Playthings

by Alex Pheby

  The other children gathered around now and they pointed at the grass stain and smirked at each other. Gustav took two steps forward and pushed Alexander in the chest.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  Alexander was as tall as Gustav. Thin black down covered his top lip, but the twist in his spine meant that Gustav stood taller, and he was lean and strong where this boy was underfed. Alexander glanced over his shoulder, toward his friends, and they stepped forward, so that he smiled and stepped forward himself. He looked Gustav in the eye and beckoned to him. Gustav clenched his fists and stepped up, and then Alexander, the coward, stamped his boot down Gustav’s shin, dragging the skin down in a curl, like chilled butter scraped off the block, down to where Gustav’s sock gathered above his ankle. Gustav couldn’t help but kneel down, because it burned terribly.

  Alexander sniffed and smiled and turned back to look at his associates.

  ‘You little brute!’ Anna said, and she rushed him, paddling with open hands at his face and chest.

  Alexander giggled as he pushed her away.

  The wound on Gustav’s shin, clear at first, was now prickling with spots of blood. Gustav knelt and put his fingers either side of the wound, and he turned to Paul. He didn’t have to say a thing.

  Paul went forward. Those spots of blood. The curl of flesh that touched his brother’s sock—white flesh that no longer felt anything and over which blood had started to run. Dead skin rubbing against the small, grey sock fibres onto which blood dripped, hanging in perfect little spheres. His father’s hand passing through the air. The landing of a blow. The direction of his wrists. He grit his teeth. That ugly child! That filthy twisted cripple that had dared hurt his brother—his father—both of them. Stronger than anything. Clear in their hearts. His father’s hand. Gustav’s hand. Coming down to strike him. To shame him. That dirty little bastard! This hideous creature—like a gnome or a troll—who dared to assault his brother. Coward! Not even in a manly way, but like a coward, like a girl. With the feet! A man uses his hands.

  Paul grabbed for Alexander, who was smiling and looking back for approval. Paul was smaller, younger, and though he was righteous in his anger he had no understanding of how to fight. He grabbed out, finding the boy’s balls with one hand, through his loose shorts, and his ear with the other. He crushed and pulled with all his might, gritting his teeth until they cracked, shutting his eyes, his face still stinging from Gustav’s slap. Alexander dropped to his knees but Paul did not let go. He pulled and he crushed and screamed in the child’s face like a demon or a dervish. The boy shrieked, but Paul shrieked louder, and it was only when Gustav pulled him away that he stopped shrieking.

  Alexander slumped over onto his bent side and his chest heaved. He was sick onto the grass, his friends frozen behind him, open-mouthed.

  ‘You dirty ball-crusher!’ one of them cried.

  Gustav grabbed Paul’s arm again, but now his face was open and he was smiling. Anna took his other hand and squeezed it gently, and though Paul’s breath would not slow, and he felt something in his throat, they were happy with him, and he found himself happy too.

  The three of them walked toward Sidonie, who was already halfway up the garden, talking to herself as she always did, and the boy didn’t move. His friends—Sylvie and Klaus and Johan—kneeled around him and asked him questions to which he could not reply.

  Gustav slapped Paul on the back, between his shoulder blades, quieting the tingling that turning his back on the cripple had started up.

  ‘Come on, ball-crusher!’

  Paul felt in himself pride, suddenly, that he had been the instrument of this boy’s punishment, and, in that feeling, the shame that Gustav’s slap had brought on him disappeared, and he knew that he had reason to be proud, that his father would be proud of him, for his strength and bravery, like a knight from a story, the monster righteously defeated, and when he looked at his hands he knew them to be strong.

  Schreber picked up the pen from where it had fallen at his feet. The breakfast tray was gone. His slippers were no longer on his feet, and instead he had on his all-weather boots, laced high above the ankle. They were wet, as were the hems of his trousers. He sat up. On the table there was a cup, half-filled with tea. Steam rose up from it, gently. A piece of buttered bread was on a plate beside it, untouched.

  Dearest Fridoline, he began again, but now he wrote directly onto the tabletop.

  Where was the paper?

  Where was the letter?

  Schreber moved all the things about on the table.

  Nothing. Only the buttered bread and a half-finished cup of tea that he did not remember starting.

  Schreber takes his meal in the communal dining area. The mysterious Jewish gentleman, Alexander, warns Schreber of a change for the worse in his circumstances. Schreber rails against Alexander and the other inmates of the asylum. Müller takes him away.

  XVIII

  That evening, Müller informed Schreber that he would be taking his meal in the communal dining room and, despite his protestations that a man of his standing should not have to eat with the ordinary inmates, Schreber eventually allowed himself to be taken and given a seat by the door.

  At his table were men from other buildings in the asylum complex. He recognised none of them, but bowed to each. Not one returned his kindness, engaged as they were in thumping the handles of their knives down against the table and sweeping their elbows randomly into wine glasses and salt cellars. Schreber took great pains to sit upright in front of his plate, and arranged his cutlery neatly before the meal was served to him. He never slumped in his chair, or allowed his elbows to come near to touching the table.

  When eventually the soup was splashed into his bowl, he used the appropriate spoon to transfer it past his moustaches—its lack of seasoning and sour flavour unremarked—while the men around him spat on the ground and wailed in disgust, or thrashed their heads from side to side while their orderlies forced the spoons into their mouths, almost empty of any of the food they were supposed to be delivering, the largest part finding its way onto the fronts of their shirts, and into the creases of their necks. Everywhere there was a great shouting and fuss, while Schreber made not one breach of etiquette: not so much as a single impatient glance toward the kitchen when his soup was done and, his appetite unusually piqued, he considered taking something more substantial. He sat and waited like a good boy, no need for the strut to be attached to the rim of the table, the iron bar that arrested the progress of the chest forward and kept the spine aligned properly to the requirements of natural science. His hands were crossed on his lap and he looked at the man across the table from him.

  Of course, it was the Jew.

  The man was staring hard at him.

  Something came from the far end of the table—was thrown spiralling across—a glass, the water spraying out and wetting the cloth, sent by a man who could not control the movements of his limbs.

  ‘Strange,’ said Alexander, ‘that men like him are allowed their own rooms? Don’t you think?’

  Schreber took a piece of bread from the basket.

  ‘It is no concern of mine.’

  Alexander smiled and nodded and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You seem well, Judge.’

  ‘Herr Doktor Präsident Schreber, please.’

  ‘Very well. I came by your room but you were not there. Müller told me I would find you here.’

  ‘And here you find me.’

  Alexander nodded, and across a sea of elbows and shouting, meat and potatoes were served to them. Schreber picked up his knife and fork, but the Jew began to speak, so he returned them to the table. The Jew did not, and, without cutting off the fat, placed a wedge of beef into his mouth and spoke around it.

  ‘He was very busy, your orderly,’—with each word a little stream of gravy progressed further down the Jew’s chin until gravity
carried it down, back onto his plate with a little splash. The Jew smiled and, with his silk handkerchief, wiped his face. Then he took his cigarette from the edge of the table where he had laid it, and pushed his plate away.

  ‘Enough for me, I think.’

  Schreber took up his knife and fork and carefully removed a piece of gristle from the edge of his meat. It was tough, and his knife—as with all the knives—was blunt. He managed to pull the white mass from the darker meat, but some ligament remained. The moment he loosened the tension between meat and gristle, the ligament brought them back together. He turned the meat around and tried again.

  ‘He was packing things in crates. Müller.’

  Schreber shook his head and returned to his plate. The man next to him—he was a Slav—lurched suddenly over into Schreber, sending his fork skittering across the tabletop. Schreber sniffed and got up from the table.

  ‘I think I’ll return to my rooms. I’m not terribly hungry.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Alexander said, ‘except…’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Please.’ Alexander indicated for Schreber to sit back down. ‘I saw your clothes being taken from your room as I came to dinner.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘And your desk.’

  ‘Why would anyone remove my desk?’

  ‘To give it to a man who needs it?’

  ‘Ridiculous! I need it. I must write letters.’

  Schreber walked away from the table.

  ‘I think you might prefer it if you stayed here. While you can.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘No. I see that. Please, do sit down! They will bring us winter bread.’

  Schreber sighed and sat down. Alexander leaned over the table, first clearing a space in the debris.

  ‘I have been here for a number of years, Herr Doktor Präsident Schreber, as you know. I am familiar with the signs and with the routines of this place. A man’s effects are never moved from his room without reason. It is a waste of energy.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I heard you screaming today. I stood by your door, and I heard you screaming.’

  ‘Nonsense! And I don’t see what business it is of yours whether I scream or I do not scream.’

  ‘It is no business of mine whatsoever, except that, as a friend, I feel I must offer you a word of warning. It is my opinion, from what I know of this place, that you are to be taken below…’ Alexander put his used cigarette out in the gravy on his plate and lit a fresh one. ‘And this is not a good place to be taken. They say it is the home of the lost. Men rarely return. If you wish, when you are below, I can arrange for your family to know. Perhaps they will come to find you. You have a wife… I know.’

  ‘Sabine will come for me shortly in any case. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Should I write to your daughter, then?’

  ‘I wrote to her only yesterday.’

  Alexander raised his eyebrow.

  ‘That is not my understanding. A young girl came here before last Christmas. A dark-haired and serious child. No letter was sent to her.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  Alexander smiled.

  ‘I make it my business to know everything. What else is a man to do in here? It is not a difficult task, to call on the mail room occasionally. If I have a telegram to send, for example. I can certainly make it appear that I have such a need, if I wish. It is not difficult.’

  Schreber got up again and this time was determined to leave the table, but the Jew reached across and grabbed him by the elbow.

  ‘Do not be so keen to leave this table. It will be your last meal as a free man. Now, show some sense and sit down. You still have some vestige of your rationality, that much is obvious to me, even if Rössler doesn’t see it. Use it.’

  Alexander let go of him and Schreber did not leave.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  A small weasel of a man, Giron—a Westphalian—lifted the table at the far end, sending a cascade of half-eaten food and cutlery down toward where Schreber and the Jew were sitting. The Jew had the presence of mind to stand up before the wave reached him, but Schreber was too slow. Potatoes and the cruet set rolled past and the gravy boat came to rest upside down on the table immediately in front of him, splashing his trousers. The Jew took Schreber by the arm and dragged him up, first gently, and then, when there was no answering response, as roughly as he needed to. He took him into the hallway.

  ‘Do you see?’

  There was Müller, wiping sweat from the back of his neck with a grubby white handkerchief, a bundle of clothes tied with string at his feet and Schreber’s books and clock piled beside them.

  ‘Do you see? I wasn’t lying was I?’

  ‘You are nothing. A plaything.’

  Schreber walked back to the dining hall. He pushed past men who were little better than dogs, scrabbling around on the ground with their orderlies tugging on their leashes. He pushed one of them from his chair and the fool barely noticed, curling up into a ball, still chewing. Schreber got onto the chair and bellowed out:

  ‘You are all nothing! Dirt! Look at you! You are disgusting! You are like animals! I do not belong here!’

  One of the orderlies came over and tried to take him down from the chair.

  ‘You are no better! Take your hands off me!’

  Schreber aimed a kick at the man’s head.

  ‘I demand to be taken home! I do not belong here! I cannot live among these cursed play-with-human-beings! I am a respectable man. I am a judge! I could have the lot of you put away! I could have you executed!’

  Alexander was in the doorway and Schreber turned on him.

  ‘This Jew, he follows me everywhere! He knows everything. Get off me! It is him you should be grabbing. He must be punished. Call for the police!’

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Müller! Take me back to my room. I intend to leave tonight. And tell this Jew to keep away from me.’

  ‘What Jew?’

  ‘Him!’

  Schreber pointed directly at Alexander, who nodded and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Who?’

  Schreber jumped down and grabbed the Jew by the collar, and dragged him forward.

  ‘This man! Are you blind? Keep him away from me!’

  Müller looked at the other orderlies.

  ‘When did all this start?’

  One of them shrugged, the others looked away.

  ‘Right. Come with me, Judge; let’s see if we can’t get you settled into your new place.’

  Müller put one arm around Schreber and lifted him over his shoulder. Schreber kicked and struggled but the orderly was too strong for him.

  ‘I am not a prisoner!’

  ‘Stop wriggling!’

  ‘I cannot be kept against my will!’

  ‘That’s right…’ Müller said.

  As he was taken out, Alexander walked behind him.

  ‘It’s not finished yet. Don’t despair!’

  ‘Get away from me! Call for the police! If I wish to leave I must be allowed to do so!’

  ‘That’s right…’ Müller said.

  ‘Sabine! I want Sabine!’

  ‘That’s right…’

  ‘Find her! Get away from me! I don’t want to go!’

  ‘That’s right…’

  Schreber is introduced to his cell. Despite his efforts, he is not able to secure his return to the world above ground. Müller’s attitude is less respectful here than it was above.

  XIX

  The cell had a single barred window like a letter slot. It was set high in the wall of the cell, low to the ground outside. The wall was thick and there was no view, except an oblique slice of a small yard where black-skinned coalmen delivered, and
where their horses pissed onto the ground. At the correct angle Schreber could see as much as he liked of the side of a drayman’s boot, or of the evacuations of that same man’s horse, but nothing of the sky or of the sun.

  No trees.

  He turned away from the window.

  The room itself scarcely deserved the name. A room, at the least, exists to encapsulate bare space so that it might be accorded a function. At the least, it offers a man something that its absence could not offer him. That it shelters is one condition, but it is not sufficient—a tree might give shelter, a cave, a box, any enclosed object of sufficient size, all these things might give shelter. A room must also do something else. A bathroom contains a bath, a bedroom a bed, a kitchen an oven, and the rooms so furnished are given a purpose: a bathroom becomes a room that allows a man to wash, a bedroom to sleep, a kitchen to cook. This room was nothing like that. It did not even provide shelter. Not adequately. It was cold and damp and the wind rattled the pane of glass in its frame. It was utterly empty of objects, except as much as dead insects—a spider and a fly—might be classed as objects. There was no bed, no bath, no oven. It was only once a man was in the room that it took on a function: it became a cell, a place that enclosed the space between its walls and within which a man was contained. Should he be taken out of it, that place would cease to be a room and become what it was—walls, a floor, and a ceiling.

  Schreber ran his hand over the brick onto which no plaster had been placed and from which the paint curled and blistered. He scratched with his shoe on the floor, which was not wood, but seemed to have been shaped from the clay on which the asylum rested. It was neither properly hard nor even. There was a smell of mould, or mildew—strong and peaty—as if he was buried already in soil. He took two steps back and only stopped when he met Müller’s chest with his back. Schreber turned and poked at the orderly. ‘I cannot be left here. It is not sanitary.’

  Müller snorted and took the finger in his fist. He didn’t squeeze it, or twist it, but when he spoke it was as if he might.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’