Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  Inga had hoped Frieda would never know there was a baby. That Bohm had telephoned without first checking with Inga was stupid and insensitive, likely done in haste because he feared losing a benefactor.

  “There was a baby. She did not die,” Inga said. “Fred and I took her to Switzerland. She is safe, with Fred’s sister, and a nurse. I am looking for a good home for her.”

  Frieda’s eyes widened. “Alive,” she whispered. “A girl.” She sat a bit taller, and even smiled.

  “Yes.”

  “You will not give her to anyone. Who is the father?” Frieda asked, as her fingers moved, likely counting the months.

  “It’s complicated,” Inga answered.

  Frieda shook her head. “They never went to the concert. Arnold and Rigmor.”

  Inga nodded.

  “And what does he know?” Frieda asked.

  “He was informed that the baby died.” She hesitated. “I thought it best to keep him outside of matters at this point.”

  “Yes, we must keep it that way.” Frieda stood and walked to the mantel. In that short distance, she seemed to redirect the course of her life. “I will move to Switzerland.” She paused. “We will be forced out soon enough. You will find an institution in Switzerland where Rigmor can recuperate. Let us be rid of this hateful country.”

  But Inga was not ready to leave her country. “I will help you find a place for the baby, but I don’t intend to leave Germany.”

  Frieda shook her head. “The baby will not be put in a place. She will have a home with us, and as far as the world will know, the baby belongs to you and Klaus.”

  “To me?” Inga said, shocked. “But I am not meant to be a mother.”

  “Perhaps that is true. But I think we both know that this happened because of your machinations, and now you must do the right thing. There is no other choice.” Frieda walked to the door, reached for the handle, and then turned to look at Inga. “You were prudent in saving the baby. But you were very careless in getting Arnold and Rigmor together, and were unwise in sending her to Sonnenstein.”

  The moment the door closed, Inga’s head drooped, her shoulders fell inward—her foundation faltered.

  She was not ready to leave Germany, or her life. She was not ready to mother a child. But Frieda was correct. It was Inga’s fault, and her belief that she knew best had not withstood her own actions. And now it was necessary that she fight—for the baby, for Rigmor, and for a new life in a country she didn’t know. Like it or not, Inga had no choice but to submit to Frieda.

  Later that day, she telephoned Rudin. He boasted that of course he had connections in Switzerland—after all, it was his native land. Then he sighed.

  “But,” he said. “Switzerland is not an easy country to get into, even in the best of situations. Their mental hospitals are overcrowded, and they will not look kindly on a schizophrenic German refugee.”

  Inga withered—schizophrenic refugee. Those words seemed so extreme and wrong.

  “And,” Rudin continued. “If you were able to find a bed for her, something I could help with, you must remember she will be placed on a general ward. She will be sleeping near people who not only have mental illnesses, but infectious diseases as well. She will not have a room of her own that overlooks some of Germany’s finest countryside.”

  “But she will be safer in Switzerland.”

  “She is perfectly safe in Germany,” he answered. “She is at an excellent institution with a first-rate director. I know Bohm well, and one of his best attributes is that he does not judge. At least not in the way of race, or color of skin. Rigmor will not be treated badly because she is Jewish. If that is what worries you.”

  “It’s one of my worries,” Inga said.

  “One that can be erased. And then there is the question of paying for care in Switzerland. They will most certainly expect to be compensated, and as much as I disagree with some of the recent laws, I do know you will not be able to take your wealth out of this country.”

  He was correct about that. Fred had looked into it. Inga felt desperate. “I just don’t think we can leave her here,” she said. “If she can’t be in an institution, then we will care for her at home.”

  “Has she undergone the sterilization procedure?” Rudin asked.

  “Not yet,” Inga answered, feeling as if he had dealt yet another blow.

  “That will be an impediment.”

  “Surely we can have someone write a letter and say that she had the operation.”

  “I doubt a doctor would ever lie about such a thing, not to mention the danger it would put him in if he was caught.” Rudin paused. “Personally, it is not something I would risk—after all, the surgery is quite simple. The best thing for your sister is that she have consistent care in an institution that is known for excellence. She will be safe and well looked-after, and you can visit her whenever you like. It is only a few hours’ journey by car. And,” he added, his voice more animated. “Didn’t I meet a man at your home once? By the name of Richter? He was hired to care for her. Wasn’t he? He might be the kind of chap who would be amenable to looking after her.”

  “Yes,” Inga said, feeling the cold irony of it all.

  “If you want to ensure she is well cared for, have people you trust look in on her. I assure you that is the best option.”

  Inga relayed the information from Rudin to Frieda. It would have been easier if her mother railed, yelled, and cursed. Instead she sat in silent condemnation.

  Dresden, Germany 1935

  By the time Inga and Fred returned to Dresden, Rigmor was sitting up in bed and eating small meals. The nurses expected that she would soon be able to walk with assistance.

  Inga brought Swiss chocolates, yellow roses, and a silk robe. Arnold watched the sisters, the vibrant, worldly risk-taker, and the modest, humble introvert—each the harmony for the other.

  That evening, she and Fred took Arnold out for dinner at a dimly lit tavern.

  “We have news,” Inga began, her tone brusque.

  Arnold nodded as he chewed the first bite of meat until it nearly dissolved in his mouth. He found it difficult to swallow. The next bite was not much better, but after a few more pieces, his body seemed to wake to its hunger, and he finished his meal paying more attention to the laughing and talking in the background than to Inga or Fred.

  After his second beer, Arnold said, “I think Rigmor should return to Frankfurt. Sonnenstein is not the place for her. She can get a nurse. I will return as well. She will be better there.”

  “My good man,” Fred said. “Have you heard anything we have been telling you?”

  Arnold set down his beer. “I was distracted.”

  “We are moving to Switzerland,” Inga said.

  “You and Fred?” he asked Inga.

  “I have already moved my family to London,” Fred answered. “Inga and her mother will be moving to Basel.”

  “And Rigmor?” he asked.

  Inga’s gaze dropped. “That is a concern.”

  “She cannot stay here,” Arnold protested.

  “It is not ideal,” Fred said. “But at the moment, it is the safest and best option.”

  Arnold looked at Inga. He wanted the news from her, not Fred.

  “I spoke to Rudin, and when we considered all of the factors, it seems Sonnenstein is the best place for the moment,” Inga told him.

  “There are things…” Arnold began—but then stopped. Talking about what he had seen in the children’s ward could put them all in danger. If Fred went to a newspaper with this information, they would be carted off. “She should not live at Sonnenstein.” Arnold placed his hand firmly on the table. “You must believe me.”

  Inga picked up a serviette and dabbed her eyes. “We are trying. I promise you. I wish I could take care of her myself, but that is not possible. She must get stronger before we can move her. You will stay with her, make sure she is well cared for. We will be extremely generous in our contributions to the asylum an
d you will be well compensated.”

  “I don’t care about the money,” Arnold said, feeling insulted. “I want only what is best for Rigmor.”

  “Then do what Inga says,” Fred barked. “We will visit regularly and you will keep us abreast of any new developments.”

  A few patrons began to sing, Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber alles, Above all else in the world!

  Fred stood. “I cannot listen to this rot.” He found the waitress, shoved some money at her, and waited at the door for Arnold and Inga.

  * * *

  When Bohm requested a meeting, Arnold showed up unshaven and wearing a wrinkled shirt.

  “We are in a precarious situation,” Bohm said. He touched his nose, a sly reminder of where he had been hit. “Under normal circumstances, you would not be here. But these are not normal circumstances, are they?”

  “No,” Arnold said, keeping his head lowered.

  “What the Blumenthals have asked for is rather simple. You will be Rigmor’s doctor. You will have no other patients. Your quarters will be moved. A steward will show you to your new room. You will have no contact, at least no medical contact, with other patients. You can work on a volunteer basis and play cards or serve drinks, and clean night pots. At the moment, you will retain your medical license, but only for Rigmor’s sake. If we happen to run into each other, we will be cordial. If you ever touch me again, I will tell the SS you have been secretly trying to have patients avoid the sterilization laws. I have already had papers made up to prove this. The SS will put you in a camp, and within a week, they will declare your case a suicide. Is this clear?”

  “It is,” Arnold said.

  “Inga is not subtle.” He rubbed his chin. “I actually find that an attractive quality. But that is not the point. She suggested that I change Rigmor’s diagnosis. That is out of the question.” He slammed a fist on his desk. “I could get sent away for that. Imagine that she had the nerve to ask, and after the lot of you practically accused me of doing unspeakable things to a sleeping patient.” He shook his head. “Her diagnosis cannot be changed. And don’t think other doctors haven’t tried such things. Their fates have not been pleasant.”

  “I will ask nothing of you.”

  Bohm nodded to the door.

  Arnold’s new residence was a cell-like room on the second floor of Building Two. A cot, rickety wardrobe, and meager bookcase furnished the area. One small window overlooked the road, and on the wall, above the head of the bed, was a framed print of the Nazi insignia—the broken cross. He took it down.

  As long as he could see Rigmor every day the size of his room was inconsequential, as were the mice behind the wall. At this point in his career, his dreams of contributing to the field of psychiatry had faded.

  Arnold visited Wilhelm. The health court had declined his appeal, and Wilhelm had been sterilized. It wasn’t so bad, he said, in a voice that closed the subject for good.

  After the loss of the baby, Rigmor sunk into a deep depression. Some days Arnold would plead and cajole for hours just to get her to a sitting position in bed. But he never grew weary of trying, and soon she was dressing without help from the nurses, and going for daily strolls.

  * * *

  Her last night in Frankfurt, Inga kicked off her black pumps and slouched on the sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture left in the great room. In the past two weeks she had taken on the task of giving their artwork to museums, furniture and clothes to homes for the elderly, Oriental carpets to friends, silver and china to servants, and first editions to the library. In a few hours she and her mother would be leaving Germany, and Inga, who had filled her time with symphonies of Mahler, Schoenberg, and Bartok, lectures by Tillich and Jung, and all night dinner parties, would soon be living in a small Swiss village with no library or opera house.

  Klaus had moved into a flat a few weeks earlier. Inga had legally separated from him so that he could continue on as a professor. Married to a Jewish woman, he would lose his position. Of course, emotionally and physically, they had been separated for some time. In fact, aside from having sex in their first few weeks of marriage, they had never really been together as man and wife.

  Inga looked up at the painting of Rigmor. The family could not give the portrait away, and it was much too large for any home they would reside in.

  She closed her eyes and the images flooded in. She and Rigmor playing in the garden, painting in the studio, sneaking their first glass of port. For just a little while, Inga would think only of happy occasions. About the parties, her couture dresses, the time she flirted with Dietrich and watched Fred from the corner of her eye. How Fred had looked jealous, hungry and excited all at the same time.

  A knock on the door jarred her. She sat up and neatened her hair.

  “Come in.”

  Erhard stood in the threshold. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I went to bed now. It is two in the morning.”

  “I did not realize how late it was.” She smiled at him. He had been their butler for eighteen years, and yet, she realized in that moment, she hardly knew him. Still, it felt nice to have a friendly presence in the room with her. “Please, join me for a few minutes.” She thought of offering him a drink, but the buffet cabinet had been given to the Philanthropin School and she didn’t want him rushing about searching for whiskey and glasses.

  “If you wish,” Erhard said. He sat in an armchair on the other side of the room and folded his hands carefully on his lap.

  She glanced at the painting again. “Do you remember when this was done? The entire household had been in an uproar.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  “The painter made a miniature in order to ensure this was exactly what my mother wanted.” She laughed lightly. “Did you know there was one of me made as well? A year or so earlier?”

  “I did not.”

  “It was dreadful. The artist was second class, and my mother told him to burn it.”

  “A shame,” he said.

  She paused, giving them both a few moments. “It’s mad, don’t you think, the world we live in?”

  “Some would say that.”

  “Dear, Erhard.” She grinned. “There is no need to be formal. Tomorrow I will be gone, and both of our lives will be irrevocably altered.”

  “I suppose that is true.”

  “But you will still have your home and your family.”

  She hadn’t meant it quite as it came out, as if she was lamenting her own situation. Yes, it was difficult, but she was also lucky in many respects, and she would not allow herself to forget that.

  “I am grateful,” Erhard said. “And grateful for the service I have been able to provide your family.”

  “And we are grateful to you. But let us not get maudlin. Tell me how your children are. A boy and a girl, if I remember correctly?”

  “Your memory is correct.”

  “How old are they now?”

  “My daughter, Gerta, is fifteen. Bertie is nineteen.”

  “I have always loved the name Bertrand. My grandmother had a beagle named Bertie. He had one blue eye and one brown. Most unusual.”

  Erhard nodded like a well-mannered puppet.

  “And are they in school?” she asked, determined to engage Erhard in a conversation.

  “Gerta is.” He turned his head away from her.

  “And Bertie?” she asked.

  Erhard squared his shoulders and faced Inga. “He has joined the SS.”

  “Oh.” Her heart dropped a bit. She glanced away. “Yes, I see.”

  “It was his choice,” Erhard said. “But we are proud of him for wanting to serve his country.”

  “It is important that parents are proud of their children,” she muttered. It had been stupid to imagine that she could find some last-minute camaraderie.

  An awkward silence followed.

  “I need your help,” Inga said finally. “The painting must come down.”

  Erhard stood on his chair, but his arm sp
an was not sufficient. She dragged into place one of the wooden chairs that were usually kept in the kitchen. It had likely been used as a stool in the past few days as things were moved out. Together she and Erhard lifted the painting and placed it on the floor, carefully leaning it against the wall.

  “Will that be all?” he asked.

  Her plan was to lay the painting face down and sever the canvas from the frame.

  “Please fetch me a knife.”

  As soon as he left the room, Inga tried to move the painting. But it was too heavy. She would need Erhard’s help.

  Erhard handed her a carving knife. Her arms tensed. Rage coursed through her. Damn them, the Nazis and Hitler. Damn Sonnenstein, and Arnold, and her mother, and the stupid young men blinded by extremism. Damn Bohm, and the officers who would live in this house. In a burst of fury, she plunged the knife into the canvas.

  Erhard grabbed her arm. “The Fuhrer has made it illegal to destroy any art that may have value.”

  “As if I take my orders from that hideous man.”

  “Do not speak of him that way,” Erhard scolded.

  “Let go of me,” Inga shouted. “Do you think I would leave this painting for those disgusting people to gaze at? I would never give them that pleasure.”

  Again, she stabbed the knife into the painting, this time dragging it downward.

  * * *

  On a brisk day in April of nineteen-thirty-six, nearly eight months after the baby was born, Inga and Fred drove to Sonnenstein for an unannounced visit. Inga had been listening to Fred’s dire predictions about the Nazis for some time now and she believed it would be best to simply take Rigmor out of Germany. Only Fred knew of the plan. Inga had decided that although it would be a shock for Frieda, it would be easier to sort out the details in Switzerland rather than making elaborate schemes for months on end.

  As soon as they arrived, Inga ran to Rigmor’s room, but she wasn’t there, nor was she in any of the studios. They looked in the gardens and in the dining hall.