by Sylvia True
“You must stop reading about all of these horrific things and live your life,” Rigmor said. She rested her head on Inga’s lap. “When will you see Fred next?”
Inga ran her fingers through her sister’s hair. “In a week’s time. I take a train to Hamburg. He has a business meeting there.”
Inga coiled a strand of Rigmor’s hair around her finger, and a thought occurred to her. Until Fred, she had not fully understood what it meant to be in love, to feel as if one is dancing in the clouds. A man, the right one, could be just the thing for her sister.
“Has mother found out about Fred yet?” Rigmor asked.
“Of course. She has spies everywhere. This just gives her more reason to dislike me.”
Rigmor sat up. “You know she doesn’t dislike you. She only worries and has an unfortunate way of expressing that with you.”
Inga sipped her cocoa. She did not want to discuss Frieda. “Let’s do something happy tomorrow. We can go into town, sit at the café you like near the Cathedral.”
“The city makes me feel so closed in,” Rigmor said. “Another time.”
Inga felt a slight rush of air. She turned, and there, only a few meters from the door, was Frieda, looking furious.
“You are not meant to be in here,” her mother said.
“I am allowed to spend time with my sister. And I don’t think you even knocked.”
“The door was open.”
“Not true,” Inga said. “I closed it.”
“It was open.”
“Mother,” Rigmor began. “We were only talking. She brought cocoa.”
“The doctor said no sugar before bed. It will keep you awake.”
Rigmor pulled her legs in and wrapped her thin arms around her knees. Inga knew how her sister hated disagreements, how she could hear a different intonation in order to believe no one was ever wrong. The suppleness of Rigmor’s mind, that she could find another perspective to explain obstinacy, snobbery, or ignorance, was something Inga found utterly charming. To be able to always find the good in others was both a gift and a burden. Only in her fits did Rigmor show aggressive emotions—mostly directed toward herself.
Inga stood. The bickering would only cause stress. She leaned over and kissed the top of Rigmor’s head.
When she passed Frieda, Inga whispered, “You make things worse.”
“Don’t poison her with your ideas about men,” Frieda whispered back.
In her own room, Inga climbed into bed next to Klaus, who snored pleasantly.
On the surface, everything about her husband was pleasant—his demeanor, his good humor, his intellect, his blue eyes, his ability to get along with everyone, even Frieda. But the thing that Inga did not account for, did not even think to account for, was the way she felt about him in the bedroom.
She had been a virgin on their wedding night. They’d reserved a room in a luxurious hotel and, being a romantic, she was anticipating a blissful night of lovemaking. But Klaus had grabbed her, partially undressed, and carried her to the four-poster bed, where he laid her on her stomach and slapped her behind as if she were a misbehaved child. She glanced up at him in shock, about to tell him to never hit her again, however lightly. But he was already turning her, climbing on top of her, pushing himself inside.
Inga had expected sex to be fun and exciting, instead with Klaus she dreaded it. He had even asked her once to smack his bottom with a rolled up newspaper. Every night as they got into bed, she wondered what strange, uncomfortable act he’d want to perform. She went to the library and read whatever factual material she could find about sex. She discovered an article on sadomasochism, but wasn’t sure that’s what she’d call Klaus’s fetish. Finally she spoke honestly to him and told him she never wanted to hit or be hit, even if it was for pleasure. Klaus said he understood, and that it would have been wise if they had had sex before they married. He spoke with compassion, but also said that what people wanted in the bedroom was so primal, so deeply buried in personality, that it would be essentially impossible to change. Six months after their wedding day, they agreed to find their sexual pleasure outside of the marriage. They also agreed to remain friendly and continue to sleep in the same bed. She felt their compromise was modern and forward-thinking.
Shortly after her agreement with Klaus, Inga found Fred. Dear Fred, who ran his fingers along the underside of her arm and kissed the nape of her neck, who loved the two moles on her back, the shape of her fingernails, and the way her ankles tapered. A day apart from Fred felt like a lifetime.
She thought of Rigmor, how unfair it was that she didn’t know what this sort of love felt like. Inga clasped her hands together and said a silent prayer to a god she only half believed in. For him to make Rigmor better, Inga would sacrifice anything, even Fred.
* * *
On a Friday afternoon in May, Arnold sat on the tapestry desk chair, the one cherished item he had inherited from his mother. He looked at, Johann, the sixteen-year-old patient across from him. His parents were worried he had homosexual tendencies.
“It’s stupid for me to be here,” Johann said, sticking out his lower lip.
He was of average intelligence and average looks. His father had found him masturbating one day while looking at a picture of Errol Flynn.
“Since you are here, perhaps we can find something you’d like to talk about. Is there anything you’re learning at school that interests you?”
Johann smirked. “Girls with large breasts.”
Perhaps a denial about his own preferences. Arnold had done something similar as an adolescent. “Are you saying that because you think that’s what you should say?”
“I hate you.”
Arnold nodded. This was progress. Johann was finally expressing his feelings.
“Can you tell me what it is you hate about me?” Arnold asked, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it a few centimeters, wanting to protect his patient’s privacy.
“Frau Blumenthal,” he said, pointing to the sign on his door that said please do not disturb. “I am busy at the moment.”
“Then I will wait.”
“There is a dining hall on the first floor. If you’d like, I will meet you there in about half an hour.”
“Who was that?” Johann asked as Arnold sat again.
“Someone who does not have an appointment.”
“Why is your face red?”
“Is it?” Arnold touched his cheek.
“Is she your lover?”
“No. Let’s get back to where we left off. You were saying that you hated me.” Arnold resented that Frau Blumenthal had intruded at such a crucial moment.
“She’s your lover, isn’t she? And she’s married.”
Arnold shook his head, but he never got the reins of the session back. Relieved when it was over, he combed his hair, and then went to find Frau Blumenthal.
Before her on the table was a cup of coffee and a strawberry tart. A handsome cane was hooked on the back of her chair. Her brown hair was braided and twisted into a bun. She wore her standard black dress that reminded him of what his mother had worn when she mourned his father.
There were no apologies for interrupting his session. The moment he sat she asked, “How do you find Rigmor?”
“I’m not sure there is anything wrong with her,” he said.
“So you are unable to get her to talk?”
“We have had many lengthy conversations. I am only saying I don’t find her to be unwell.” He flicked a crumb off of the white tablecloth.
“Has she told you about her dreams?” Her deep-set eyes studied his face.
“No.”
“In other words,” she began, “you really haven’t gotten a good sense of what is wrong?”
“She is intelligent and seems connected to the people around her. She has talked about difficulty with sleep, but I can’t say that I see much else.”
“I sometimes hear her at night.” Her knuckles rapped the table. “She cr
ies out, begging for the attacks to stop.”
“Attacks?”
“Fits of fear,” Frau Blumenthal clarified. “I was hoping you would uncover the cause of them.”
“She hasn’t told me anything about night terrors.”
“She knows you are a psychiatrist.” Her lips puckered. “Perhaps you behaved too much like you do with a patient. She would sense that. You were meant to be more of a friend.”
He slipped a finger under his collar, feeling the need for extra air. “I think we have struck up a nice friendship.”
“But you seem to be getting no results,” she said, continuing to stare directly at him.
“Frau Blumenthal, it takes longer than a few weeks, in any circumstance, regardless if she was a patient or a friend. To build trust doesn’t happen overnight.”
She stood and grabbed her walking stick. “I thank you for your willingness to try, but I don’t believe we will need your services any longer.”
He jumped up. “But…” He faltered. “Rigmor and I have plans to take a walk in the park tomorrow.”
“I will tell her that you won’t be able to make it.”
“That seems….” Again, he hesitated. “What I mean to say is that I would like to tell her myself that I won’t be seeing her any more. I would hate for her to think it’s because I don’t find her interesting.” He followed Frau Blumenthal a few steps, nearly tripping on the leg of a chair.
She turned and stared at him. “And what would you tell her?” Arnold was more than a head taller, yet she made him feel small. “That I initiated the arrangement?”
“I think she already has a good idea of that,” he answered.
“It’s best you stay out of it.” Frau Blumenthal tapped her stick twice on the floor and walked away.
That evening, as Arnold strolled along the Rhine, he stopped and kicked a stone wall that ran along the river, angry that he had been dismissed so summarily. Then as he continued to walk, his shoulders slumped and his pace dragged. Here he was, living in a city where he had no real confidantes, no one he could really be himself with. He thought of Schumann, who flung himself into the Rhine because of psychotic melancholia. Arnold did not consider himself a melancholic, nor was he depressed or psychotic. But he was lonely, and tonight he felt it more sharply after having lost the first real friend he had made in Frankfurt.
* * *
Inga sat in the drawing room with a cup of tea and a long letter from Dr. Benedek, a psychiatrist she had become friendly with. As she was reading the letter for the second time, the butler knocked and informed her that Frieda would like to see her in the garden.
Inga brought the letter upstairs, tucked it in her chest of drawers, and wondered what sort of lecture her mother intended on giving today. Would it be about Fred and rumors? Or perhaps Inga had walked out of a room before her mother, or violated some other inane, archaic custom. Whatever the message Frieda planned on delivering, Inga would not allow it to affect her mood.
The day was warm, yet Frieda sat at the white table under the cherry tree in a long-sleeved black dress that nearly came to her ankles. She looked like a schoolmarm.
When Inga joined her, Frieda folded her hands and rested them on the table. She was a pretty woman, but the way she dressed and sat, and the angle at which she held her chin, gave an impression of severity.
“I went to visit Arnold yesterday.”
Inga sat taller. “And?”
“I have asked that he discontinue the visits with Rigmor.”
“But why?”
“Rigmor is not improving. I see no benefit to their relationship.”
Inga picked up an unripe cherry that had fallen to the ground. She pulled off the stem. “He wasn’t meant to cure her in a matter of weeks. He is a friend, one she happens to like. Why would you take that away from her?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am not taking anything away. I have given it much thought.”
“Have you told Rigmor?” Inga asked, dropping the cherry.
“Yes. She is perfectly fine with it.”
“I doubt that is really the case.” Inga’s good mood vanished. She knew that Rigmor liked Arnold and looked forward to his visits.
“I see what you have done to the garden,” her mother said. “It looks ridiculous.”
Inga ignored the remark. “We thought long and hard about Arnold,” she said. “I just cannot understand.”
“The more we invest in him, the harder it will be to break off relations.” Frieda glanced away.
“Rigmor talks to him about how she’s feeling. She can be herself around him. We need more time to assess what he could do for her.” This was not an argument Inga would lose.
“I should have listened to my own counsel, not yours. Having a man around can lead to things we do not want.”
So this was the crux of it: Frieda was afraid Rigmor might fall in love. “You need to let Rigmor decide,” Inga said. “She is an adult.”
Frieda shifted her chair, turning away from Inga. “It is decided.”
Inga gripped the table. “Do you really have Rigmor’s best interests in mind, or is this some selfish scheme of yours?”
Frieda did not reply.
Inga waited another thirty seconds, but then could not bear it any longer. Hot, hateful tears welled in her eyes.
The following day, Inga found Rigmor sitting at the same white table that Frieda had occupied the day before. The weather was pleasant, a bit warm for May, which brought an early spring. Rigmor wore a light floral dress with a row of buttons in the front. She lifted her pencil and paused her sketching of the rosebush to smile at her sister.
“Would you like anything to eat? Tea, biscuits?” Inga asked.
“Why does everyone always want to feed me?”
Inga glanced at Rigmor’s arms and refrained from saying the obvious. That she was on the thin side. They talked about the weather, the Palmengarten, Inga’s new shoes, and a servant Frieda had recently hired. Eventually, Inga broached the topic of Arnold.
“You know,” she said. “Just because Mother doesn’t think he should visit anymore, doesn’t mean you have to agree.”
Rigmor folded a loose curl behind her ear. “He’s busy with his work. I completely understand.”
“Is that what Mother told you—that he was too busy?” Inga’s voice strained.
“He has more important things to do,” Rigmor said.
“No, he doesn’t,” Inga said more sharply than she had wanted. “If that’s what Mother made you think, then she is even more of a shrew…”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not as if I didn’t realize this was all arranged by you and Mother in the first place.”
Inga should have known that her sister would not be deceived. “I thought it was a good idea,” she said. “I still do.”
“I don’t want a nanny.”
“Oh, Rigmor,” Inga said. “That’s not what he was at all. He’s a doctor. A good psychiatrist, and now a friend. He might come up with some wise suggestions. He cares about you.”
Rigmor ran her finger along the ironwork on the table. “It would be awkward if Mother doesn’t want it.”
“But what about what you want?” Inga asked. All her life, Rigmor had struggled with asking for things she wanted—an extra biscuit, or a piece of chocolate, or to pick a flower. She could have those things, yet she didn’t ask. The only thing that Inga could recall Rigmor asking for was potato leek soup.
“What I want is to sit in the garden and sketch those beautiful yellow roses,” Rigmor said.
Yellow had always been her favorite, which is why Inga took such care with them.
“They are lovely,” Inga said. She paused. “What if I call Arnold, and we meet him at the University? Or at a restaurant? Mother wouldn’t have to know.”
“She would find out. She is Mother.”
“Then we won’t hide it. I’ll invite him over for myself.”
“Inga, can we please not talk about this?
I don’t want any more arguments.” She sighed. “It is really astonishing how that rose bush is blooming. It’s early to have so many.”
“I’m glad they bring you pleasure.”
Two evenings ago, Inga had come to the garden with a basket of silk yellow roses and a needle and thread. She sewed the stems of the false flowers to the stems of the real ones, taking care not to overdo it, to make sure the silk roses were placed naturally.
“I will get the shears and pick a few for your bedroom,” Rigmor said.
“No.” Inga held up a hand. “I don’t like cut flowers. It always seems like such a shame to take them from their natural environment. Don’t you think?”
Rigmor laughed. “You do have some odd ideas about things.”
“Yes,” Inga said, thinking that just because her idea about Arnold might have been unconventional, that didn’t mean it wasn’t good. Tomorrow she would call him and invite him to their garden party.
* * *
It had been two weeks since Arnold had seen Rigmor, and although he couldn’t deny he was excited about meeting Rudin, the director of the German Institute for Psychiatric Research, who had recently been named president of the International Federation of Eugenics, he was more excited about the chance to talk to Rigmor.
Champagne was served in the garden. The azaleas were in full bloom, and a slight breeze carried the sweet scent of wisteria that hung from trellises. Arnold glanced around. Inga wore a blue dress, the same bright, iridescent color of the famous Blue Morpho butterfly of the Amazon. Her shoes were covered in sequins.
“Arnold,” she said, approaching. “We are so very glad you could come.”
He wondered who the “we” was, and again looked around for Rigmor. “Is your sister here?” he asked.
Inga moved closer. “She can’t join us this afternoon.”
“Not because I am here?” he whispered back.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
Arnold didn’t want to admit what he was thinking, that perhaps it was Rigmor who wanted to end the relationship, and Frau Blumenthal was only the messenger. “Is she well?”
Inga shook her head. “The last few days have not been so good.”
