by Therese Down
But in spite of his strong reservations when it came to being involved with anything to do with the SS, there were several things in the course of Frau and Herr Erlach’s appeal for help that caught his attention. Greta had been a law student at the university and, it seemed, her husband was also a Leipzig alumnus who had gone on to study medicine at Berlin. This disposed him to sympathy, and then stirred a memory.
“Is this young Muller, your daughter’s husband, any relation to Dr Muller, who has an office in Luxembourg Strasse?” he had asked of Hans Erlach at their first meeting.
“Well, actually,” Hans had answered, “yes. He is his son. The reason we have come to you, Professor Schmidt, is that Karl’s father, Dr Erich Muller, said you were a good man and that he knew you and your family. We hope this is not inappropriate – some conflict of interest or something?”
“On the contrary, Herr Erlach,” Professor Schmidt had responded, smiling warmly. “It is very much to your advantage. I shall see your daughter. Bring her as soon as you can.”
On discovering that Greta Muller was no less than the daughter-in-law of his family’s trusted GP, Professor Schmidt had consented to see her. And Schmidt was familiar with Dr Kaufman, and knew his treatment methods precisely accorded with Reich requirements. It was therefore a bonus that his obviously bright and delightful new patient was being delivered from Kaufman’s clutches.
When Greta burst into his office on this last Saturday morning in March, her complexion ruddy from the wind and excitement, Professor Schmidt was delighted by her vivacity and evident good health.
“Professor Schmidt!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much for seeing us. Please, you must help us. This is Karl.” She stopped long enough to look from the doctor to her husband, and the men nodded a greeting to each other. “Karl, my husband, has such stories of terrible things being done, Professor – of Reich officers condemning sick children to death!” She paused, looked intently into the old man’s eyes, watched them narrow in an attempt to process the information and guess its import to immediate circumstances. “He works for an organization in Berlin called T4. They actually dedicate themselves to the systematic – and wholly criminal, I may add – destruction of anyone – children, psychiatric patients – anyone who is considered ‘genus unworthy of life’. They actually call these people ‘unworthies”. Can you believe it?”
Professor Schmidt turned his attention to the young man in civilian clothes who bore a striking resemblance to his father.
“Professor Schmidt, sir,” began Karl, “in the next few days – perhaps today, I don’t know, but very soon – someone will come to the door of Greta’s house and try to take her back to the asylum. Just after Christmas, I removed her from there. The doctor – a Dr Kaufman – was most unhappy. He complained formally to the Reich Office that I had not observed procedure and I had no right to remove Greta from his care. Now, a very senior SS officer has authorized Kaufman to take Greta back into the asylum. I have been directly informed of this decision. Please, sir, help me to save my wife from this injustice.”
Finally, the professor could speak. “Why have they done this without consulting you, or me, or anybody? What they are proposing is highly irregular.” He had been sitting at his desk and now he rose from his leather chair and came towards them. He was bespectacled with a neatly trimmed grey beard, and what remained of his hair was also cut very short. He sat on the edge of his desk and removed his glasses, folded them and lay them on the desk. He motioned to Greta and Karl to take seats.
“I am afraid I upset this particular senior officer, sir,” explained Karl, “and this is an act of revenge.” Greta looked at her husband, extended a hand across the gap between his chair and hers. He took it, looked into her eyes, saw only love. Karl explained briefly how Walter Gunther had condemned to death his own daughter and how Karl had breached Reich security in order to save the child.
“But this is barbaric!” exclaimed Professor Schmidt. Then he added, “Though such things are no longer surprising to me.” He sighed, folding his arms. “Let us focus on procedure, for that is what we must rely on. Sentiment and emotional protestation will get us nowhere, as you, I am sure, Herr – Officer – Muller, are all too aware.” He looked into Karl’s troubled eyes, held his gaze a moment. “Now, I have Greta’s notes.”
“You do?” Karl was instantly cheered. “I was so worried that Kaufman would refuse to give them to you. What a relief!”
“Indeed. Well, the good Dr Kaufman was most reluctant to part with them. I had to go to the asylum personally and demand them. He would not give them to my secretary and nor would he post them. Nevertheless, they are in my possession now.” He paused and looked at Greta. “I have to say that I refute his diagnosis.”
“Which was?” enquired Greta.
“Which was,” continued Professor Schmidt, “that you, Greta, were suffering from an acute depressive disorder of a genetic origin. The symptoms, I concur, were present: difficulty sleeping, feelings of hopelessness, loss of appetite, despondency and so on. You would agree, Greta, these were symptoms from which you suffered pretty consistently for a period of roughly two years up to your admission to hospital?” Greta nodded.
Professor Schmidt put on his glasses once more and, turning, reached behind him for a file on his desk, and scanned Greta’s notes. “He says your primary depressive episode was extensive, lasting over a year, starting around the end of 1935 – when you lost your job?” She nodded again. “And, it is fair to say, at the time when you were admitted to the asylum, you had had a recurring depressive episode of roughly two years’ duration, culminating, upon admission, in a serious suicide attempt.” He looked at her again, she nodded her assent. “This led Kaufman to revise your diagnosis to manic depressive insanity with destructive tendencies – severe melancholic depression or ‘mood disorder’. In such a case, the illness deteriorates, and persistent thoughts of self-destruction contribute to the patient’s general hopelessness. The sleeplessness increases, which affects the ability to make rational decisions and so forth. In short, the patient becomes irresponsible for his or her own well-being.”
Professor Schmidt paused once more, smiled at Greta, then looked at Karl before continuing. “These diagnoses are textbook, and they are the logical outcome of what I call an ‘observational’ psychiatric approach – one which does not involve psychotherapy of any kind. But –” and here Professor Schmidt became animated – “I fundamentally disagree with Kaufman about the root cause of these episodes and therefore their diagnosis and treatment. Kaufman has recorded that your depression, Greta, was endogenous – that is, organic, genetic, an illness originating within the body. I, however, believe –” here he looked at Greta over his glasses – “that your depression was, on the contrary, initially reactive, due mainly to being prevented from pursuing the career you loved – from being able to think and reason with specific purpose.” He looked back at Karl. “Greta was suddenly, and for no good reason, disallowed from practising law, and more than this, she was recategorized as a human being. This, for a fiercely intelligent lawyer who had been a straight honours student graduating top in her class, was intolerable – as Greta has since made clear.”
Here, Professor Schmidt paused again. Greta was crying quietly, tears rolling down her cheeks, and Karl raised her hand, kissed it. Professor Schmidt went on gently, addressing himself once more to Greta. “Kaufman has made no reference to your qualifications, Greta, or to the trauma you endured when you were dismissed from your position in Berlin. But that is not surprising, given that you, my dear, were a victim of the Reich he so closely supports.”
Karl nodded, asking quietly, his voice evidently affected by emotion, “And how did he treat her, Professor? When I picked up Greta from that place, she was barely conscious.”
Schmidt sighed, turned a few pages in the file, read for a moment before responding. “He was administering increasingly high doses of an opioid-based drug believed to relieve the symptoms of endo
genous depression, mainly anxiety, and of course it sedates.”
“But what is the point of that?” asked Karl. “Surely it is not a cure?”
“No. There is no medicinal cure for depression, Herr Muller. Drugs may relieve symptoms in many cases and allow a psychiatrist to communicate with a patient about possible causes of the illness. Opioids have been known to significantly reduce the risk of suicide, so allowing continuity of therapy and treatment, and increasing the chances of eventual recovery, but drugs do not cure depression.”
“But is there any evidence that Kaufman tried to communicate with Greta?” Karl asked incredulously.
“Karl, darling, I can speak for myself,” interjected Greta, smiling at him. “Kaufman never tried to speak with me. That I remember. We patients hardly saw him.”
“Indeed,” concurred Professor Schmidt. “There are no notes which indicate he attempted to engage you in any therapeutic sessions or introduce psychotherapy to his treatment regime. His next approach would have been ECT. You were due to receive that in the second week of January.”
“ECT? Greta!” exclaimed Karl. “What might he have done to you?”
“Almost certainly a great deal of damage,” interjected Schmidt, “but Kaufman relies upon it as a sort of ‘kill or cure’ therapy. He has written many papers on the clinical application of ECT in the treatment of depression. Sometimes, again, it has to be said that ECT works when all else fails, with some patients, with some kinds of depression. But Greta’s depression he had misdiagnosed.”
“Are you saying he experiments on his patients?” Karl asked.
“I would not make such an unsubstantiated statement, but… his trials demand large numbers of patients… and he does not seem to discriminate as carefully as I would like between depressive types when it comes to application of ECT. You understand? And I risk much in expressing it. Fewer questions are asked these days, as you know, about the ethics and the outcomes of such treatments.”
Professor Schmidt looked from Karl to Greta, smiled, closed the file and removed his glasses once more before adding, “You saved your wife from vicious and unnecessary treatment, Herr Muller, which would almost certainly have destroyed her. I don’t think that is too emotive a prognosis. Greta needed nothing more than intellectual stimulation, renewed purpose and someone to believe in her again. Her present health is testament to that. You enabled this to happen.”
“Sir,” protested Karl, close to tears, “you have done this. And I will never be able to thank you enough.”
“I am starting to feel invisible again!” enjoined Greta, but she was laughing and crying in profoundest gratitude to both of them.
“And so,” continued Karl after a few moments, “how do we keep Greta out of that place?”
“Simple,” concluded Professor Schmidt, looking directly at Greta. “I get my report on your progress to Kaufman, personally, by first thing tomorrow morning. I shall outline the psychotherapeutic and cognitively supportive regime I have implemented in your care – without going into great detail, naturally. For example, I shall mention only that I have encouraged you to begin reading and studying again; that your intelligence is prodigious and requires stimulation. I shall not speak about your legal career. I shall pronounce you cured. I shall say that I am reporting to him directly because it is a professional courtesy, and I shall thank him for his cooperation and tell him some of his work is very interesting, etcetera, etcetera, but I shall not hand back your file.”
“Why not?” asked Greta. “Out of interest.”
“Because, my dear girl, one day you are going to practise law again and such a file would be prohibitive to that most therapeutic of courses.”
“But what if they come to the door? What if they turn up with SS authorization to take her away?”
“Then someone, Herr Muller, must call me immediately, day or night, and I shall be at that asylum within fifteen minutes, and I shall take great pleasure in watching Greta demonstrating her mental health in the most convincing manner she can muster.” He smiled widely at Greta. “And if that most impressive show of reasonableness does not impress him, then I shall challenge him to produce any diagnostic test he can manufacture to assess my patient before my very eyes. And if all else fails –” Professor Schmidt paused again, and this time looked very serious indeed – “I shall play merry hell until Kaufman begs us – Greta included – to leave!”
Greta suddenly leapt from her chair and kissed the professor on the cheek. He blushed, nodded, made a vague expansive gesture with his hands and smiled widely. “Now tell me, my boy,” he began once more after a few moments, “what is all this stuff Greta was saying – about ‘unworthies’? Some organization called ‘T4’?”
And so Karl once more unburdened his soul, while his wife and her doctor listened in profoundest silence to a story far more horrible and less credible than fiction ever contrived.
When Walter finally sobered up enough to think of driving home to Oranienburg, he changed his mind. If he went home, the evening would be spent rowing with Hedda and why should he ruin what was left of his weekend? So, he put on a clean uniform and went out on the town. What he needed to cheer himself up was at least one beautiful woman and some beer. No wines or spirits tonight – just good, honest German beer. Tomorrow would be time enough to deal with his wife.
And in Leipzig, having secured Professor Schmidt’s promise of assistance in delivering Greta from the asylum, Karl and his wife were free to enjoy what might well be the last Saturday evening they would ever spend together.
When he walked into the house on Sunday evening, Walter was struck by how quiet it was. It was not until he had crossed the hallway, entered his office and sifted through the post that had been left on his desk that he became aware of occasional childish laughter and the soft drone of Hedda’s voice as she spoke to Anselm upstairs. They were in the bathroom, Hedda getting Anselm ready for bed. Walter was nervous and he resented it. He took a whisky bottle from his desk drawer and swigged from it; loosened his collar. Well, there was only one way to deal with this and that was head on.
He crossed his office, and once in the hall made for the stairs. Both Anselm and Hedda were startled by Walter’s sudden appearance at the bathroom door, for they had not heard him come back. Hedda had been hoping that he would not come back at all that week but go to work from his Berlin apartment. She therefore had no time to prepare her reaction. She had brooded and agonized and fumed about Walter’s willingness to sacrifice her daughter’s life to an inhuman Reich, but she had been unable to imagine how the situation would resolve itself. Clearly, the marriage was over. It had been over in all but name for a long time, but Walter’s betrayal of Agnette annulled it summarily as far as Hedda was concerned. The problem was, how did she escape with two small children, one immobile, when she had no independent income? She had to be careful. Somehow, Hedda had to get Walter to agree to divorce and a financial settlement. If he assisted her removal from his house and his life, everything would be much easier. He might even be keen to grant her freedom easily and generously in exchange for her agreeing to “forget” what he had done to Agnette.
But when she saw him leaning against the bathroom door, she was unable to disguise her revulsion. Walter also perceived the sudden fear in Anselm’s face; how the smile died in his eyes as he turned from the basin where he had been brushing his teeth and saw his father.
Walter sneered. “I need to talk to you, Hedda. Right now, if you please.”
“Wouldn’t you like to say hello to your daughter first?” Hedda could not prevent the response, or the loaded sarcasm in her tone, as she took Anselm’s hand, ready to lead him to his room.
“Agnette is home, Vati,” said Anselm quietly, looking from his father to his mother.
Hedda smiled, tugged his hand reassuringly. “Come, Anselm, let’s get you into bed.”
“When you have done that,” said Walter tersely, “come downstairs, please.” And he pushed himself away from
the door-frame, headed for the stairs, passing Agnette’s room without pausing.
Some ten minutes later, Hedda joined him in the drawing room. Marguerite had just finished laying a fire in case the evening proved chilly, and now she smiled nervously at Walter and Hedda, leaving the room with exaggerated care as though reluctant to disturb some hallowed silence. When she had carefully drawn the door to, Walter started to speak. Hedda, perched on the arm of the chintz roll-back sofa, watched him intently, her loathing and anger two serpents circling her heart.
“I know you are aware of the situation with Agnette,” he stated, standing square before her, his hands behind his back. “It is all very unfortunate and I shall make no excuses. I did my duty.” Hedda could not help the horrified, inarticulate exclamation that escaped her. Walter held up one of his hands, the other still behind his back, as though stopping traffic. “I do not care for your opinion!” he almost shouted, then lowered his voice again. “What’s done is done. Neither,” he added, looking at her directly and fixing her with a warning glare, “do I intend to explain or excuse myself to you.”
“You said that,” retorted Hedda, venomous loathing darkening her eyes.
“But,” he continued, “what I am most interested in is your informant.”
Hedda rose to her feet and took a couple of steps towards him. “I do not intend to explain myself to you either, Walter. You should be more concerned at what you are capable of – murdering your own daughter.” Her voice rose and her chest heaved suddenly as the words struck. “How could you do such an abominable, disgusting thing?” Her breathing was laboured and her face contorted with hatred. Instinctively, Hedda knew this would not work. This would end only in her being abused by a man she now knew was capable of murdering children, his own included. She had to withdraw. She could not protect her children if she was incapacitated or dead. She stepped back and tried to regulate her breathing. The physical retreat seemed to temper Walter’s response, for though his fists clenched, he remained where he was.
