I Confess

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  The last two days had been filled with further examinations. I had been x-rayed, my spine had been tapped, I had been given various fluids to drink. Eulenglas and Vogt had been friendly and to the point. They hadn't wasted a word on the progress of the examination and I had asked no more questions. I had grown much calmer, the hospital atmosphere made me sleepy. Quite possibly I was being given tranquilizers in my food, a bromide, something of the sort. I had heard somewhere that this

  was frequently done. This would explain the indifference with which I watched things going on around me. My speech difficulties had stopped, my headache was bearable. Margaret came every day. I hadn't spoken to Yo-landa since her visit.

  I picked up another magazine. As I turned the pages I tried to drum up a little excitement within myself. After all, the next few minutes were to decide my future. I would find out if I was healthy or sick, whether I was going to live or die. Everything depended on the doctors' findings. My hands should have been clammy, my lips dry. But nothing of the sort. I sat quietly and faced the fact that, if anything, I was bored. It had to be something they were giving me in my food.

  The door with the sign on it opened and Eulenglas appeared. I rose. He apologized for the fact that they were late as he let me enter the Professor's office ahead of him. It was a large pleasant room that in no way betrayed the occupation of its owner. I shook hands with Vogt and we sat down. He offered me cigarettes, cognac. Then he moved nearer to me. "We are going to talk about the only thing that interests you—our findings."

  "Yes," I said and smiled. It was really pleasant in this room.

  Vogt looked me in the eye. "Mr. Chandler, we have examined you just as thoroughly as possible with the procedures we used. We. have evaluated all the results and are still unable to give you an exact diagnosis of your condition." Whereupon he stopped speaking and there was silence in the room.

  "What do you mean?" I said. "You can't teU me whether I have a tumor or not?"

  "We can't tell you with absolute certainty," said Eulenglas, shifting his thick glasses.

  "But wasn't that the purpose of all you put me through?" I asked with a short laugh. My laughter sounded strange, and I wondered about it. Vogt rubbed his

  hands together; in the twilight his round face looked like a white moon.

  "Mr. Chandler," his voice squeaked, "we are talking about the present status of the examination. We are not finished."

  "So why don't you go on?"

  "Because to proceed, we need your consent," said Eu-lenglas.

  This gave me a bit of a shock. For a few seconds I woke out of my lethargy. "Consent? What for?"

  "A pure formaUty," said Vogt in his feminine sing-song voice. "Still, we need it." He moved closer. Now I could smeU garhc again. "Up to now, Mr. Chandler, we can teU you positively that something in your brain is not in order. On the left frontal side of your head you have a growth."

  "Aha," I said.

  "Would you like another cognac?" asked Eulenglas.

  "No, why?"

  "I just thought "he said.

  "I have a tumor," I said.

  "Not a tumor," Vogt corrected me. "A growth."

  "Very well then. If you know all that, why don't you operate? What do you stiU have to know?"

  So that's how it went. This was how they broke the news to you. Not very effectively. "Would you Hke another cognac?" and that was that. A Hollywood writer should try to get away with anything like that! What a loused up scene!

  "You're way ahead of us, Mr. Chandler." Vogt poured himself another glass. "We don't operate quite that fast. There are many cases when we can save ourselves and the patient an operation."

  "When?"

  "When the growth is benign. Then we can eliminate it with x-ray treatment."

  "And you think my erowth may be benign?"

  "Of course, Mr. Chandler."

  "Certainly, Mr. Chandler."

  They spoke in unison and both of them were smiling. I had the feeling I must do something for them, they were taking so much trouble with me.

  "Now I would like another cognac," I said, and they hastened to grant my request.

  "Thanks," I said. Then I leaned back in my chair and laughed. "We haven't got very far, have we?" I said, "In this little routine of yours."

  "What do you mean, Mr. Chandler?"

  "To give the patient his death sentence in installments."

  "Mr. Chandler," Vogt said reproachfully, his voice breaking on a hish note.

  "All right, all rieht," I said. "On the whole you must admit I'm a tolerable patient. Just now, when vou told me I had a growth, I could have fainted, couldn't I?"

  They gave me credit for that.

  "Of course this is not going to be an easy time for me. When can I know for sure?"

  "Tomorrow evening ... if you will agree to a very minor operation."

  "How minor?"

  "It is called a ventriculogram," said Eulenglas.

  "Aha."

  "An examination," explained Vogt (he remembered that everything had to be explained to me) "which enables us to decide the outlines of the growth, its nature and its position. We inject a contrasting fluid into your brain, the fluid surrounds the growth on all sides and we have a sharply defined picture."

  "That sounds sensible."

  "It's a good method," said Eulenglas enthusiastically.

  "Just one question." I put down my glass.

  "Yes."

  "How does this contrasting fluid get into my brain?"

  "Through two small holes," said Vogt and coughed. He sounded embarrassed.

  "Through two small holes," repeated Eulenglas. Suddenly Vogt rose and turned on a standing lamp.

  "And where will these two little holes be?"

  He came over to me and touched the back of my head on both sides, about ten inches above the hairline.

  "And you need my permission?"

  "No," Vogt said, to my surprise.

  "But. .."

  "We don't need your permission for the ventriculography, Mr. Chandler. But if in the course of the ventriculography we find that the growth is not benien, but malignant, then we wouldn't want to put you through another period of waiting but would operate at once."

  "Without lett^'n5 me come to."

  "Yes, Mr. Chandler."

  I got up and walked over to the window. Now it was quite dark outside. I could see the street lij^hts through the trees in the park. A car passed. T turned around. ^ "Listen," I said. "Isn't all this talk about ventri. .."

  "Ventriculography."

  "Just a way of telling me that an operation is necessary? Don't you know already that I have a tumor and that it is malignant?"

  "No, we don't, Mr. Chandler," said Vogt, looking me in the eye. That was all he said, but I believed it: they really didn't know.

  I went back to the table and sat down. "What do I sign?"

  "You agree?"

  "Of course," I said. "How could I possibly go on living without certainty?"

  "Very sensible, Mr. Chandler." Eulenglas picked up a form from the desk. "It is the usual form that one signs before any operation, even if it's just an appendectomy. You declare that you agree to it."

  "Do you have a pen?"

  He handed me one.

  I signed.

  I didn't read what I was signing. I was afraid of finding the word death in the text.

  17

  "I'll pray for you," said Margaret.

  It was seven in the evening, and she was sitting beside my bed. The nurse had told her she would have to leave at seven-thirty; then I was going to be given something to sleep.

  "I'll pray for you and everythinj» will ^o well. It doesn't hurt. Professor Vogt promised—it doesn't hurt. And I'm sure they won't have to operate."

  "I don't think they will either."

  "The growth is benign. Professor Vogt told me it's incredible how many of these growths are harmless."

  "He told me the same thing.l'

  "And w
hen they're benign the x-ray treatment dissolves them."

  "Yes."

  "They've had wonderful results with x-ray treatments."

  "Yes, so I hear."

  "You know I've always had a sort of skth sense darling, haven't I?"

  "Yes."

  "And I have the feeling—^they won't operate."

  "That would be great."

  "Positively. Just wait and see. Two tiny holes—that's aU there'll be."

  "And a bald head"

  "Yes, of course. You'll have a bald head." She smiled. "I wonder what you'll look like."

  "I don't."

  "Will they shave your whole head?"

  "Yes."

  "Funny. Why?"

  "In case they do have to operate. Then the whole head has to be clean-shaven."

  Margaret nodded. She looked exhausted. Her lower hp twitched a Uttle. "How stupid of me not to think of that."

  "Margaret," I said, "my will is in the right hand drawer of my desk."

  "For God's sake don't talk about anything like that!"

  "But I must," I said. "It's the will I drew up when the war started. Everything goes to you."

  Suddenly she was crying. "Darling, please . . ."

  "Don't cry," I said. "After all, it is possible."

  She grasped my hand. "No, it is not possible. It's not possible even if they have to operate. Vogt is an expert and this operation is his baby. He's done hundreds of them. He's the best man in Germany."

  "Yes," I said.

  "I. . . I'm sure all is going to go well. I know it is. And I ... I hope, Roy, that afterwards you're not only going to be perfectly well again but .. . but that the two of us, you and I, can begin a new Hfe." Her face was lying beside mine on the pillow; she was still crying. "Don't you think so?"

  I didn't think so, but I said, "Yes, Margaret."

  "I was often unfair and hurt you. But all that's going to change when you get out of here. I promise you...."

  "Yes, Margaret." The pillow was wet.

  "Everything's going to be different . . . you too, Roy. We still love each other, don't we? I love you. I know that. And you still love me, don't you?"

  I nodded.

  "Say so, Roy, say you love me."

  "I love you, Margaret," I said.

  I didn't love her anymore.

  She lay heavy on my arm. "We'll get out of this city, Roy. We didn't have any luck here. We'll go home. At home everything will be all right again. Maybe we should never have come to Europe."

  "Maybe."

  "Europe was no good for us, Roy. It was a Dods--worth."

  "You may be right."

  "But things aren't going to end like that for us, are they?"

  "No."

  Things had ended for me quite some time ago. For her too, but she didn't want to admit it.

  "Kiss me," she said suddenly.

  I kissed her and smelled the so familiar scent of Pepso-dent, Chanel #5 and PalmoUve soap.

  "Thank you, Roy."

  "For what?"

  "For everything. All the years. Every day."

  "I thank you too."

  The nurse came in. "You'll have to leave now, Mrs. Chandler."

  "Yes."

  She got up and smoothed down her skirt. Her eyes were red from crying. She smiled heroically and stepped aside so that the nurse could give me my sleeping pill. Meanwhile she hastily restored her face.

  "So we're off." She kissed me again.

  "Auf wiedersehen," I said and gave her my hand

  "When you come to I'll be sitting right here."

  "Fine."

  "Sleep weU."

  "I shaU."

  "And don't forget my sixth sense."

  "I won't."

  "I won't call again."

  "That's right. I'U be asleep."

  "And ru pray for you."

  "Yes."

  "Bye, Roy," she whispered. There were tears in her eyes again as she hurried to the door. She turned around once more, smiling through her tears.

  "Goodnight, Margaret."

  She sobbed once and ran out of the room.

  The nurse opened the window and puffed up my cushions. "Tomorrow evening you'll have it all behind you," she said, smiUng gently.

  "Yes, nurse."

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No thank you."

  "Then have a good night, Mr. Chandlen"

  She left. I turned out the Ught and lay in the dark. The shadows of the leaves outside trembled across the white cover on my bed. A dog barked. Then all was still. I tried to think of the day that lay ahead. I felt very tired. Whatever the nurse had given me must have been strong. My bed was soft and warm, my eyehds were heavy. Should I call Yolanda? I thought about it. As the minutes passed it became less a question of the mind but increasingly a physical problem. I felt too tired to lift my arms. I was utterly exhausted. And nothing meant very much to me. I was almost asleep when the phone rang.

  I felt for and found the receiver. I held it to my ear and sank back in the pillows. It was Yolanda. "They didn't want to connect me with you." Her voice sounded low and very far away. "But I insisted."

  "Yes, Yolanda," I answered slowly.

  "Were you asleep?"

  "They've given me something."

  Silence.

  "You didn't caU."

  "I know."

  Silence again.

  "It doesn't matter," she said.

  "Yolanda?" All I could do at that point was pronounce

  each syllable separately. I was lying on the receiver. I wasn't capable of holding it any more.

  "Yes?"

  "They're going to operate. Tomorrow.'*

  "Yes."

  "I'm sorry I didn't caU."

  "It doesn't matter."

  A long silence.

  "Are you still there?"

  "Yes."

  "Good luck, Jimmy."

  "Thanks.""

  "I can't think of anything else to say.*'

  "I know."

  There was a rushing sound in the wire. Neither of us said anything. My eyes were burning, although they were closed.

  "Have you whiskey at home, Yolanda?"

  "Yes."

  "Have a drink."

  "Yes, Jimmy." After a while she asked, "Are you thinking of us?"

  "Yes." I really was.

  "Of last time?"

  "Of that too."

  "And will you call me... afterwards?"

  "Yes."

  Silence again. Then, "You won't mind if I hang up now?"

  "No," I said. "Goodnight. Don't forget the whiskey."

  "Andyou'Uthinkofus?"

  "Yes."

  Then she said, "If ... if things go wrong, Jimmy, I'm going to bow out. I've got Veronal. And I'm going to think of us too. Don't you think it's nice? Both of us thinking of it?"

  "Yes," I said. "Very nice."

  My day began at six.

  I got no breakfast, but the barber came. He did what he had to do quickly and efficiently. First he cut my hair, then he removed what was left with an electric cUpper. Finally he soaped my head and shaved it. He seemed to feel he had to do something to entertain me, so he talked about his children. He had three—^two boys and a girl. The boys were healthy, but the girl always had something wrong with her. It worried him. His name was Kafanke and he came from Berlin where he had been bombed out. In 1945 he had moved to Munich. Nice man. By 6:30 he .was all through.

  "Good luck, Mr. Chandler," he said politely when he left. My next visitor was Frau Dr. Renter.

  She looked marvelously, almost provocatively rested and groomed. She had a hypodermic with her and asked me to free my right leg. I did. She held the needle between two fingers, shook it a few times, then ran it into my flesh. "There," she said.

  "What was that?"

  "A sedative. You get another one in a while."

  "Why?"

  "So that you feel good, Mr. Chandler. You'll see. It's a wonderful pacifier."


  "I feel perfectly peaceful."

  "I can see that," she said and smiled. "Anything else I can do for you?"

  "I'd like to see myself in a mirror."

  "I'd advise against it," she said, laughing. 103

  "You have to grant the dehnquent his last wish," I said.

  "All right." She got a hand mirror out of my closet and held it up in front of me. I looked at myself. I looked terrible. The skin on my head was red, and a few pimples had been cut in the shaving. The bones of my skull stuck out.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "I warned you!" She laughed again, put the mirror back and left me. I grew sleepier and sleepier. All the sounds around me seemed to fade into the distance, and I was overwhelmed by a vast indilfference. I also lost all sense of time. It seemed as if only five minutes had passed when Frau Dr. Renter came in again. But half an hour had gone by.

  After the second injection I sank into a twiUght sleep. Dr. Renter came and went several times. I saw her through half-closed Uds. I could hear what she had to say when she spoke to me and J did whatever she told me to do and forgot what she had said as soon as it was done. There were stiU several things on my mind, but somehow I never got around to mentioning them.

  "Frau Doktor," I heard myself saying, "there is something I'd like you to do for me. It concerns my company. They should. ..." But every time, at approximately this point, I lost my voice, my powers of concentration fled, my thoughts wandered free and light. I had forgotten what I was about to say. No, I still knew it. Then again I didn't. And anyway it probably wasn't very important. Nothing was very important.

  A gigantic man in a white coat rolled a stretcher into the room. He walked up to me, lifted me out of bed like a child, and laid me on the stretcher. He covered me and pushed me out into the hall. I was unbeUevably far away from all things yet my senses were still registering everything—voices and faces, doors, windows, the service elevator. And then we reached the operating room on the top floor. Here the giant left me. In the next room people

  were talking. The injection was now working full force. I heard voices but couldn't understand the words. I no longer knew what they meant. Time seemed to stretch out endlessly, minutes became hours. Why did nothing happen? Why didn't they come to get me? And then they did^—^the giant and a nurse. They rolled me into the operating room. Its large windows were shaded, strong lamps were burning. Under a shining silver sphere stood the operating table. They lifted me from my 'stretcher and laid me on it. Strange faces bent over me. Were they strange faces? Suddenly I thought I recognized Professor Vogt, swimming in the milky light of the shining sphere. "How do you feel?" asked the face that reminded me of him.