In the Midst of Life

by Jennifer Worth

  When the girls got to Hamburg, they found it to be in complete ruin. They had heard that the city had been badly damaged, but their imagination had not prepared them for the reality. Chaos reigned, and of the suburb in which their aunt’s home had been, nothing was left. Their aunt was presumed dead. How the sisters lived, I just do not know, because she said nothing of the years between 1946 and ’56. At some stage she must have learned shorthand and typing, and worked as an English/German secretary, and then decided to come to Paris to learn French and become a trilingual secretary, which was better paid. This was where we met.

  Helga was so beautiful, that particular type of German beauty, rather like that of Marlene Dietrich, with lovely blond hair, finely chiselled features, and a slightly superior look that irritated some people but intrigued others. She was tall and slender with such stunning looks she attracted many men. She had had very little formal education because of the war, but she was so intelligent, and so artistic, that it did not matter. She had received no musical education, but seemed to know all about music. She had no training in the fine arts, yet knowledge of painting and sculpture seemed to come naturally to her. She had had no guidance in the appreciation of architecture, but nothing missed her eye. She had something informed and insightful to say about everything and taught me, her younger friend, so much, not just about the arts in the abstract, but about the humanity behind the creation.

  We lived in central Paris, I with the family I worked for, and she, independently, in a tiny attic room at the top of an apartment block that was always hot in summer and cold in winter. Could I ever forget it? The concierge who opened the door, grumbling at having been disturbed, the lift to the fourth floor, which looked as though it had been constructed in the days of Napoleon Bonaparte – perhaps it had! Then two or three flights of stairs, each one steeper and narrower than the last, to the ill-fitting door of Helga’s fortress where she slept, lived, studied and entertained her friends. Everything was always in perfect order, in a space about nine feet square. With a camper burner on a tiny cabinet, and one saucepan, she produced delicious meals and delicacies.

  We both studied at L’Alliance Fmnçaise and met a lot of international language students, but in the evenings we went out with her artist friends, earnest, excitable young men trying to put the world to rights after the war. They brought their canvases to her, seeking her opinion and advice, which she always gave after a careful study of the painting. Obviously, they respected her opinions, because they came back with more. Although not much older than they were, she could always be relied upon to comfort and console and, though she had very little money, to provide food, paint, a canvas, a book or a record. Throughout her life she had a wonderful kindness, which drew people towards her.

  Helga probably had short-term affairs with some of these artists; she was young and vibrant. I would never have enquired – it was entirely her business – but I doubt if she was ever wantonly promiscuous, she was just not the type. Admirers surrounded her all her life, but she never married.

  The Paris days came to an end. I returned to England to do midwifery, and she returned to her homeland to work in Baden-Baden as a trilingual secretary and interpreter. She remained there for the rest of her life. It was there, when she was about thirty-five, that she met a man whom she truly loved. He was a German pilot named Hans, who had been severely wounded in the abdomen during the fighting. She nursed him for two years and gave him the love he needed. They could not marry, because he already had a wife who did not want the trouble of nursing a sick man. After his death, she said she cried for two years, and for thirty years she took flowers each Sunday to his grave. I was with her on one occasion (she was probably around seventy at the time) and I remember a very beautiful graveyard on a hillside, quiet in the sunshine, with vineyards spreading to the south. She said, ‘It makes me happy that he is here, in this beautiful place.’

  Helga was getting on for fifty when she and Eugen met. He was only thirty, so there was a big age gap. They were lovers, but she would not marry him. ‘I do not want him to be burdened with an old woman,’ she said. They did not even live together. ‘I do not want him to become too dependent on me. He is too young. It would not be fair. He must be absolutely free.’ I met Eugen several times and although, sadly, we did not share the same language, I could see that he adored Helga, and was a constant support and companion to her. Throughout her long life, Helga retained that feminine beauty and fascination that is more than sex appeal.

  Helga was around seventy when she developed cancer of the breast. A mastectomy and chemotherapy were effective, but she was very much weaker and during the next ten years suffered many falls, both in the street and in her home. She told me about these, saying, ‘I am afraid to go out in case I fall again. I have no confidence.’ I last saw her in 2005 in Baden-Baden, and she fell and broke her shoulder. She was in great pain, but her concern was for my husband and me, that she had spoiled our holiday! I remarked with wonder at her stoicism; she smiled. ‘That is my way; I do not want to burden others with my pain. I just put up with it.’

  A break of the shoulder can be very serious, because healing of such a complex joint is difficult. It is also very painful. She told me that, after this accident, Eugen left his own apartment and stayed with her, day and night, looking after her. The shoulder took seven months to heal, and she told me that the experience really deepened the love between them. She also said that she hoped that Eugen would find a younger woman with whom he could share a more meaningful life than ‘looking after a broken old woman like me’.

  Helga had read my books, and one day asked me on the telephone if I was writing anything new. I told her I was writing about death. She chuckled. ‘Ah yes, death, we think more about it as we grow older, don’t we?’ Then she told me she hoped for death all the time, because life had become so burdensome.

  A little while later I received a letter dated 14th March, 2009, which contained the following sentences:

  Two years ago I tried to contact death-help organisations in Holland and Switzerland. But of course, I am uncertain if I will choose this way because of Eugen. I do not want to shock him.

  The letter speaks of other things, then goes on:

  My last remaining energy is now searching for the way for eternal release. In my opinion it is inhuman to extend lives in hospital that are not serviceable any more. I hope you understand me, in spite of religious doubts. Did I tell you about my black-out in my bathroom at the beginning of December, when I lay almost six hours helpless on the cold marble floor? The next day Eugen found me and drove me to hospital. They started to X-ray me all over and, surprisingly, nothing was broken, in spite of my osteoporosis, but they discovered metastases in my body (I had had two cancer operations in earlier years). I told them that I would not agree to any more operations, and therefore do not care for more details. The chief doctor touched me on both shoulders, and then said kindly, ‘According to your wish you are herewith released from hospital.’

  A friend in Baden-Baden now explained to me the way to get into contact with the Swiss organisation, where she is already admitted in her wish to die. It seems very complicated, but makeable.

  A funny point: she has postponed two times her final ‘ceremony’ which she payed for beforehand and now moves into a first-class clinic in Baden-Baden. Who knows if Helga will not end up with a similar solution? I don’t think so, but I find the story quite amusing.

  I wrote to her, but do not have a copy of my letter. A reply came on 18th June:

  My dear Jennifer

  I can hardly believe that your letter dates from May 11th, but time seems to pass more and more quickly to a very tired old woman. Probably because she needs so much time for each daily task or good intentions (telephoning old friends etc.) So I spent several hours on the outline of this letter, my English having diminished like my mind!

  Many many thanks for your letter, so beautifully handwritten. It has touched me because of your understanding
reaction upon my intentions, And of course I was especially impressed by your announcement that you are preparing a new book with respect to peaceful and human release. In fact there are too many artificial prolongations, which I observed not only during my own stays in hospitals but also during long lasting cares of old friends. Not to forget my fiance, who suffered a lot due to the consequences of his war-injuries (belly shoots). We had just installed our small appartment in Baden-Baden, when he started to spend most of the time in hospitals. During the last weeks of his life I remained every night with him in a Karlsruhe-hospital, taking an early train to my office in Baden-Baden. During these nights I observed how much he suffered. One morning I decided not to drive to my office but wait for the doctor in chief. I prayed to release him and glanced into understanding eyes - he became [gave] an injection I suppose of morphium. I stayed next to him all day long. At about noon-time my dear Hans took my hands reposed on his pillow and kissed them. ‘Es ist alles so schon mit dir’ (everything is so good with you) were his last words. Then he fell asleep, still breathing for several hours, before his final release.

  Where are such physicians nowadays? In earlier times, where many people died at home, the ‘house-doctor’ released his patients from more suffering in due time.

  Right you are, dear Jennifer, at the moment my ‘Suisse-endeavour’ seems unachievable. This organisation is confronted with different sorts of troubles parts of the due to plotting actions. So I have to look out for another way of release, at least what my house-wife obligations are concerned, also to release Eugen, who is still sacrificing so much time and money for me. He is 18 years jounger than me and must prepare his new life with his new girl-friend, 20 years jounger than I am. This is the better solution for his future. I have the impression that they will become an ideal couple, as soon as she achieves her pension-time in summer of next year. So I have started to visit old-people’s homes in Baden-B., but the achievable ones are still too expensive for me, and once again Eugen offered his financial help. But then I wood soon end up in hospitals again, because of the condition of my body. Recently they have discovered new metastasis, but after two cancer-operations I certainly would not agree to support a third one in my age of 82. Eugen repeats toujour that I should stay in his appartment, and that he would always take care of me as much as possible in his new situatian of life. But I realise more and more that my mind is in permanent reduction as far as the sense of registration is concerned, I am still quite good in reaction and even in organising the necessities of household etc. But I am more and more troubled by my permanent trouble: Whom did I meet or talk to on the telephone to-day or yesterday what did we talk about, what did I see on the TV last night? I never swith arround, as many of my friends do. I choose beforehand out of the programm and then listen to these broadcasts with interest. But nevertheless!

  The biggest trouble became my frightful emotions when I am allone. I remember now that it was the same with my father when he had about my age. My much jounger stepmother took attentively care of him, in spite of a younger friend and lover. When she married our father she was not so thoughtful and patient. She did not support any longer the step-daughters, only 6 and 8 years younger than herself. My sister and I left the house and so began the adventure of our life and professional possibilities.

  Sorry for the length of my biography. To my excuse: The title of your book inspired me, and also your remark ‘Life is sweet – and death always fearful’. I cannot agree to this formulation. On my opinion life in age becomes more and more fearful and painful, and death is – at least for me – a hopeful aspect. One could endlessly discuss about different opinions, but you, my dear old friend, have the courage to resume them in book-form. Congratulations to your human engagement!

  Finally many many thanks for the new CD’s of your last book-success. I have not yet found the calme hours to listen to them, because of many tiresome household happenings and visits from good old friends. The next ones – comming from Bruxelles – will arrive at the end of the month, staying for one week. I have found a rather cheep lodging place for them, which is not so unreliable as yours turned out to be. But as soon as I will find the time for quiet listening, I’ll send you my ‘echo’ by telephone or by letter. I admire your numerous physical and spiritual engagements, dear Jennifer. As to myself, the burn-out condition dominates, nevertheless I have succeeded in writing this much too long letter!

  Much love to both of you

  Helga

  P.S. The main trouble is probably that I have no self-confidence anymore.

  During the summer months we had telephone conversations. On 14th December, 2009, she wrote the following letter:

  My dear old friends

  I take leave of you with just a few words: I finally succeeded in becoming [getting] the ‘green light’ from Switzerland. It was probably the last moment, as they only accept people still being decisive, which means self-responsible, and my mind has been drifting away rapidly during the last months. I can still react and organise, but the sense of registration has collapsed. In addition I became more and more frightful – just as my father did in my age – so I cannot plan any own ways on the street any more.

  I am so glad that Eugen has meanwhile found a friend, younger than he is (he approaches to the seventies) with whom a positive future seems possible. She has a house in the same village where he neglected his very attractive apartment since 2004 because of all my accidents etc. I found several younger friends interested in my house-wares and book collections (of course I did not want to irritate them by my true intentions, so I pretended to move to old Swiss friends of mine) hoping that my wonderful friend Eugen will not be overcharged with the evacuation of my apartment.

  ‘Take my warm-heartiest wishes, my dear, unforgettable friends Jennifer and Philip, for a long continuance of your wonderful partnership, and all your spiritual impulses!

  Helga

  I received the letter on 17th December and at once rang her telephone number. It was unobtainable, and has remained so ever since.

  It is impossible to exaggerate the state of shock I was in after receipt of this letter. Uncertainty about what had happened tormented me and in any mental or emotional crisis I need spiritual help and guidance, so I rang the Reverend Mother of the convent with which I am connected, and told her the terrible story. The vocation of the Sisters is prayer and meditation, and, without such con-templatives I believe the affairs of man would long ago have sunk into chaos. The Reverend Mother told me that the Sisters would pray for Helga and the medical dilemmas that we have to face. Nuns are not just about prayer; they are usually very practical. She said, ‘You must find out what happened to Helga in her last days and hours. Can’t you get hold of the address, or better still the telephone number, of this place in Switzerland and find out?’

  Thankful that Helga would be safe in their prayers, I immediately obtained the telephone number of Dignitas in Zürich. Fortunately, there were no electronic voices to contend with. A man who spoke very good English answered. I gave him the name Helga Wieter, and mentioned her intentions and her last letter. I said, ‘That letter was written on the 14th; today is the 17th. Is she expected to come to you? Is she with you? Please tell me. Is she alive or dead?’

  The man would tell me nothing. He said, ‘It is confidential; I cannot tell you; it is against the law.’ He repeated this phrase, ‘against the law’, several times. I persisted, saying, ‘She would have come alone; I know she would. Her friends must know what has happened to her.’ He said, ‘I cannot tell you. We have people ringing us to enquire about a husband or wife, but we cannot tell them anything; it is against the law. We even have the police contact us in their enquiries trying to find a missing person, but we cannot disclose information. It would be illegal to do so.’

  Still I persisted, saying, ‘Why illegal? That makes no sense. Illegal to whom?’

  He told me, ‘We are an association of forty thousand members worldwide. Our members expect and recei
ve confidentiality from us. Any association with a private membership is the same. I cannot help you; it would be illegal.’

  I could get nowhere with him. I was left in a burning rage - so it is perfectly legal to give someone a dose of barbiturate knowing that it will kill them, but not lawful to reveal who it has been given to? What sort of law operates in Switzerland? Registration of births and deaths is surely a statutory obligation in any civilised country, and these are public records. At the very least, a funeral cannot be conducted in secrecy, and no one informed.

  I have long had severe reservations about Dignitas though I could never clearly say why; its philosophy seems so logical and, in a way, humane. And yet my experience regarding Helga’s death leaves me very uneasy.

  All over Christmas I grieved for Helga, and wondered what had happened. Not knowing is probably the hardest thing to cope with. The winter was extreme - a sheet of ice gripped the whole of Northern Europe - and I thought of a frail old lady leaving her home and travelling by train, alone, to Zürich. Did she ever get there? Did she slip on the ice and break another bone, and if so who picked her up? Perhaps she arrived in Zürich and simply got lost in bewilderment in a strange city. I imagined her misery, not knowing where she was, in freezing weather, wandering helplessly around. But perhaps she did arrive at the Dignitas premises, and two doctors examined her and assessed that she was not mentally competent to make a decision for herself. What then? Would she have been sent away, and who would have taken the responsibility of bringing her home? It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?