Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  Her clothes were damp with sweat, but she remained still. As she glanced around the compartment, she wondered how many others were doing the same thing, desperately trying to get a family member out of the country. It was as if they were all wearing costumes, dressed in peasant clothes, so as to look unassuming and unremarkable. She wore a long floral skirt, a blue blouse and a cardigan with holes at the elbows, cut only a few hours ago. To get into Germany she had a German passport. To get out, she and Rigmor had Swiss passports. They would be the Gruen sisters.

  If all went smoothly, which Inga expected it would, they would be leaving Sonnenstein tomorrow, and taking the first train out of Dresden.

  As the train chugged forward, Inga stared out of the window and thought about the chalet in Arlesheim. Rigmor would find it enchanting, with its sloping roof, heavy eaves, and flowerboxes hanging beneath each window.

  The gentle rumble of the engine soothed Inga. As she imagined having Rigmor stay in her Basel flat, walking the cobblestone streets, stopping at bakeries for coffee and wandering in and out of book shops, she began to drift off.

  Inga woke with a start just as the trained pulled into Dresden. She took her small case from the rack above her, disembarked and stood on the pavement, relieved. Then a hand gripped her arm.

  “Papers,” the guard said.

  “But I have already shown them,” Inga told him.

  She felt his hold tighten. “Do as I say or go to the police station.”

  She opened her handbag and showed him her German passport. “From Heidelberg?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why Dresden?”

  “My mother is there. She is ailing.” Her headscarf began to slip.

  “I have seen you before.” He stared at the passport and then at her.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “I would never forget a face like yours.” He tapped a finger on her passport. “It was in Frankfurt. At a nightclub.”

  “No, I’ve never been there.”

  “I am sure of it. You were dancing with a short, bald Jewish man. We joked about it. I remember now. We guessed he had something special in his trousers to get a woman like you.”

  “You have me confused.”

  At the screech of the train whistle, Inga wanted to run, but of course that would have been disastrous.

  The guard pulled down her scarf. “Yes, it is you. I happened to think your hair was quite magnificent.”

  “My hair is perfectly ordinary.”

  “Are you arguing with me?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “I like beautiful women.” He slapped her on her bottom with her passport and smiled. “Now get a move on.”

  She turned and strode with cautious purposefulness, not wanting to betray either her fear or relief.

  When Inga arrived at Sonnenstein, she raced up to Rigmor’s room, and then stood in the doorway for a moment taking stock of what was in front of her. A sister who looked pale and weak, and a doctor sitting at her bedside in an attitude of grave worry.

  “My dearest,” Inga said, dropping her suitcase and running to the bed. “What is it?”

  Arnold moved aside. “An infection from the operation.”

  Inga held Rigmor’s hand. “Certainly nothing terrible, I hope. We will feed you and give you tea, and you will be better in no time.”

  She smiled, although she hardly felt happy. The operation had been performed nearly two weeks ago. That an infection lingered was not good news.

  “I’m mending,” Rigmor said, her voice faint.

  Inga pulled off her scarf and let it drop to the floor. She felt Rigmor’s face and forehead. “You have a fever.” She looked at Arnold, who shook his head.

  “These new medicines are a miracle,” Inga told her sister. “You will be well by tomorrow. You must be.”

  “How is mother?” Rigmor asked.

  Inga sighed. “The same. Missing you. I cannot wait for you to see how sweet the house is. It’s at the top of a hill on a street called Ziegelacker Weg. So very Swiss.”

  Rigmor smiled before closing her eyes. “Tell me more.”

  “We have red geraniums in all of the window boxes, and across from us is a piece of land full of raspberry and blackberry bushes, and apple trees. It is like out of a picture book. The air is clean, and you can hear the cowbells from the neighboring hills. It is really like Beethoven’s Pastoral. There is even a castle nearby that you can see from the chalet. And the village is just as you would expect. Small shops, everyone friendly. The bread freshly baked and—”

  Rigmor grimaced.

  “Does it hurt terribly?” Inga asked.

  “It comes and goes.”

  “Rest for an hour or so. Then we can talk about our plans.”

  As her sister slept, Inga spoke quietly with Arnold on the other side of the room.

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “The operation went smoothly, but about a week later she complained of a fever. We tried have tried two sulfa drugs. She is very weak and in more pain than she is letting on. It’s difficult for her to walk. I don’t know that she can manage the journey.”

  “I only have papers for three days. We cannot wait.”

  “I understand.” His voice broke. “I just don’t know.”

  “You said on the phone it would not be safe for her to stay. Why?”

  Arnold shook his head. “What the Germans and Hitler want it is beyond what I could have ever imagined.”

  “Tell me,” Inga demanded.

  “They will begin a euthanasia program. Hitler will start it at the beginning of the war, when people will be too distracted to care about what is going on in the asylums.”

  “My God. It has come to this?” She felt shocked, even though rationally she knew this was always where the Nazis were headed. They had begun years ago with their propaganda films, claiming the mentally ill were weakening the race.

  “I’m afraid so.” He rested a hand on her arm.

  Inga didn’t want him to touch her—this man who seemed to always make things worse, not better. She glared at Arnold. “Why did she even need the sterilization if she was soon to be murdered?”

  “The euthanasia program is not common knowledge. Only the doctors know. Things, for the time being, are to proceed as if all is the same.”

  “Then she will get out. We will make her better. There is simply no other option.”

  “We can pray that the fever goes down.”

  “Pray,” she said bitterly. “That is what a doctor advises?”

  She returned to Rigmor’s side, sat next to her and touched her face every few minutes. It remained much too warm.

  * * *

  Arnold placed a cool washcloth on Rigmor’s forehead. If the fever would break, there was still a chance. Perhaps Inga didn’t believe in prayer, but he did. Silently, he said one after another.

  The human will was much stronger than people realized, and now, with Inga here, Rigmor might rally. It would not be the first miraculous recovery Arnold had witnessed.

  When the first rays of morning light shone through the window, Inga rested a hand on Rigmor’s cheek.

  “She feels cooler,” Inga said, fresh hope in her voice.

  Rigmor’s arm looked mottled, like blue and pinkish marble: a sign, Arnold knew, that her body was struggling to push blood to her limbs.

  “We will see how she does today,” he said.

  “She should eat a good breakfast. Two soft boiled eggs, some toast and orange juice. She needs her vitamins.”

  Rigmor opened her eyes and rested a hand on her stomach. It was clear she had something to say, but she couldn’t get the words out.

  Inga put a finger to her lips. “Just rest. There is no need to talk. You can have a little breakfast, and then you will feel stronger.”

  Rigmor gave a nod and then cried out.

  “What is it?” Inga asked.

  “It’s as if something is twisting ins
ide of me.”

  “We will get medicine.” She glared at Arnold. “Now.”

  Arnold rushed to the ward where he used to work. He walked behind the nursing station and took two vials of morphine and a needle. Yes, he might get reported, and yes, they could drag him off to a concentration camp, but at this point it hardly mattered.

  When he returned to Rigmor, she was curled into a fetal position and pulling her hair. Arnold slipped a needle under her arm, and within ten minutes, she settled.

  “Is it very bad?” Inga asked.

  “I think it will help if she hears your voice,” he said gently.

  * * *

  Inga told stories of how they played when they were young, how they stole biscuits from the kitchen, how they snuck out of the house and pranced down the street wearing some of Frieda’s finest jewelry. She caressed Rigmor’s forehead, and told her that she must get better, that she had been through much worse.

  The evening sky darkened to a glorious red. Rigmor cried, saying she felt as if there were snakes in her belly, and Arnold gave her another shot of morphine.

  Rigmor’s skin turned a sickly gray as she writhed in her semi-conscious state.

  “How long?” Inga whispered.

  “Two days,” said Arnold. “Maybe three. Her body is young. Her heart relatively strong.”

  “We cannot allow her to be in so much pain.”

  Arnold hurried off to get more medicine.

  Inga sat with Rigmor and cried. This was not how it was supposed to end. There was a garden of fruit trees waiting for Rigmor, and a four-year-old girl who would benefit from a mother with a soft spirit—not Inga, who Lisbet didn’t seem to like, or Frieda, who managed every minute of Lisbet’s day.

  “You can’t leave me,” Inga whispered, as she climbed into the bed and stroked her sister’s hair. “There is so much to tell you.” Inga sighed. This was likely the last chance she would have to tell Rigmor everything. That she was sleeping, didn’t matter at the moment. “The most important thing is that you have a daughter. A girl, called Lisbet. She is a sweet child with dimples and legs like a Daddy-long-leg. She cannot sit still, which sometimes irritates Mother to no end. Her legs swing under the table and one never knows when one might just get a swift kick. She’s a strong girl. She was from the day she was born. And now the doctor has said she has weak ankles and must take up skating. I don’t know anything about weak ankles, but I am very confident Lisbet has no such thing. I thought you would meet her soon. I hoped one day she would know you were her mother, that she would know your kindness. Her hair is like yours, a bit lighter perhaps. And of course, she has given Mother something to live for, which I know will make you happy.”

  Inga talked about Fred, how he was still married to Hilda, and how that didn’t matter. She told Rigmor about the lavender they had in their garden, how it was the best lavender on earth. She talked about how she had started to make her own jam, about the farm in the village, about the castle ruins at the top of the hill in Dornach. She talked until her words slurred, until she imagined the two of them in a meadow making daisy chains, the sun warming them, and the breeze tickling their necks.

  * * *

  For a few moments, Arnold stood in the middle of the courtyard as the heavens opened and rain poured down. The summer storms often arrived in violent bursts, sending people scurrying for cover. Arnold didn’t want shelter, he wanted the downpour to dissolve him, to make the cleaving of his heart subside.

  When he was back in Rigmor’s room, he gave her two more doses, and within fifteen minutes she appeared to sleep comfortably.

  For twenty minutes, as Inga stayed on the bed and Arnold sunk into a chair, there was quiet. Even the rain paused.

  But then Rigmor stirred sharply and vomited, most likely a side effect from the morphine. Arnold turned her on her side and told Inga to fetch some water and towels from the lavatory.

  He had hoped that her death would be peaceful, but it was not. Rigmor’s legs flailed and her head shot back, hitting the wooden bed post.

  “Do something!” Inga shouted.

  Outside it thundered. Inside, the room flashed with light from the storm as Rigmor convulsed.

  “More morphine,” Inga yelled.

  For the third time he ran to his old ward, and stole morphine, as the nurse in charge turned away.

  But when Arnold returned, Rigmor was completely still, and Inga sat on the bed, clutching a pillow.

  “Dear God,” he said.

  “Get out,” Inga yelled.

  He walked to the bed, picked up Rigmor’s hand and felt her wrist for a pulse. There was none.

  “Get out,” Inga shouted again.

  This time he did what she asked. There would be no private goodbye for him. Inga, always the brave one, had done what was needed.

  Arnold went outside, took the path behind the building, and kept going until he reached the river. He sat on the muddy bank as the rain pounded, and the strong current below invited him to jump.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Truths

  Belmont, Massachusetts 1984

  On the flight from Chicago to Boston, Inga sat next to the window and listened to the engine. The stewardesses were particularly friendly, perhaps because it was Christmas, or perhaps because they thought she was a lonely old woman. Yet for once she did not feel lonely. Lisbet had not pushed Inga away. In fact, quite the opposite.

  A stewardess refilled Inga’s coffee cup. She slipped off her pumps, wriggled her toes inside of her silk stockings, and felt at ease.

  Back in Boston, she unpacked and then took a good look at herself in the hotel mirror. Yes, she was in her late-seventies. But her cheeks had a natural pinkness to them, and although her eyelids drooped a little, her eyes seemed a clearer, less muddied green. She would go to McLean. Sabine would likely still be with Tanner, but Inga would check on the baskets and fir trees, and perhaps Cece or Helen or Keith would be around. It would be nice to have a bit of company. Funny, she thought, how when one doesn’t feel lonely, one is more open to companionship.

  The front desk ordered her a taxi, and by the time she arrived at North Belknap, the sky seemed lit with diamonds. As a child, she had believed invisible strings dropped from the stars and tethered the earth in place.

  Paul, with his bland expression, opened the door. “She’s in the dining room,” he mumbled.

  “Who?” Inga asked.

  “Sabine.”

  Inga glanced at her watch. It was only half past five. As she approached the dining room, she smiled when she saw the red tablecloths, but then she noticed Sabine. Her hair was coming out of its bun and, if she’d put on makeup for the holiday, it was now worn off. There was an old-world beauty about her. Perhaps it was the way the dark window framed her. But she did not look happy and Inga thought of the saying you are only as happy as your unhappiest child. It fit for grandchildren as well.

  “Sabine,” Inga said. Pieces of a chocolate bar sat on the table. The wrapper lay with its shiny insides exposed to the ceiling.

  “Omama?” Sabine said, clearly pleased to see her grandmother. Quite a difference from the first time Inga had come to this ward.

  Inga took off her scarf and coat and sat across from Sabine. She would wait a few moments before asking what was wrong. “A happy Christmas to you, my girl.”

  “Same to you. Did everything go OK?”

  “Some things went better than expected,” Inga said.

  “You came back early. I didn’t think you’d be here until after Christmas.”

  Inga smiled. “Your father was not one of the things that went well.”

  “Oh,” Sabine said, appearing to sink a bit.

  “He has always been a difficult man for me to understand.” She picked out a walnut from the basket. “But your mother is happy with him, and that’s what really matters.”

  Sabine glanced down. Inga had been insensitive to bring up Lisbet. “Your mother will come.”

  Sabine held back h
er tears. “She will?”

  “Not immediately. But yes, she will.” Inga brushed her fingers along Sabine’s hand. “Let’s talk about your day. Did something not go well?”

  “The baskets are really nice,” Sabine said.

  Inga glanced around the room. There were two large ones and three smaller ones. Aside from the one at their table, most of them seemed untouched. “Yes, they are well done. I’m pleased. And where is everyone?”

  Sabine sighed. “Helen is in the quiet room. Everyone else, aside from Frank, is out with families still.”

  “I see.” It was inevitable that Helen would have trouble on a holiday, yet hearing the news left Inga feeling short of breath. “And you,” she said. “Can we talk about you?”

  Sabine shrugged. “I’m fine. Nothing bad happened. Not really. It was just something Tanner’s father said.” She ate a piece of chocolate.

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that places like this, like McLean, only make people worse.”

  “What an absurd thing to say. This is a good hospital.” Inga sat taller. “Why would anyone tell a patient that they were in a hospital that wasn’t helping? Did he think that would be useful?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She folded the wrapper for the chocolate into small squares as Inga took out a tangerine from the basket.

  “It’s probably best not to take him too seriously. After all, what does he know about psychiatry or medicine—right?”

  Sabine nodded.

  “Tell me how things were with Mia and Tanner.”

  Sabine smiled heartily for the first time. “Mia was happy.”

  Inga handed a tangerine slice to Sabine. “Tanner?” she asked.

  Sabine shook her head.

  “Why?”

  Sabine frowned. “I’m not really sure.”

  Inga believed Sabine was beginning to recognize that she had fallen out of love with her husband, and might now need help accepting that fact.

  “The last year and a half of Fred’s life, he finally moved into the chalet, something I had wished for, for so many years,” Inga said. “But when we did live together, we argued constantly. About everything.”