The Orchids

by Thomas H. Cook

“But I hope you can understand the need for all our staff to have some knowledge of what we’re doing here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Langhof said. He felt his hands squeeze together.

  “You may return to your quarters, Doctor,” Kessler said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Langhof said briskly. He began to move away quickly.

  “You’re due in the laboratory in fifteen minutes, however,” Kessler warned.

  “Yes, sir. I know,” Langhof said, almost running now.

  Inside the building, Langhof stopped, drew in a long breath, then moved slowly down the hall. He entered his room, closed the door behind him, and sat down on his bunk. Staring at his boots, he could not connect himself to the world by means of any reliable image. It was as if everything had been swept up in a terrible wind and blown randomly, chaotically into the stratosphere. He could not feel his clothes over his shoulders or his boots on his feet. He could not feel the little breeze that wafted in from the small crack in the window. He could not hear the screams of the freezing vermin dying in the snow only a few meters away.

  It was not clear to him what had happened. But now, at night when I can hear the sound of the macaw, I know what happened in the courtyard. I stand by the window and listen to the shrill cry of the jungle birds and they are transformed into the cries of the people slumped freezing in the snow. I hear the wailing and the moaning as I actually heard them, but in my imagination I can hear things now that I could not hear then. I can hear the slurping of the baby’s mouth. I can hear the crunching of the snow as the bodies topple over one by one, hour after hour. I can hear the scratch of Kessler’s pencil as he records the deaths. I can hear the slide of the bodies as the guards drag them from the courtyard and pile them onto the waiting lorries. I have magnified the world of sight and sound. I have learned to hear and see the smallest things, the rush of a final breath, the ant at work within a broken filling.

  And so I know what happened to our hero in the courtyard. He walked out, following Kessler, in the same state of oblivion that had overtaken him months before, on the first night of his arrival. He turned the corner, saw the naked bodies, but did not see them. Instead he saw something else. He saw the actual physical face of that dread he had felt so long ago at the Institute. He saw the horror fully, and in a way that had not approached him before. He had extracted babies from the wombs of women and infected scores of people with disease. But he had always seen this as an inevitable circumstance of his being in the Camp. He had forgotten, conveniently forgotten, that in a sense he had already known the Camp, but had chosen to dismiss that knowledge. As his sensibility slowly emerged, his mind began to comb the scattered litter of his past. He believed that it was all there to be discovered within himself. If he could locate his person, he could locate the world.

  There are times when I think of this and then go walking in the darkness beside the river. I see our hero slumped on his bed, his mind teeming with schemes of self-analysis, dreaming that by discovering himself he can discover the Camp. And I think that if it would not rouse the monkeys or cauterize my soul, I would heave my head back and laugh with such thunderous contempt that it would shake the drowsing vipers from their vines.

  IN THE EARLY YEARS at El Caliz, before old age calcified my bones, I often wandered into the surrounding jungle. Across the river, the world was as it had been ten thousand years before, and from time to time I attempted that revery in nature that mystics and idiots are said to feel. I lay on the ground and dipped my face in the sweating soil. I swam naked in the streams. I wrapped my body in great, waxy leaves and baked it on the mud flats to the south. I put water lilies in my hair and rolled in the reeds of the delta. I drank cactus milk, sucked sugar cane, and chewed coffee beans. I waxed my hair with lemon juice and adorned myself with vines. I tried to lose myself in physical delight, join myself to the imagined rhythms of creation. While Dr. Ludtz obsessively cleaned his paltry arsenal or strung klieg lights about his cottage, I sank into the illusion that I could locate myself in nature by uniting with it, by shirking off my isolated humanness and becoming an instrument of immersion. But in doing this I only repeated the process that I had attempted once before in the Camp.

  For Langhof, suddenly stricken with his own helplessness and venality, felt compelled to investigate the Camp by means of immersing himself within its horrors. He wanted to see the flames from the chimneys at noon and night, sunrise and sundown. He met the trains as they steamed their way up to the snow-covered platforms. He followed the huddled crowds to the mouth of the gas chambers and stood watching as they shuffled out of their clothes. He imagined himself as a kind of artist, observing the Camp from all angles, scribbling notes, conducting interviews. Somewhere in all of this he expected to find himself. The horror, of course, was unimaginable, but Langhof felt it his duty to record it with his senses. And so he monotonously and obsessively toured the Camp, barking commands from time to time so as not to rouse suspicion, and slapping his little riding crop against his boot, gently or viciously, depending upon who might be observing his activity. It was on one of his nightly journeys that he heard something move around the corner of one of the darkened barracks. He drew his pistol.

  “Halt,” he commanded. “Halt. Don’t move.” He waited for a moment, then drew his flashlight from his pocket and beamed it toward the sound. One of the prisoners was standing with his back pressed against the barracks wall.

  Langhof studied the small, bearded face, glowing in the yellow light. “What are you doing in the yard at this hour?” he asked.

  The prisoner did not appear frightened. “Walking, the same as you,” he said.

  “You are not permitted to be outside the barracks,” Langhof said.

  The prisoner did not answer. He squinted into the light, but kept his hands pressed tightly to the wall.

  “What are you doing out here?” Langhof repeated.

  “You are Dr. Langhof,” the prisoner said.

  Langhof stepped away slightly. “How do you know me?”

  “You work in the medical compound,” the prisoner said. “So do I.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Ginzburg. Do you want my number?”

  “Yes,” Langhof said, “I do.” He took out a pad and, as Ginzburg recited his number, Langhof pretended to write it down.

  “Do you have it?” Ginzburg asked.

  “Yes,” Langhof said. He replaced the pad in his uniform pocket. “You had better watch yourself, or you’ll end up being reported.” To his amazement, Langhof thought he saw a smile flicker across Ginzburg’s face. “Who do you work for?”

  “The New Order,” Ginzburg said sardonically.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Langhof said. “Who is your superior in the medical compound?”

  “Do you want to write it down?”

  “Just tell me,” Langhof demanded.

  “Dr. Kessler. He is your superior too, I believe,” Ginzburg said. He shielded his eyes from the light. “Could you put that flashlight away?”

  Langhof turned the light off.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ginzburg said.

  Looking at the small figure before him, Langhof felt the absurdity of the pistol and dropped it back into his holster. “Get back to your quarters,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the vermin said.

  Langhof turned, began to walk away, then heard the prisoner following from behind. He turned around. “What are you doing?”

  “Going to my quarters, as you ordered, Dr. Langhof.”

  “Don’t joke with me,” Langhof said, “Get to your quarters.”

  “I’m on my way, Doctor. I live in the medical compound, the same as you.”

  “I haven’t seen you there.”

  “That may be,” the prisoner said. “You may not have noticed me.” He smiled. “I suppose all the prisoners look alike to you, but believe me, to the prisoners each of you looks different.”

  Langhof stared at the vermin suspiciously. “What do you do in
the medical compound?”

  “Anything I’m told to, same as you,” Ginzburg said, and followed his reply with a small smile.

  “Get that smile off your face,” Langhof said loudly.

  The smile disappeared instantly. “Sorry, sir. A hazard of my profession.”

  “Profession? What profession?”

  “Before I came here, I was a comic,” Ginzburg said. “Nothing big, you understand. You would not have heard of me. Strictly small time. Smoke-filled clubs where the patrons chat constantly during the performance and sometimes throw cocktail olives at the performers.”

  “And you haven’t lost your sense of humor, is that it?” Langhof said sternly.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, then, I would suggest that you keep it to yourself,” Langhof warned.

  “I suppose I should,” Ginzburg said, “but I never learned how to act appropriately. I snicker at all the wrong times. Funerals. Weddings. During the High Holy Days. It was always embarrassing for my family.”

  “There are people here who will teach you proper behavior,” Langhof said.

  “I know. Have you ever heard of the swing?”

  “Yes. You were tortured?”

  Ginzburg laughed. “Everyone is tortured.”

  “But not on the swing. Why you?”

  Ginzburg grinned. “They were jealous of my good looks, I suppose.”

  Langhof did not smile. “And I imagine that you laughed all the way through it.”

  Ginzburg shook his head. “No. I cried. Screamed, really. I begged. I pissed my pants. I called my mother foul names. It was quite a show.”

  “Always the performer.”

  “A ham, I’m afraid.”

  “The clown in hell,” Langhof said contemptuously.

  “No, not that.”

  “What, then?”

  Ginzburg shrugged. “Who can answer such a question? But I’ll tell you this. I have learned to read a face perfectly. It comes from years of scanning audiences through all that cigar and cigarette smoke. I can tell the man who’s cheating on his wife. He’s always glancing over his shoulder. And I can spot all the virgins in the room. The girls always look happy; the boys always look miserable.”

  Langhof waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. He began to walk away.

  Ginzburg stepped up beside him. “I’ve noticed your face,” he said.

  “You’ve noticed nothing,” Langhof said irritably.

  “Oh, yes, I have. The moment I saw it was you with the pistol, I knew it would be all right.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  “I’m quite sure. I saw you the first day you came to the Camp. What was it, two years ago? Three? Anyway, I saw you.”

  “Where?”

  “You were in the dissecting room with Kessler and Ludtz. Kessler told us to bring a few stiffs over to the table. They were all piled up in the corner. Pregnant women. Anyway, I saw your face.” He paused a moment, looking at Langhof. “You were trying not to scream.”

  Langhof halted and turned toward Ginzburg. “Shut up!”

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” Ginzburg said quickly. “I’m not that much of a fool, no matter what my father used to think. Besides, I know a dangerous man when I see one.”

  “That’s your first mistake,” Langhof said. “I’m not the least bit dangerous.”

  “Really? When was the first time you injected chloroform directly into someone’s heart?”

  “That’s none of your affair,” Langhof said angrily.

  “No, it isn’t. That’s not my point. But you do remember the day, don’t you? You probably remember the exact time.”

  “Have you not performed work, such as it is, in the medical compound as well?” Langhof asked sarcastically.

  “We are hardly in the same position, Doctor,” Ginzburg replied. “Besides, I did not mean to taunt you.”

  “Go to your quarters,” Langhof said. “Go in front of me.

  Ginzburg did not move. “I haven’t killed anyone, there’s the difference.”

  “Congratulations,” Langhof said bitterly.

  “When the New Order triumphs, I’ll just be a nameless casualty. One of those insufferable weaklings who permitted himself to be destroyed without the slightest resistance. I’ll be held up as the perfect proof of why I should have been annihilated.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Langhof said, “because the New Order will not triumph.”

  Ginzburg smiled. “Yes, it will. Do you know why? Because it’s too much work to oppose it. It requires too much thinking.”

  “The New Order is doomed,” Langhof said. “The work is being done on the eastern front, and thinking has very little to do with it. You’ll be hearing the cannons in a matter of weeks.”

  “This time you may be right,” Ginzburg said lightly, “but history goes on.”

  “You seem awfully serene about it.”

  Ginzburg winked. “Serene? No. But free. Free because I’m crazy. Except I’m not really crazy. I’m a fraud.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a confession,” Langhof said.

  “That’s your religious tradition, not mine,” Ginzburg said. “But let me continue. Where was I? Oh yes, this business of my being a fraud. I’m a fraud because this joking, this humor, it’s all a pose. That’s why I know that the next time, or the next, they’ll win.” He laughed. “The prisoners think they know the world; the ones who think at all, I should say.”

  “But you’re the philosopher, I suppose,” Langhof said.

  “I look at the prisoners’ faces, and all I see are blank spaces,” Ginzburg said. He leaned forward. “Do you know how dangerous that is, Doctor?” he whispered. Then he chuckled.

  “But you see through everyone, is that it?”

  “I keep my eyes open. Not everyone does,” Ginzbnrg said with a laugh.

  “A smart fellow like you, a wise guy,” Langhof said mockingly, “it’s a wonder they got you here.”

  “The wheel of fate,” Ginzburg said with a shrug of the shoulders. “How about you, what’s your story?”

  “That’s not your business,” Langhof said.

  Ginzburg smiled. “Everyone will have to explain it someday,” he said.

  “But not tonight,” Langhof said coldly.

  “Perhaps when we hear the cannons, then.”

  “Get away from me,” Langhof said.

  Ginzburg remained in place. “I’ve seen your face, Doctor.”

  “Get to your quarters, now,” Langhof said loudly.

  Ginzburg smiled and tipped an imaginary hat. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a slight bow. “Gentlemen may deposit gratuities in my hand; ladies may use a little pouch behind my fly.”

  Langhof stood and watched Ginzburg trot toward the medical compound. At the steps, under the light, he did a quick soft shoe, kicking up a spray of powdery snow.

  DR. LUDTZ is lying on his back, sweating in the steamy cottage, but adamant in his refusal to open the shutters for ventilation.

  “Decent of you to call upon me,” he says as I enter.

  “Feeling better, I hope?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Ludtz replies. His breathing is labored, and his voice comes to me through a slight, gurgling wheeze. “The fever has not broken yet,” he says. “As a matter of fact, it is getting worse.”

  “Do you want an ice compress?”

  “I tried that. It gave me a chill. I can’t bear chills, Dr. Langhof.”

  Completely bald, his face flushed and puffy, Dr. Ludtz looks like an ancient baby.

  “But an ice compress might help, Doctor,” I tell him.

  Dr. Ludtz shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. Thank you, but I can’t bear chills.”

  In the heat of the Republic, he has lost his endurance for cold. He is now a creature of the tropics, one for whom the slightest breeze is frigid.

  “I suppose you’re making preparations for El Presidente?” he asks.

>   “Of course.”

  “I saw the tent. Very nice.”

  I nod. “Don Camillo commented on it. I told him it was your idea.”

  “And he seemed pleased?” Dr. Ludtz asks anxiously.

  “Very pleased. He commented upon the appropriateness of the gesture.”

  “Very good,” Dr. Ludtz says. “Very good of you to mention me to him.”

  “I’m sure El Presidente will be pleased, as well.”

  “He might think it vulgar, do you suppose?” Dr. Ludtz asks worriedly.

  “I’m sure not, Dr. Ludtz. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Have you been able to sleep?”

  “Only a little,” Dr. Ludtz says. “Snatches. No more than an hour at a time.”

  In the Camp, he sometimes slept well, sometimes fitfully, depending on the progress of his research. During the freezing experiments he slept well, but during the tetanus studies he was ill at ease.

  “I brought a bottle of brandy for you,” I tell him. I lift the bottle toward him. “It’s the last of our supply. I’ll have to order more soon.”

  “Then save it … please, Dr. Langhof … save it,” Dr. Ludtz stammers, the wheezing becoming suddenly more intense. “El Presidente … what if … he might want brandy?”

  “There’ll be other things for El Presidente. This is for us.” I take two small brandy snifters from a bag, place them on the table, and pour the brandy. As it pours from the mouth of the bottle it sounds like someone breathing through a wound in the throat.

  I hand Dr. Ludtz the glass and raise my own next to his, clinking them together lightly. “To your health, Dr. Ludtz. To a speedy recovery.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Ludtz says. With difficulty he brings the rim of the glass to his lips and drinks. A small brown stream runs down one side of his mouth and off his chin. “Look at this,” Dr. Ludtz says, embarrassed. “Spilled it … oh, ridiculous”

  I wipe his chin and shirt collar with my handkerchief. “Difficult to drink lying down,” I tell him.

  “Yes, yes … that’s it … difficult.”

  I take the glass and begin to pour another for him.

  “No, no … with great thanks … enough.”

  “The fever should break tonight, Doctor,” I tell him. “By morning the worst should be over.” In the Camp, I once helped Dr. Ludtz string a line of aspirin in the air. Those with a certain temperature were allowed to lick it once; those with a slightly higher fever were allowed to lick it twice; those with an even higher fever were sent to another ward and given phenol.