said.

  Inga decided not to remark that that might change soon as well. Instead it was time to broach the reason for her visit. “It would be nice if you came to Boston to see Sabine. I think she needs her mother at the moment.”

  “I hate to think of her in that place.” Lisbet’s shoulders drew together.

  “It’s not so bad. The rooms are quite big, and her roommate has some charm. The baby can visit. But I do think it might give her a boost to see you.”

  “It is my fault that she is there.”

  Inga had little patience for martyrdom. “That is utter nonsense. It is no one’s fault. These things happen.”

  “Grandmother warned me.”

  Inga and Frieda had agreed that they would not speak of mental illness in front of Lisbet, that there was no point in her knowing anything about Rigmor, or frightening her with stories of madness.

  “What did your grandmother say?” Inga asked, not hiding her surprise.

  “She just said that if I ever felt my mind betraying me, or if I felt my nerves get the better of me, then I should tell myself I was fine, and not give in to those inclinations.”

  “But you were always fine. So I don’t understand how you could think you might be responsible for Sabine’s condition?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. When Sabine was a baby, I was desperate. I cried every night. I had terrible dreams. I had dizzy spells, and once I even…” She lowered her head.

  “You even?”

  “I saw a woman in my bedroom. I woke up Gerald, and pointed to the woman, but he said nothing was there. He was so kind to me during that period. He brought me tea, and asked me if I wanted to go on walks with him. I know you think he’s awful, but he helped me then.”

  “I am glad to hear of it.” Inga remembered visiting Lisbet shortly after Sabine was born. It had been a trying time with two young boys and a new baby. Inga had cleaned, played with the boys, organized the sitting room, made shopping lists, cooked dinners, but still there was always another mess, a crying baby, a diaper that needed changing, more washing.

  “Do you remember when I came to see you in England after Sabine was born?” Inga asked.

  “Yes.”

  “One night I had woken at two in the morning. I went to fetch a glass of water and you were in the kitchen tearing off the wainscoting, which I thought very peculiar. It was that night you told me you were moving to the States and I felt as if a strong wave from the North Sea had knocked into me. But now I understand. You weren’t well, and you were frightened, and perhaps you thought fleeing would help. I was convinced you were running from me.”

  Lisbet shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “There was a time, when I was much younger, before you were born, that I believed it was good to get things out in the open. To talk. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind about that. But now I think that was wrong. I think it might help you to speak of these things.”

  “I was so afraid of being put away. The way Sabine is now. Afraid that…I can’t say it.”

  “But you must, my dear, or you will never be free of it.”

  Lisbet drew in a breath, as her eyes seemed to shiver. Inga had never seen a person’s eyes do that, tremble back and forth in their sockets.

  “Grandmother said that… I can’t.”

  “You can,” Inga told her.

  “That I needed to be careful of you. That if you knew, you might want me to go to a sanatorium, but I must understand that sanatoriums were not what they seemed. People never came out. I thought living in the States would be safer.”

  Now, twenty-six years later, Inga once again felt the wind knocked out of her. This time by Frieda.

  “She had her own fears, and she should never have put those onto you.” Inga shook her head. “Perhaps she wanted to protect you, but to do so at my expense, to make me into some horrible person that would get you locked up, that you had to run from—that was not fair. To me, or to you.”

  “
Do you think I gave this to Sabine?”

  “None of us knows exactly how much of who we are is genetic or cultural, but I am absolutely sure you were a kind and generous mother, and what you gave to Sabine had more to do with love than anything else.”

  Lisbet looked as if she might burst into tears. Inga was about to get her a tissue when she heard a door upstairs open and close. It was a sign that there might not be much time before Gerald came thundering down. He hated to share his wife, especially with Inga.

  “You must not blame yourself, or me.” Inga paused.

  She remembered the afternoon Frieda had died in a hospital in Dornach. Lisbet had been beside herself and moments before Frieda took her last breath, she grasped Lisbet’s hand and told her she would win the championship. Two days later that prediction became a reality. Whatever Frieda’s faults were, she did adore Lisbet.

  “You also must also not blame your grandmother,” Inga said. “She had her beliefs for her own reasons. Sabine mentioned something to me the other day about learning from the past. I think that is wise. But we also must not get stuck in it.” Inga touched Lisbet’s hand. “I think it will help if Sabine sees you, if she learns that you once felt this way.”

  Lisbet lowered her voice. “When we came to this country, I even thought maybe I should go and see one of those doctors. A psychiatrist. That maybe they could help me. But then I knew I mustn’t.”

  “I wish you would have. Perhaps they could have helped you understand that you were always strong. Look how you have managed, with your husband, your career, this house? And three children.”

  Lisbet seemed encouraged—a little, at least—and Inga was glad to be making headway. But then the door upstairs opened again, and Gerald descended the stairs.

  “It is time that Lisbet goes to bed,” he said.

  Inga stood. “Stop.” She pointed to the stairs. “Go back to your room and let me speak with my daughter.”

  “I did not invite you,” he shouted.

  “Go.”

  “You interfere where you shouldn’t.”

  “I do nothing of the sort,” Inga replied, sounding sure of herself, but feeling less so.

  Gerald marched back up and slammed the door.

  Lisbet’s shoulders rounded.

  Inga sat. “I should not have come. I will leave in the morning.”

  “I don’t think I can go to Boston tomorrow,” Lisbet whined. “It’s Christmas Day.”

  “Perhaps in a week’s time,” Inga said.

  Lisbet nodded, and Inga decided she would push no further.

  “I’ll make an agreement with you,” she said. “I will not ask you to visit Sabine. I will not beg you to come to Switzerland for an extra week in the summer or tell you to write me long letters. But you must promise that you will find a psychiatrist to talk to about what you’re going through. Then I will leave you alone.”

  The beginnings of a smile curved at the side of Lisbet’s mouth. “I have never wanted you to leave me alone.”

  Inga’s throat tightened as she held back tears. It was the kindest thing her daughter had ever said to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New Directions

  Dresden, Germany 1935

  As he had during her sleep treatments, Arnold sat next to Rigmor and spoke softly. He told her he had punched Bohm, that he was sorry he hadn’t kept a better eye on the man, and that as soon as she recovered they would leave Sonnenstein and return to civilization in Frankfurt. He told her that Inga and Fred had gone on a short business trip, and that he would find a gramophone and play her Bach. He caressed her hand and promised that she would soon be eating normal meals, and that he would make sure that she had as much potato leek soup as she wanted.

  He took no notice of the time. He planned to sit by Rigmor’s side all day. Babies cried, mothers talked, husbands brought flowers. Rigmor slept.

  Arnold asked Dr. Eichner, the obstetrician, if perhaps it would be better for Rigmor to have a bed that wasn’t on the maternity ward. The baby noise might be upsetting.

  “Medically,” he said, “this is by far the best place for her.” He glanced around. “She is not the only mother who has lost a child.” After a pause, he gave a kind smile. “And please, call me Rudiger. We are both doctors, no need for formalities.” He had dark, heavy eyebrows that touched each other and made him appear angry, even though he wasn’t.

  At eight that evening, a nurse informed Arnold that visiting hours were over. But he refused to leave. The middle of the night was the most common time for patients to slip away.

  “If we allow you to stay,” the nurse said, “soon all of the husbands will be asking for the same favor.”

  “But I am not a husband. I am a doctor. Her doctor. I am a psychiatrist from Sonnenstein.”

  “What is she diagnosed with?” The nurse took a step back, as if she was afraid she might catch something.

  “Schizophrenia.”

  Arnold was allowed to stay.

  In the morning, a different nurse came to wash Rigmor. Arnold went to the dining hall for coffee and toast. When he returned, Rudiger was leaning over the bed listening to Rigmor’s heart.

  “She seems to be doing well,” he said. “We will reduce the sedative, and in five or six hours she should open her eyes.”

  Arnold felt a rush of adrenalin. He would not lose her.

  “When she is awake, do you want me to explain to her what happened?” Rudiger asked.

  “It might be best if I talk to her.”

  “We realize she wouldn’t have been able to care for the child, but had she hoped to see the baby?” His eyes looked sympathetic. He would have made a good psychiatrist.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure what Rigmor is aware of,” Arnold said. “She was under strict sleep treatments for the past five months.” He sighed heavily. “The baby was early and so small, and Rigmor might not have even known she was pregnant.”

  Rudiger squinted, confused. “But the baby was not early. She was very small, but that is because the mother is completely malnourished.”

  “No.” Arnold shook his head. “The baby was only five months. Perhaps you have confused her with another patient.”

  Rudiger moved closer to Arnold. “I have examined Rigmor’s uterus,” he whispered. “Full term.”

  Arnold sunk into the chair next to the bed.

  “I am sorry to have shocked you.” Rudiger said, patting Arnold on the shoulder. “I did learn from the nurses here that the baby died peacefully, although that is hardly consolation.”

  Rudiger was correct about one thing. It was no consolation.

  Arnold was left alone with his foolish, dimwitted, irresponsible self. He had been doing everything, hovering and protecting, and trying to keep Rigmor safe, when it was he who had caused the most damage. It was his fault she was at Sonnenstein. It was his fault the sex had been so careless. It was his fault that they now had a child—a dead child.

  At around six that evening, Rigmor’s eyelids fluttered. Arnold whispered her name and she turned and smiled with parched lips, asking for water. He leapt up and practically attacked the first nurse he saw, telling her she must immediately bring something for Rigmor to drink.

  Rigmor took a few sips of water and asked where she was.

  “In a hospital in Dresden,” Arnold answered.

  When a baby cried, Rigmor smiled. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Arnold told her, wishing she didn’t have to listen to the healthy wails of infants.

  “You have not seen the baby yet?”

  Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he hoped she would be unaware of what had happened.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. “It was a girl. She was too small. Her lungs were not developed enough.” He stared into Rigmor’s wide gray eyes. “She did not survive.”

  Rigmor blinked slowly, like a butterfly pressing its wings together for the last time. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  �
��I’m sure she was beautiful,” Rigmor said.

  Perhaps she was calm because the sedatives still ran through her blood, or perhaps it was because she somehow expected this, as if she didn’t deserve happiness or children—as if she knew better than to hope. There was resignation on her face that suggested she had understood, a long time ago, that in this lifetime she was meant to know only loss.

  “I wish…” Arnold began and wiped a tear from his face. He didn’t know what he wished for—to turn back time? A baby that survived?

  “We mustn’t. The best we can do is close this window.”

  His heart felt as if it was dissolving, breaking into thousands of little pieces that would swim through his blood and leave an empty hole in his chest.

  * * *

  Frankfurt, Germany 1935

  For two nights, Inga and Fred stayed at Hannah’s home in Basel. She was older than Fred by three years. What she lacked in beauty, she made up for in doting kindness and intelligence.

  Inga called the maternity ward multiple times a day. Rigmor was recovering. But before Inga returned to Dresden, she needed to speak with Frieda, and it was not the type of conversation one could have by phone.

  Fred drove Inga to Frankfurt and left her at the front of the house. As she watched his car pull away, she already missed him—his insights, his humor, the smell of the soap he used, the way his toes wriggled in his sleep.

  The butler held the door. Inga planned to go upstairs, have a bath, put on a clean dress, and then face Frieda.

  “Inga,” Frieda called.

  She hadn’t even made it to the staircase. “I’m going to change,” Inga said. “Then we can talk.”

  “No. Now,” Frieda demanded.

  They sat in the drawing room, a fair distance apart.

  “That man from the institution called,” Frieda said. “I feel as if I’m living in a horrible dream. He said that Rigmor was recovering well and he was sorry to hear that the baby died, but he wanted me to know, emphatically, he repeated, that it wasn’t his.”