by Sylvia True
Dieter gave one large clap. “Marvelous,” he said, and bounced up.
The day they traveled to Brandenburg Hospital, a hypnotizing rain drummed on the roof of the car, and Arnold found himself dozing as Dieter rambled about another paper he was writing. Arnold nodded at what he hoped were appropriate points.
The car pulled up to the front of the hospital, an austere brick building with none of Sonnenstein’s charm.
Dieter and Arnold were led to a large drawing room dimly lit by a chandelier. The room was chilly and thick with cigar smoke. Arnold wished he was back at Sonnenstein drinking a cup of hot tea with Rigmor.
About twenty-five men milled about. Ten or so were in uniform. Dieter grabbed Arnold’s arm and pointed to Philipp Bouhler, a man with an aura of authority and confidence. His black hair was slicked back. His spectacles were round and his face perfectly proportioned.
“He is Chief of the Chancellery,” said Dieter. “I wonder why he is here.”
There were too many men in uniform for Arnold’s taste. “I will sit for a moment.”
He wanted to detach himself from Dieter and this setting. But just as he was about to take a seat, he noticed Bohm in the back corner of the room, waving his hands as he spoke.
Arnold pulled Dieter close. “Did you know Bohm was attending this event?” Arnold asked.
“Actually,” Dieter answered, “he was the one who gave me the tickets and asked that I invite you.” He lowered his gaze.
Arnold felt his stomach turn. “So this had nothing to do with you wanting my opinion on the matter?”
Dieter put his hands in his pockets, sheepish. “Your opinion and thoughts are of value. I apologize if I misled you.”
“But why would Bohm care?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Dieter kept his gaze lowered. “He made the terms clear. I would not be able to attend unless you escorted me.”
“I have a good mind to leave,” Arnold said.
“Please don’t,” Dieter replied. “I’m sure it won’t be terribly long. And since you are already here, why not see what is going on?”
Arnold decided he would get through the day by keeping his mouth shut and staying out of everyone’s way.
A waiter brought glasses of champagne. Arnold declined and sat quietly as Dieter found a more suitable companion.
As Arnold watched his peers, he noticed exaggerated hand movements, sentences that ended in exclamation and a general air of excitement.
Soon, the director, a thin man with crooked teeth, called the room to attention.
“Thank you for joining us today,” he said. “We welcome you, and hope that in our small way, we can illuminate for you what we consider to be our future. I would ask that you keep in mind the research and work that has gone into this. Working with unfortunate souls is never easy, and we must face many difficult hurdles and choices.”
A number of the men nodded solemnly. Arnold felt a sense of alarm.
“We must try to rid ourselves of diseases that only cause pain,” the director continued. “It will take courage and conviction. I hope what you see here today will show you the way to cure ourselves.”
Arnold shuddered at the thought that came to him, that they were here to learn some new way to kill patients. He remembered the stick floating down the Elbe, how its destiny was already determined, and how he’d had a premonition about the gruesome lengths the Nazis would go to eradicate disease and decrease expenditure.
The director launched into a history of Darwin, eugenics, and genetics. He mentioned scientist after scientist and how one influenced the next. His language was dense, his voice monotone. Arnold’s mind wandered. He imagined living in New York and starting a practice of his own. He imagined Rigmor visiting. They would spend hours at the art museums and in cafes.
Finally, the director finished his introduction and the audience clapped. Arnold joined half-heartedly, realizing that not applauding at all might draw unwanted attention.
When the group moved to the dining room for lunch, Arnold sat at the end of a long wooden table, hoping to go unnoticed. But Dieter joined him, and not long after that, Bohm strode over.
“Nice to see you here,” Bohm said to both men, and then turned his attention to Arnold. “I thought it would be nice for you to see how the Blumenthals will help lead the way to the future.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Arnold said, staring into Bohm’s eyes.
“With the help of their donations we will soon have a facility that is even better than the one here.”
“I have yet to see anything here,” Arnold said, keeping his tone neutral and composed.
Bohm grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and then walked away.
After apple cake and a sweet port, they were led outside, to the back of the building, where they walked on wooden planks that couldn’t have been laid more than a few hours before. The rain had turned to a fine mist. The boards wobbled under foot as Arnold marched along with the others, his sense of dread heightening.
They arrived at a barn-like structure and filed into a small anteroom.
The director explained that the men would see three patients today.
“Patient One is a fifty-four year old man who has never been able to care for himself. He was born prematurely and, after his first year of life, it was clear that he was highly feebleminded. He has not worked a day in his life. His parents died long ago. He has one sister who has not visited him in years. He recognizes his name, but little beyond that. He has the mental capacity of a one-year-old.”
The audience let out a collective sigh.
“Patient Two, another male, is twenty-eight, and has dementia praecox. He began exhibiting symptoms when he was nineteen and tried to hang himself in his father’s shed. Since then he has been in a state hospital.”
The third patient had also been diagnosed with dementia praecox, although his symptoms weren’t typical for schizophrenia. This patient was obese, barely moved, and rarely spoke. Arnold questioned the diagnosis, but in the past couple of years, the number of patients diagnosed with schizophrenia had dramatically increased. It seemed an easy and convenient label to slap onto people. It left the doctors in control and the families believing there was little hope.
The director pointed. “The patients are being held in exam rooms behind this wall. I ask that a few doctors go into each room for a minute or so, and then rotate. Please do not speak when in the exam rooms, as we don’t want to startle or frighten the patients, who believe they are here for a routine medical exam, a shower, and new clothes. If you have any questions, hold them until we gather again in this room.”
In the first room, Patient One sat on the exam table, swinging his legs. He looked older than fifty-four. He had no teeth, and a large hump on his back. Patient Two was handsome. He had dark hair, a narrow, angular face, and suspicious eyes. It was immediately clear that he was paranoid, and Arnold averted his eyes, as surely all of these people watching him must have made him even more uncomfortable. Arnold was the first in his group to leave the exam room.
Patient Three lay on the exam table and stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling. He did not respond to any stimuli. His feet and ankles were swollen, most likely from gout.
When all of the visitors had seen the patients, they were brought back to the anteroom.
The director waited for silence.
“We will put a small adhesive bandage on the backs of the men, between their shoulder blades. On the bandage we will mark the men with a number. All of the records will be filed under the patient number. After the treatment, condolence letters will be sent to the family, or next of kin. The letters will have varying causes of death—pneumonia, heart condition, and the like. We do not want to further stigmatize the patient or family by stating the true cause of death.”
He smiled as if this was a gift. The procedure was the exactly like the one Bohm described for the starving children. Arnold’s gut clenched. He had hoped his suspicions ab
out this gathering were wrong.
“The chamber, approximately three meters by five meters in area, is fully tiled. There is a small pipe on the floor. It is covered and has little holes through which the gas can escape. When we turn on the main, the carbon monoxide will blend with the air. You will see that the room is comfortably fitted with benches around the perimeter. After the men have situated themselves, we will turn the gas on slowly. If it is turned on too quickly, a hissing sound can be heard, and that might disturb the patients.”
Arnold looked over his shoulder at the door. He was afraid that if he didn’t get out, he’d vomit. But something kept him frozen in his place. A voice that told him to get a grip, to wake up. For the past three years, as he lived in a bubble with Rigmor at his side, the Nazis had been devising convenient methods of murder.
“The whole process will not take more than twenty minutes. What we would like you to see here today is how gently these men will succumb. Their eyes will close, and then slowly they will fall asleep and stop breathing. In this way, we feel we have found the kindest method.”
“There is one small peep hole through which you can observe the chamber,” the director continued. “I will ask that you form a line and that when it is your turn, you look for a few moments, and then get back into the line.” He held up a hand. “Don’t worry, you will each have a number of chances to see into the chamber. Please keep the line moving calmly. Are there any questions?”
“What will you do with the bodies?” one of the uniformed men asked.
“Excellent question.” The director smiled. “We have built a crematory that is attached to this building. Carting the dead bodies could cause alarm, so we are careful in this regard. I’m sure you will consider doing something similar. All of the architectural drawings will be available to the directors of the hospitals.”
There were no more questions.
“I think we should begin. Yes?”
Arnold was in the middle of the line. As he approached the hole in the door, his jaw clenched, and once again he was afraid he might vomit. The heavy patient lay on the floor, the feebleminded man banged on the wall, and the third patient looked at the nozzle, waiting for a shower.
The words of the men surrounding Arnold were unintelligible, but the general mood seemed to be of shock. He was not the only one with a conscience, at least. On Arnold’s second round, the large man looked asleep and the feebleminded patient flopped forward, while the remaining patient clutched his throat as his face contorted. This was not gentle, Arnold wanted to shout, but the room had fallen completely silent, and he was too shaken to speak.
The director clapped and asked that everyone remain calm. “We are still working on some of the details, and it seems the gas was coming out a bit too slowly. We have now adjusted for it, so these patients will not have to suffer any longer.”
Arnold did not look at the patients again. Instead, he pushed through to the door and stepped outside. He gulped in the March air as he steadied himself on a wooden beam.
* * *
Prina, Germany 1939
The moment Arnold returned to Sonnenstein, he went to the lobby and called Inga. He could not give her details of what he had just seen, but he could insist that it was time to take Rigmor to Switzerland.
“When war breaks out, which I think will be soon, the laws will change. It will not be safe here.”
“I will come,” Inga said.
“It will be almost impossible to get her out without sterilization.” The surgery had been postponed a number of times—because she had the flu, because the doctor was on holiday, because Arnold didn’t think she was strong enough, because Arnold believed there was time.
“There is a slim chance her papers won’t be checked thoroughly,” he told Inga. “But that would be a risk.”
“Not one we should take. How soon can she have it done?”
“I can speak to Rudiger this afternoon. He is an excellent surgeon, and has performed many of these procedures.”
“I will work on getting passports,” Inga said. “Phone tomorrow.”
That afternoon, as Arnold and Rigmor had tea in her room, he described to her some of what he had seen at Brandenburg. At first, he fumbled over words such as new procedure and gentle death. But as she asked for clarification, he eventually told her everything—about the patients, the director, the way the gas was pumped in.
Rigmor’s eyes shimmered with tears. “But that is illegal.”
“We live in a fascist state,” Arnold said. “The government does what it wants.” He sunk his head into his hands. “We should have gotten you out years ago.”
Rigmor moved next to him and rubbed her hand in circles along his back. “We will find a way,” she said.
He lifted his head. “I have spoken to Inga. She will get you the papers you need to go to Switzerland. You will live with your mother and sister. But in order to leave the institution, you will need to have a small operation.”
“I understand,” she told him. “I am not afraid of the surgery. I never have been, and you needn’t be frightened for me. I have talked to women who have had it done, and they have all reported it was much easier than they thought.”
Two days later, Rigmor had a tubal ligation. When she woke from the procedure, she claimed to feel no pain. She was ordered to stay in bed for a week. After the third day she seemed completely healed and Arnold couldn’t help but think of the last time they were on the maternity ward. The child, his child, had she survived, would have been four. He imagined she would have been beautiful, and kind, like her mother. Then he remembered how thin and weak Rigmor had been, and now, after years of stability, a nutritious diet, regular walks, and painting, she looked like an entirely different woman—her cheeks fuller, her eyes wiser, her skin a smooth, porcelain white.
Rigmor returned to her tower room at Sonnenstein, saying that she looked forward to giving drawing lessons again.
But the next morning, she had a slight fever. Nothing, she insisted—just a mild cold. She always got them in the summertime. Still, Arnold wanted her to be seen by a doctor. Hans Weber, staff internist at Sonnenstein, was a small, nervous fellow with large hands and halting speech. He wasn’t alarmed by Rigmor’s symptoms. But he said he would like to take a peek at her incision. With his fingers he tapped and prodded around her abdomen.
“I find it healing well,” Hans said. “A bit of swelling. I think nothing to be concerned about.” At the door he turned and looked at Rigmor. “Bed rest for one week. Then you will be ready to gallop on a horse.” He laughed.
Three days passed and the fever persisted. The skin around Rigmor’s eyes became discolored, and she found it difficult to walk. Arnold called for Dr. Weber again.
“An infection. I fear.” He shook his head. “Not terrible. Sulfanilamide should take care of it.”
But the next day a rash broke out on Rigmor’s arms and legs. Welts the size of coins covered her body. Dr. Weber returned. He patted Rigmor’s hand and said sometimes patients had reactions, but not to worry. There were other types. He prescribed Protosil, a different sulfa drug.
The rash receded. The fever remained.
* * *
Although Inga had a room at the back of the chalet, she spent most nights at her flat in Basel. She had first rented the apartment in order to have a private place to meet Fred, but after only two months of living with Frieda, Inga needed to escape the frowns, turned shoulders, and icy glares.
Now, four years later, Rigmor would be moving to Switzerland, and Inga needed to pack up the few things she kept at the chalet. Frieda would reside in what had been Inga’s room, and Rigmor would take the larger front room. Inga carried an empty suitcase up the hill and hoped she would get a chance to see Lisbet without having to spend more than a few moments with Frieda.
Inga loved watching the child. She had such marvelous long legs that seemed to kick in all directions when she ran. She was shy, like Rigmor, but when she tumbled on the grass or p
layed with her jumping rope, her timidity receded. Even when she first toddled, it was clear that movement made her happy.
In the small bedroom, Inga took out the dresses in the wardrobe and packed her perfumes, soaps and brushes. When she heard a creaking sound on the landing, she opened the door and saw Lisbet peeking out from behind the staircase.
“Come in my girl,” Inga said. “I have chocolate. Would you like a piece?”
Lisbet nodded, but remained where she was.
“I won’t bite. You needn’t be frightened of me.”
Lisbet crept up the stairs and stood a few meters from Inga. “What is it my dear?” Inga asked, crouching down.
“What are you afraid of?”
Lisbet’s feet pointed inward as her hands clasped behind her back.
“Did someone tell you not to speak to me?” Of course that someone would have been Frieda. It was then Inga saw Lisbet’s eyes shiver for the first time. “I would never hurt you,” Inga whispered.
Lisbet tucked her chin down and crossed her feet, looking a bit like an exotic bird.
“We won’t talk about this anymore. All right?” Inga fetched a piece of milk chocolate and gave it to Lisbet, who smiled as she put the sweet in her mouth. Just as Inga was about to embrace Lisbet, Frieda called for her. As Lisbet barreled down the stairs, Inga felt her heart sink. She realized that it wouldn’t be terribly long before she would be pushed further aside. In a year, possibly less time, she would be immaterial.
She and Frieda had agreed then when Rigmor first arrived, she would be told that Lisbet was an orphan of a German Jewish friend and that Inga was her temporary adoptive mother. Eventually they would tell Rigmor the truth, parceled out slowly and judiciously.
* * *
The train stopped at the German border. Inga handed the officer her papers, a false German passport and a blood purity form that showed no Jewish ancestry for four generations. The officer studied the documents, looking at the passport picture and then at Inga. He nodded, handed back the papers and moved on.