by Miller, Tony
“Pardon me, my name is Samuel Novak. Is Dr. Freud at home?”
Sam noticed her look up and appraise the black man standing before her. It seemed she decided that his being well dressed and with a calm bearing marked him as necessary to comply with.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Novak. My name is Elsie. No, I’m afraid he’s in London at the moment.”
“How about his colleague, Mr. Ludwig Diefendorf?”
“Colleague?” She threw back her head and laughed. Sam smiled.
“Oh, he’s used that one before.” She slowly shook her head back and forth and continued, “Ludwig was Sigmund’s house boy even though he often referred to himself as a butler, but all he did was run errands and help organize some of the doctor’s things. Are you a friend of his?”
“No, I am an investigator of sorts, just trying to get some background.”
The maid’s eyes lit up. “I knew he would be caught sooner or later.”
“So he isn’t a psychiatrist, colleague, or researcher then?” asked Sam.
“Oh, good heavens no! Ludwig’s talent was in manipulating people. He hung on Sigmund’s every word and continually told him how much of a genius he was. The doctor needed to hear such things, as he has had only mixed success trying to convince anyone of the psychoanalyzing thing, and is now convinced that cocaine is the answer to mental illness.”
“Cocaine?” asked Sam.
“Oh yes, and Ludwig would attend Freud’s meetings with his cohorts and stand back as a butler would, and memorize the words and ideas. I saw him many times going through the doctor’s papers, and at first I thought he had aspirations to become a psychiatrist.”
“What did he have aspirations for?” Sam asked.
“Ah, that boy, he had much, much bigger aspirations!” the maid answered.
“Oh, what were they?”
The maid looked up and down the street as though checking for witnesses to either her unscheduled break or to her gossiping, Sam couldn’t tell which.
Satisfied that she was safe, she continued. “Ludwig became quite proficient at mimicking the big words and theories bantered about by Dr. Freud and his colleagues. He was intrigued by the human weaknesses and fears the patients discussed. He would pretend to be a psychiatrist to the various butchers and grocery clerks when he accompanied me to do the doctor’s shopping. He swore me to go along with his charade on the pretext of research for Freud. I must admit I held a grudging respect for his acting ability. His aloof manner and certainty when speaking seemed to imitate the psychiatrist’s.” The maid paused in thought. “Lord, hmmm.”
“What did you think of?” Sam asked.
“Well, I assume that these words and labels psychiatrists put on people accomplish little good. It seems the patient is there as a prop to fit the theory. It looks to me that there is more acting than any proof of anything, but some people just need a word to explain their misery. They’ll pay for that word is my thought,” said Elsie.
“Interesting,” responded Sam.
“Well, I say some people, but most of the neighbors around here make quite a sport of the oddballs that go in and out of here, and not just the patients.” She winked.
“What about the new wonder drug being touted by Freud, cocaine?” Sam asked.
“Oh yes, that. The Chinaman, Mr. Ling, who works in the kitchen, calls it num num juice.”
“Num num, did you say num num juice?” Sam repeated incredulously.
“Oh yes, it numbs. That’s how it affects one. Sigmund’s colleague, Carl, an eye doctor, used it to deaden the eyes before surgery, and he would often rave about its ability to take away pain. So it was only natural that Dr. Freud thought it may numb mental pain as well.”
“How did he hear about it?”
“From a druggist named John Styth Penbertom. He added cocaine to a recipe for Coca Cola. It became very popular. It was also in a wine called Mariani wine. Dr. Freud wrote enthusiastic endorsements for its effectiveness and non-addictive qualities.”
“Where did Ludwig hear about heroin?” asked Sam.
“From a fellow named Heinrich Dreser, who worked at Bayer Pharmaceutical. He invented a powder called aspirin that was truly a miracle. Dr. Freud and his cohorts all tried it and were excited about its ability to stop pain. Heinrich, I think, was a bit worried about, umm, stomach bleeding or some such. His new drug heroin was the ultimate wonder drug. It made a person feel heroic and numb to pain.
“Heinrich tried to convince Dr. Freud that such wonder drugs were the ultimate solution. So Freud began to use it a lot, all for research, of course. Of course, he couldn’t abandon psychoanalysis, as his entire career depended on it, but I think he was convinced that drugs were the future.”
“You seem to know a lot about all this,” Sam cut in.
“Well, for several years I’ve been the maid here and the maid is invisible to the doctors when they have their meetings, so Ludwig and I got quite the education while serving them at these meetings.”
“You seem well-educated yourself,” said Sam.
“I have a university education and I’m studying to be a nurse, so these subjects interest me,” she replied.
“How about Ludwig? What’s his interest?” asked Sam.
“Ludwig wanted the status of doctor, and he was impressed by Heinrich and Bayer. Drugs were the money making scheme of the future, he was convinced. Sigmund’s nephew, Eddie, and Ludwig hit it off and were always scheming on future ways to use Freud’s material and Bayer’s drugs to get rich. Ludwig wormed his way into Heinrich’s trust through his close relationship with little Eddie Bernays. Heinrich didn’t want to lose the Freud connection to legitimize his drug inventions.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “So, Heinrich wanted Freud to help him legitimize drugs as the solution to mental illness?”
“Yes, he continually reminded Dr. Freud how many more patients he could run through in a day, and time was money. Of course, it’s obvious that Heinrich had a vested interest in making heroin even more accepted as the ultimate wonder drug, which, of course, would potentially make himself and Bayer the most respected and wealthy entrepreneurs in history.”
“How did Freud take to this?” Sam inquired.
“Dr. Freud and his cohorts tried it a time or two, but Freud preferred cocaine. They all agreed heroin was certainly a needed wonder drug, and its benefits to cure morphine addiction were enough to get them to add their endorsements to the growing list of doctors jumping on the bandwagon.”
Sam cut in. “It seems heroin is already popular. Why would they need Freud, who has little credibility?”
“Well, yes, heroin seems to be in every child’s cough medicine nowadays, and all those suffering from consumption rave about its cough-suppressing qualities. I see all the ads in the nursing bulletins from pain relief to respiratory relief. Every ad touts it as not habit forming, but we hear among us nurses that that may not be true. Researchers, especially in the U.S., are claiming it is addictive, but there are over a hundred-eighty other reports from around the world approving its use. America is the largest market, and rumor is that the American Medical Association is going to put its stamp of approval on it.”
“Do you think it’s habit forming?” asked Sam.
“Actually, I do. There’s a nurse in our group who recently returned from New York and she said there are people so addicted that they won’t work and just sell junk to get more. They call them junkies. So, I wouldn’t use it or recommend it, but I may be wrong, seeing as how so many doctors prescribe it,” said Elsie.
“How does Ludwig fit into all this?
“Well, he and Heinrich, and believe it or not, little Eddie, are always in deep discussions on how Freud’s material can be used to increase sales and form more effective ads.
“Heinrich Dreser is a crabby loner whom few can stand to be around. So he sees the value in Ludwig’s ability to manipulate using some of Freud’s material.”
“What material, as an examp
le?
“Well, he’s impressed at the underlying common denominator of ‘fear’ that he thinks is the key selling point of the century. He raves on and on about Freud missing the boat when he thinks sex is the common denominator. Ludwig thinks fear even underlies sex as a stronger motivator. Sex, he says, is a strong desire, but fear rings the cash register. According to Ludwig, it’s in the dark side of the mind that compulsive control can be achieved. Sex is only the icing, but fear is the cake; to quote Ludwig.”
“It doesn’t seem like fear would be a good ad,” Sam interjected.
“Oh yes, I said that exact thing to him and he laughed and then said that fear must underlie the ad for best results. Ludwig said it is like life. There are the positive aspirations of finding love, wealth, and health. Underlying these are the fears of not finding them. Sex may sell, but fear makes them pull out the cash, Cha-ching, according to Ludwig.”
“Does Freud approve of Ludwig’s use of his material?” asked Sam.
“Dr. Freud has his nose buried in making psychoanalysis work. He is oblivious to anything going on around him. That’s why Ludwig blabs on and on to me. I’m the only audience with which he has to display his self-described genius. Well, there is Heinrich and Eddie, but they’re not always around like I am. He loves it that I listen so intently, and I must confess I’m fascinated by his warped mind. It’s like watching a storm, scary but riveting,” said Elsie.
“Did Ludwig ever form any charitable organizations?” asked Sam.
“It’s amazing that you said that. You’ve done your homework. Yes, that was the last thing Ludwig and Heinrich were in excited discussions about. They were ecstatic about the value of charitable organizations to cover for their schemes to move drug sales to stellar heights. They were delighted as they realized that their motivations would be above question. They were certain that if they set up the right trusts and philanthropies that they could eventually sell out to John D. Rockefeller, who was interested in his father’s old business, snake oil salesman.”
“Rockefeller’s father was a snake oil salesman?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Yes, he was. William Avery Rockefeller was the billionaire’s father who went by the name of Dr. Livingston. In Germany he was well known. He advertised that he could cure anything, especially cancer. He made a huge amount of money selling sugar water, and these deceptive techniques were not lost on John D.
“His neighbors, who accused William of horse thieving, burglary, arson, and counterfeiting, also found out he was a bigamist for over thirty years. William and John D. Rockefeller were Ludwig’s heroes. Having a conscience was for losers and weaklings. Ludwig believed in this mantra.
“Oh, my goodness.” Elsie looked up and down the street for tongue waggers that might report her break to Dr. Freud. “Please come in, and I’ll fix you some tea.” Sam followed her into Freud’s building. She guided him to the library and motioned him to a seat. “I will make us some tea.” She disappeared into a room at the back.
Sam looked around at the red velvet chairs and stood to look at the pictures on the wall. There was a picture of Freud and his daughter and in another was Freud with a group of colleagues. He could see the couch in an adjoining room where patients poured out their fears and aspirations in hopes of conquering one and realizing the other. It was eerily quiet except for the clanking of a teapot being readied in the other room.
Sam pondered Freud’s quest to alleviate the mental suffering of his patients. He at least believed that help was possible. Psychiatry had long given up and was only kept alive by possible military use and the public desire to hide the different ones. Certainly that use was not to help the individuals, but to control them. It seemed almost divinely inspired that virtually all their methods failed; otherwise, the entire public would be subjected to psychiatric control.
Sam recalled a discussion at Oxford where the origin of the title psych-iatry was defined to be psych or soul or spirit and iatry to be doctor of. So a psychiatrist was meant to be a doctor of the soul. Too bad they abandoned that for mind. It seemed to Sam that mind was just a collection of experiences, both good and bad. The mind had to have someone to record those experiences and replay them or look at them. That’s what some call the soul, the projectionist, not the film. That seemed to Sam to be the starting place where the cause and solution of mind problems would be found, the recorder and looker, origin, not consequence.
Elsie entered the room carrying a silver tray with a teapot and two cups. She poured each of them a cup and took a seat.
“Where were we, Sam?”
“Hmmm, oh yes, Ludwig’s heroes, the Rockefellers, and I was about to ask the whereabouts of Ludwig?” Sam pretended not to know.
“America! He is off to put his scheme into action!”
“Why America?”
“Well, the vast amount of money Heinrich was earning, impressed Ludwig, and his vision of creating drug distributors and a partnership with Heinrich, was thrilling to him. His ship had come in, and he felt his way with words and acting ability would make even William Rockefeller proud. Social prestige and wealth was soon to be his, and he was certain of that. Ludwig would do anything to make it happen!”
“Wow, that sure paints a vivid picture of Ludwig!”
“That’s just the half of it. Words can’t portray the workings of Ludwig’s mind.”
“Have you heard of Paul Hawthorne?” Sam enquired.
“Yes, birds of a feather flock together. He wrote to Dr. Freud about hypnosis and its possibility of controlling someone. Ludwig, of course, intercepted those letters and answered them himself as Freud’s colleague. They corresponded fairly fervently after that until one day Ludwig announced he had a sponsor in America, and he was moving to California.”
Sam interrupted Elsie. “How do you know such detail of Ludwig’s plans and intentions?”
Elsie laughed.
“My lord, he chatted incessantly to me about his grand scheme. I was flattered that he was willing to tell me everything. Now I realize that he needed a sounding board. It was as though I was a mirror for him to talk to himself. I think he must have felt that my lower station as a maid would make me safe to talk to.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, as a maid I’m not in direct, personal communication with Dr. Freud or anyone who would find out his plans. I know my place as a maid and a nurse. I like it really. It is sort of like being invisible. It seems I’m privy to the secrets without being noticed. I suppose that’s why Ludwig opened up to me. I admired his brilliant, but scheming mind, and he knew that. I listened, but didn’t judge or comment.”
“So, what were the plans with Paul?”
“He told me Paul’s father was a judge and well connected in that town in California, and it would be the perfect place to start his, network, as he called it. He planned to establish himself as an authority on drugs and the mind and build a network of drug sales that he hoped to sell out to Rockefeller.”
“Was Paul aware of Ludwig’s plans?”
“Oh, yes, I received a letter from Ludwig, after his move to America, raving about having found the equivalent of a long lost brother. He was going to make Paul his partner.”
“One last thing, Elsie. Since you’re a trained nurse, and obviously a keen observer, do you think psychoanalysis achieves results?”
“As much as I want to see some of these disturbed people get relief, I must say that I don’t suspect there’s any lasting result judging from those who return here often. It seems to me that there is too much attention on making the patient fit in to the theories. I think the patients try desperately to help Dr. Freud by going along with his conclusions. They want relief, and they want his approach to work. It’s like Dr. Livingston and his snake oil. Some swear cures by his sugar water. I think that’s why Dr. Freud is so enamored by cocaine. It does get almost instant results despite the possible long-term and much bigger problems it creates. It is sad, really.”
“So your
conclusion is that psychoanalysis doesn’t work?”
“I believe it would if they would actually listen more closely to help the patients discover the problem themselves. I’ve listened outside Dr. Freud’s parlor as he psychoanalyzes them. I have often wanted to open the door and tell him to shut up and listen. He listens, and then tells them what their problem is. That is the huge mistake. They’re trying to make the patient fulfill their theory instead of solving the problem. If only they would help them discover the bully in their life.”
“Bully in their life?” asked Sam with great interest.
Elsie laughed. “Here I am playing psychiatrist, but having nine brothers and sisters, it’s pretty obvious that when some sort of bully is in your life, it makes you crazy. They’re always trying to force their opinion on you and must control you at all costs. Some of my sisters have married such hooligans and they’ve gone from carefree and bright to fearful and nervous.
“One of my brothers-in-law is a particularly cruel bully. He is not outwardly gruff, but is in devious control of my sister. He corrects her speech constantly. He makes belittling remarks on virtually everything she does. It has made her completely dependent on his opinion on everything. He has a myriad of labels on virtually everything she does, foolish: immature, weak, and his favorite, hysterical, when she tries to argue against his assessments. She can no longer think any thought of her own and is getting more and more into thinking, thinking, and thinking.
“She now doubts herself completely. She’s starting to seem crazy to some as she talks to herself in critical ways and is becoming quite forgetful. She wasn’t that way until she married her bully.
“She should have followed our father’s advice,” said Elsie.
“What was his advice?” asked Sam.
“He advised us all through school that we had to fight back against bullies, and that bullies were always cowards deep down. He admonished us that even the bruises we might receive in fighting back were far less than the complete mental destruction that a bully would leave us in. The only other recourse was to stay away from them completely. Fight or flight!”
