The Berlin Connection (48 page)

left. On his right sat a male secretary. "Sit down." The attendants sat me down. "You know where you are?"

I nodded.

"You know how you came here?"

"Ari-arl-ari-ari..."

Dr. Trotha said something to his colleague, who nodded.

"You were arrested by a police patrol and taken to a station house. From there you were brought here by a fire department conveyance. They are responsible for emergency cases such as yours. Can you follow me?" I nodded. "Do you feel very sick?"

I nodded again.

Dr. Trotha said, "It won't take long. In a few minutes you'll be given a sedative."

The older man said, "My name is Dr. Holgersen. I have been appointed by the court. I come here every morning. It is my duty, on the basis of the results of the examination by the ward doctor and my own observation, to decide whether or not it is in the public interest that a patient who was admitted as an emergency is to remain in this institution." Holgersen looked at a paper. "Dr. Trotha's findings are very unfavorable. My own impression of you is no better. I'll ask you for the last time: Are you going to tell me your name?"

I shook my head.

"Do you have relatives?"

"No."

"It sometimes happens that people refuse to give their name because they are ashamed or frightened. But relatives search for them and in the end we find out anyway."

"Attorney," I said with difficulty.

"You want a lawyer?"

I nodded.

"You will see a lawyer."

Thank God.

"In about a month."

I almost fell off the chair, the attendants were holding me.

"I am ordering your temporary compulsory detainment in this institution."

"Youcan^tdothat!"

"I can and I must. As long as we do not know who you are, and considering your condition we cannot hold a hearing."

''A hear—hear—^hearing. .."

"It is Dr. Trotha's and my opinion that you are verging on d.t.'s if that means anything to you. If you are sensible now and do not resist the doctor's treatment we shall consider you further in about four weeks."

"Then what happens?"

"Under the law we can detain you here up to six weeks. By then a judge will determine your immediate future—on the basis of medical findings."

Something soft and warm was trickling down my neck. I touched it. It was blood. The wound on my head had opened.

"Where will the hearing be held?"

"Right here," said Dr. Trotha. "The judge comes here because we have so many alcoholics."

Holgersen said, "For the hearing a lawyer will be assigned to you. The judge will decide if you are to be cured here at the state's expense or if you are to be allowed to be treated privately. Then you will be tried for attempted murder. Have you understood everything?"

I was perspiring profusely. My hands shook. My pulse raced. I felt deathly ill. I vomited. This time I did not have to clean it up. Following that I passed out.

I was still dizzy and weak when I awakened. My eyes smarted, probably as a result of the sedative I had been given. The room was smaller. The windows closed and barred. It stunk.

The two old men must have been watching me sleep for they both began to shout as soon as I opened my eyes. Dizzy, I closed them again. Both men continued to talk excitedly.

They introduced themselves as Herrenkind and Schlag-intweit, both Nazi bigwigs. Apparently one had destroyed a tank this very morning. Russians and Americans were fighting at the Elbe. What did the Fiihrer say? When will he give the order for the Americans to attack the Russians? What were the new orders? Heil Hitler!

Meanwhile, thinking was difficult. I realized that Dr. Trotha or one of his colleagues had set this up as a trap for me. This was a test to see if I was disturbed or not. So two doctors, dressed as patients, put on an act for me. They made believe that it was still 1945, that the Russians were fighting to take Berlin—^fifteen years ago. They wanted to see how I would react to such insanity.

Very calmly I said, "Stop this nonsense. There is no Fiihrer any more."

That upset both of them. Was he dead? Who was his successor? We are loyal followers of the Fiihrer. Especially the dead one! Adolf Hitler, Sieg Heil! They raised their arms in salute.

Still calm I told them, "Berlin was conquered by the Red Army fifteen years ago. There is no longer a Nazi Party, though there are still a lot of Nazis."

There, I thought.

The two disguised doctors looked at each other.

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One finally asked, "Do you think we're idiots?"

"I think this kind of testing is idiotic."

"Testing? He destroyed a tank this morning—and you say the war is over? You can't think of anything better?"

The other man suddenly yelled, "He is a Soviet infiltrator! The Russians dressed him in our uniform—"

"I'm not wearing any uniform!"

"You're wearing the same uniform as we do!" The doctor's voice cracked.

No! This was going too far. Could this be a test?

"We'll have to kill the communist! Without delay!"

They both lunged for me. In a spUt second I realized that I had made a mistake. Those were no doctors. This was no test, no trap, no examination.

Weak though I was I managed to get off my bed, punch one or the other with my fists. They punched me. We rolled on the floor. Rolled over each other.

"Help! Help! Help!"

I yelled as loud as I could.

As soon as I had shaken off one the other would be on me.

"Sieg Heil!" they yelled while they were trying to kill me.

"Help! He . . ."

One of them was choking me. The door was thrown open. Two attendants ran in. I was still on the floor. They pushed back the two old men, pulled me outside. The door slammed shut. One attendant locked it. Dr. Trotha came hurrying down the hallway.

"What happened? Why was this man in room seventeen?"

"You gave the order yourself. Doctor!"

"Incompetents! I said sixteen. Sixteen!" He bent over me. "Are you injured?" I shook my head. "Those two in there were buried alive by bombs in 1945 ... in Berlin .. . 1946 they were transferred here from Wittenau. Time has stopped foi: them, you know?"

"Leave me alone."

"It was a mistake. A regrettable mistake. One aspect of overcrowding and incompetent staff."

"Just leave me alone," I whispered. The fist in the pit of my stomach was stirring again.

No.

Not this too. Let it pass, Shirley.

It did. I did not have an attack.

22

"They are incredibly overburdened here," said the thirty-five-year-old architect, Edgar Shapiro. He was sitting on my bed.

Some men in room sixteen were sleeping, some talking quietly to each other. One was lying underneath his bed, another standing, his face to the wall. I had Hked Shapiro the moment I saw him. He was polite, modest and charming. He had comforted me. My shock had subsided.

"This is one of the quiet, ordinary floors. Above us is the refractory floor. Twice as many people there. Even more patients in the women's section. Not enough attendants, not sufficient beds, not enough money."

"Dr. Trotha said one doctor for every seventy patients."

"Maybe on paper. In reahty he has to take care of at least a hundred."

"That is too much."

"One of the reasons conditions are what they are."

Shapiro became enthusiastic. The official capacity of this hospital was fifteen hundred patients.

"Do you know how many patients are here now? About twenty-seven hundred! There are never less than twenty-five hundred!"

Extra beds had been placed in hallways and some day rooms. Because of insufficient space, old and young, ad-

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diets, degenerates, criminals, the harmless, and children were crowded together.

"It is criminal that children should be living among all these people!"

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Three years. Before I was admitted I used up to 50 ampoules of dope a day. I think I will be discharged this summer. I've been treated very well. This building dates from 1880. It used to be a barrack. Today there is no money to build new hospitals. Nowadays they have to build new barracks."

I was again startled when I heard the same terrifying screams from above that I had heard that morning.

"Why won't you say who you are?"

I did not reply.

Shapiro smiled. "I like you. You can use my electric

razor."

"I have this rash ..."

"Well, I do too. Look at me!" The light in the room was so dim that I had not noticed it right away. Shapiro's face was covered with eczema. The faces of some other patients were also disfigured. A man near the window looked the worst.

"The medication," said Shapiro. "Mostly from^paralde-hyde."

"Paraldehyde?"

"It's a sedative. That's the stuff you can smeU everywhere here."

"Who is the man near the window?"

"King Washington Napoleon."

The man looked up and bowed politely when he heard his name.

"He's an artist. Fell from the high wire during his act. Head injury. He's engaged to the princess."

"Princess?"

"Margaret Rose. Of England. He writes her daily."

I met the other inmates of the room during the evening

meal. That consisted of sandwiches and herb tea. The cups and plates were dirty, the sandwiches unappetizing. When I pushed it away Shapiro said, "Eat it. Come on. Only stupid people throw it out of the window." He pointed to a pale, skinny man who was just throwing his food into the yard. I remembered the fat crows.

"You must eat. You must keep up your strength or you'll never make it. Go on—no matter how much you loathe it!"

I forced myself to eat. The tea tasted of saccharin. The man who had thrown his sandwiches into the yard had begun to drink at the age of fourteen, Shapiro told me. He used to be a pharmacist. Six times he had been in prison for raping minors. Now he was here permanently.

Kurt, the man who had been lying underneath his bed, had been a carpenter. As a result of alcoholism both his arms were paralyzed. Shapiro fed him patiently. Shapiro was well-liked. He helped where he could, he cleaned, he was always in good spirit. Dr. Trotha had permitted him to keep his small radio.

Then I learned about Butt-Dieter. He was the oldest, the one who stood facing the wall. He only said two sentences, "Today is my birthday. Have you a butt for me?"

Cigarettes! They were as important and precious as they had been for people in Germany after the war. We were allowed to smoke in the hallway where we were taken after the meal.

Two attendants led a troupe of children past us. I was horrified at the sight of these little human wrecks.

"Children of alcoholics. Even some of them have had withdrawal treatment. You should see their parents on visiting day!"

At eight-thirty we were sent back into our rooms. A young doctor accompanied by two attendants gave out medication. I was given an injection. Most of the patients received paraldehyde, a liquid of dreadful smell and taste

which quickly induced sleep. I was beginning to adjust to the awful odor.

I was surprised that I did not have an attack. I had not had any whisky aU day yet I did not feel bad, merely weak. Very weak. The hghts went out at eight-forty-five. Shapiro*s little radio played softly.

Butt-Dieter began to snore. The snoring became a rasping in his throat which in turn became a rattling cough.

Shapiro said, "I clean his phlegm up in the morning. Poor Dieter was in the firestorm in Hamburg—^the air raid in 1943. He recognizes no one any more."

Now I bad to think. Who was looking for me? Kostasch? Natasha? Had I been missed in the hotel? The police would accept a missing person's report only after forty-eight hours. Not even twenty-four hours had passed since my arrest. I had telephoned Schauberg just before that. He must be worried. But if Schauberg of all people—

I could assume that the police would not search for me before tomorrow night. Tomorrow was also Christmas. Would civil departments work at full strength? I wondered if the fracas in the bar had been reported in the newspapers? I had mentioned my name to Goldstein.

Had I?

I could not remember. The paraldehyde was as soporific as a potent sedative.

23

They had left me my watch.

I was awakened by Shapiro's panic-stricken dream at midnight. He was continually calling his wife not to let him drown because he could not swim. Attendants gave him a little more paraldehyde and he fell asleep again.

I was now wide awake. From the upper floor, and the women's wing as well, I heard screams, slaps, stamping,

whimpering, crying, howling laughter. Sounds made by humans, but inhuman, idiot sounds. Members of the staff shouted and hurried about, bells clanged; twice a siren screamed. There was no letup. I finally fell asleep only to be roused by more shouting: "Time to get up! To the washrooms!"

December twenty-fourth was a dreary gray day. Breakfast consisted of sandwiches and tea. Two doctors accompanied by attendants made their rounds. With so many patients to see, the time with each had to be very limited. I was given a sedative and an injection. Before falling asleep I watched some patients leave for their daily chores: cleaning, helping in the kitchen. I slept till the afternoon. Shapiro sat staring on his bed. Butt-Dieter stood facing the wall. King Washington Napoleon was writing to Princess Margaret Rose.

From the women's wing came singing.

"Silent night, holy night . . ."

Attendants brought aluminum plates with fruits, chocolate, gingerbread cookies decorated with pine branches. They also brought opened letters and packages for some patients.

An attendant came in and pointed to me. "Come along!"

"Where to?" I was frightened.

"Quickly, hurry, before he gets rough," said Shapiro to me softly. I put on the old robe and slippers and followed the man to a door, visiting room.

He pushed me inside.

Two people were waiting there for me.

Dr. Trotha and Natasha.

Natasha came toward me. She bumped into a chair and dropped her handbag. Simultaneously Dr. Trotha and the attendant bent down to pick it up. Natasha pushed something into my hand. It was a hard object wrapped in paper. Immediately I put it into the pocket of my robe.