by Sylvia True
Inga returned to the hotel and decided that it would be best to put the issue of the diagnosis on hold.
* * *
Arlesheim, Switzerland 1965
In the summer of 1965, the children came to stay at the chalet—a great relief for Inga as she would not have to travel to the States and visit the yellow box of a house, and see Lisbet’s husband. The boys were nine and eight. Sabine was seven. It would be nice to have a girl around, to put her in pretty dresses, brush and plait her hair, and teach her how to make jam and lay the table correctly.
They flew alone, with a stewardess watching them. Inga and Fred fetched them at the Basel airport. The moment the boys saw Inga, they ran to her with open arms. Sabine stood in the background, her hair a mess of curls.
In the mornings, the boys tumbled out of bed and raced to the veranda for breakfast. They ate rolls slathered in butter and honey, and stuck their tongues out at each other. Inga told them to behave, but more often than not, she found herself smiling at their impishness.
On the third day of their visit, Sabine came to the breakfast table in a white dress with brightly printed beach balls. It was a bad cut, with puffy sleeves, and too small. Inga retrieved a simple blue frock that she had bought for Sabine, and asked her to change.
Sabine stared at the dress. “No.”
“Come now, be a good girl and put it on.” Inga stood behind Sabine and tried to pull off the dress she was wearing. Sabine wriggled away and slinked under the table. Inga was patient. She cleared the plates, and washed the dishes as the boys played in the garden. Still Sabine didn’t come out.
“You can’t stay there forever,” Inga told Sabine. “There is a nice toy shop in the village.”
But Sabine stayed where she was and sulked, and Inga believed the best thing to do was to let her be, give her the space and time she needed. Eventually, she would come around.
Inga took the boys to the village where they met Fred, who was staying at the Hotel Eremitage, an arrangement he and Inga made, deciding it would be best if the children saw him as a benevolent uncle, and not confuse him and think he was the man of the house.
The boys played in a stone fountain. Eventually they splashed Inga, who shrieked and took a step back. But with another splash, and another, she felt like her younger, freer self, and smacked her hand across the water, dousing Robert, whose laugh was infectious.
Inga tried, day after day, to entice Sabine to join them, but Sabine refused.
“Do you miss your mother?” Inga asked.
Sabine shook her head.
“Is it because people here speak a different language?”
She shook her head again.
“Is it the clothes I bought for you? Your brothers? Can you tell me?”
Nothing.
One day when Inga and the boys returned, Sabine was nowhere to be found. She was probably daydreaming in some nook and would come out when she was ready. But after about twenty minutes, Inga began to worry. She looked across the street, behind and between all of the bushes, in the garden, the cellar, and the attic. She asked the boys to check under the beds and in every closet.
“I’ll look in the trees,” Robert said.
Inga patted his head.
“Maybe she dug a big hole somewhere,” Henri said.
“My sweet boy,” Inga told him.
Inga ran down the hill calling Sabine’s name. She stopped at the fence where Dolligner’s cows grazed and looked out at the pasture.
“Sabine,” she called as she walked faster, heading toward the village.
Inga raced in and out of shops. By the time she checked the kiosk at the tram station, filled with sweets and cheap toys, she wondered if the boys had found her, and decided to head back to the chalet. She took the shortcut and passed the home for idiot children, a well-looked-after yellow stucco building with the most beautiful fuchsias hanging on the front porch.
Inga glanced at a group of children in the garden, holding hands and singing as they ran in a circle. It couldn’t be. Yet that mop of hair was unmistakable.
Inga opened the gate.
“Sabine,” she yelled, out of breath and tremendously relieved.
Sabine glanced at Inga and kept playing. A young woman approached.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Inga felt her temper rise. “That is my granddaughter,” she said, pointing at Sabine.
“Oh,” the woman answered. “What a lovely child she is. She comes down from the hill almost every day. You didn’t know?”
“I certainly did not know,” Inga said. “And she is not allowed to come here again. If she does, please tell her to return to my house.”
“Of course,” the woman replied. She walked over to Sabine and crouched to speak to her.
Inga watched Sabine nod and then throw her arms around the woman’s neck. The tug of jealousy at Inga’s heart was as immediate as it was surprising.
Inga thanked the woman and clenched Sabine’s hand.
“I want to stay,” Sabine said, trying to wrangle free.
“You are not allowed to be here,” Inga scolded.
On their walk up the hill, Sabine yanked her hand away. “They are my friends,” she said.
“You cannot just go off wherever you like. I had no idea where you were.” Inga nodded for Sabine to move to the hedge, away from the middle of the road.
“I like them.”
Inga squatted so that she was eyelevel with Sabine. “You must listen to me. You are old enough to understand. These children suffer and it would be better to play with other children. Children who are healthy.” What Inga didn’t say was that although befriending those less fortunate was very kind, it almost always led to pain and a child of only seven needn’t go down that path.
Sabine looked at the pavement.
“You mustn’t go there again, do you understand?” Inga asked, more sternly than she had intended.
Sabine nodded.
Inga sighed and patted Sabine’s hand. “You are lucky you were not born with such deformities,” she said. “It is a pity how some of the children suffer.” Then, under her breath: “One wonders if it wouldn’t be kinder to release them from their misery.”
Sabine glanced up. “What is a deformity?”
She had a sweet, curious voice, and Inga felt herself soften. “When someone is not as they should be.”
“Am I not as I should be?” Sabine whispered.
“My dear girl, I suppose we are never completely as we should be, but you are perfectly fine.” Inga smiled. “Though perhaps a bit wretched at times. Especially when you run off where you shouldn’t and give me such terrible fright.”
* * *
Belmont, Massachusetts 1984
At teatime Inga took a taxi back to Sabine’s ward and sat with her granddaughter in the dining room.
“Perhaps there is somewhere a little more private where we can talk?” Inga suggested.
Sabine shrugged. “We can go to my room. Cece isn’t there right now.”
“Yes, I think that would be good. What about a cup of tea first?”
“There’s no tea here, just coffee,” Sabine replied.
Inga stood. “That can’t be.”
There had to be a kettle or at the very least a pot to boil water in. In her purse, wrapped in a paper serviette, sat two teabags from her hotel. Sometimes a nice cup of tea could heal more than any western medicine.
Inga entered the narrow kitchen and searched the cabinets. An abundance of cereal, bread, and crackers lined the shelves. She could not find a pot or a kettle. In the fridge, she saw labeled containers and a can of baby formula with a note taped to it, not for adult consumption. She sniffed the milk to make sure it was fresh.
“Omama,” Sabine called. “The kitchen is for patients.”
She turned to her granddaughter. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes looked tired. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Can we talk in my room?” Sabine pointed to the
door.
Inga found a cup and walked to the sink. Cold water would have to do for the moment. But a list was taking shape—teacups, kettle, tablecloths.
In Sabine’s room, the large window, despite the metal clamp in the middle of it, let in a fair amount of light. The floor space was more than adequate, and the ceilings high. Sabine gestured to the bed.
“We have to sit on my bed,” she said, attempting to neaten her thin white blanket.
Inga sat, put her water on the floor, took out her notebook, and added eiderdown to her list.
Sabine put a pillow between herself and Inga.
“Will Tanner come tonight?” Inga asked.
“I hope so. I need to see Mia.”
Inga knew she had to choose her words carefully. She did not want to be misunderstood. “I can see how very important your baby is to you, and I am pleased about that. It’s clear to me that when you are with her, you feel better. My sense is that you should not be separated from her.”
Sabine appeared receptive. Her arms were at her sides, not crossed in front of her, and when she looked at Inga there was an openness in her expression.
“I know I am speaking as an old woman and you might find some of my views a bit outdated, but I do understand a thing or two about human nature.” She paused. “And men.”
Sabine’s gaze shifted to the ceiling.
“I think it’s very important that you show Tanner you are interested in him. Not only in the baby.”
Sabine sighed heavily. “And if I’m not?”
“I understand that he is not foremost on your mind, but I’m telling you this because I want you to see your baby. If you can show him more interest, even if it’s not completely genuine, he might bring Mia more readily.”
Sabine crossed her arms in front of her.
“I know it might be difficult, but he doesn’t seem a bad sort. He’s willing to work for his family. He cares about you.” She took a breath. “I think it would be unwise to let him get away.”
“He isn’t a fish,” Sabine said.
Inga chuckled. “I imagine fish are not so difficult to understand. I suppose in that way they aren’t terribly dissimilar to men. Yes?”
Sabine actually smiled and Inga felt as if she was making progress.
“People need to feel as if they matter. Husbands need to feel that.” Inga put a hand on the pillow that sat between them. “Compared to your child, he might be secondary, but perhaps you could not make that quite so obvious. I am not saying this as a criticism, but to help you.”
“I can’t pretend,” Sabine said.
Inga sipped her water. “I have also never been good at that.” She smiled. “But you could try. Just a bit perhaps?” When she moved to touch Sabine’s arm, to show her that she really meant well, Sabine looked as if a snake was creeping towards her. “And you must remember—now that you have a child, it might not be so easy to find another man.”
“Maybe I don’t want another man,” Sabine said.
Inga rested her notebook on her lap. “You are certainly intelligent enough to know that life is not always easy. But a man can make it easier, and better. And it also gives you a certain place in society, to be married.”
“But you got divorced.”
“My circumstances were very different, and technically, I only separated.” She had also been fortunate not to be afflicted with mental illness. But there was no need to say that aloud.
“Because of Uncle Fred?”
“That was one thing. But we are not here to talk about me.”
“What about women who are gay?” Sabine asked. “You can’t think they need a man?” There was defiance in the way she spoke.
“Gay?” Inga asked, not following Sabine’s point.
“As in lesbian,” Sabine said.
Inga wrote the word gay in her notebook. “I did not know that was the meaning of the word. I thought it meant happy.” She paused. “Are you gay?”
“No.”
“I suppose that is good. Not that I have ever had a problem with homosexuals, but I imagine they have more obstacles in life to overcome.” Inga tapped her pencil. “So, tell me, how are things with Tanner, in the bedroom?”
Sabine launched herself off the bed and walked to her wardrobe. She took out a blouse and then put it back. “I can’t…”
Her granddaughter was behaving a bit hyperactively at the moment. Had Lincoln considered mania? “You can’t do what?” Inga asked.
“Have this conversation.”
“It’s interesting. Your mother also won’t discuss this topic. You know, when I was young, people didn’t mind talking about such things. We thought ourselves very open and modern. I would have thought that in in the nineteen eighties, after the sexual revolution, which in my mind was not so very big, young people would be more at ease. But it seems that is not the case.”
“Maybe it’s just hard to talk about with family,” Sabine said.
“I suppose.”
“And anyway, I just had a baby.”
“Yes, and a beautiful one. A miracle.” Inga took a sip of water. “But that was three months ago, and many women resume relationships after an even shorter period.”
Sabine held up a hand. “Stop. I can’t. OK. I’m sorry. I can’t worry about what other women do or don’t do.”
“Of course not,” Inga said. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else does. I only meant…”
There was a knock at the door, and then a man with a long beard poked his head in and told Sabine she had a phone call. Sabine hurried away, down the hall. Inga followed, limping a bit. Her hip had been stiff since the morning.
Sabine sat in the phone booth behind a thick door of plastic. Inga watched Sabine’s head droop like a fading rose. By the time she was finished, her neck was blotchy and her eyes red.
“What is it?” Inga asked.
Sabine didn’t answer. Back in her room, she sat on the floor, while Inga returned to her seat on the bed.
“Tanner won’t bring Mia,” Sabine said.
“That is a shame,” Inga replied. “Would you like me to call him?”
“No.”
“Did you compliment him? Tell him that you also wanted to see him?”
“Stop,” Sabine shouted. “That won’t help. And I need to be alone. I’m sorry. I know you’re here to help me, but I think I have to figure this out on my own. I’m sure Mutti would be happy if you visited her.”
For a moment Inga couldn’t move. She thought of the foehn, the hot winds back home in the mountains that left a purple hue in the sky, and were blamed for headaches, bad moods, and even suicides. Was that how Sabine thought of Inga, as something like a foehn—an oppressive, burdensome presence?
Inga gathered her strength and stood. At the door, she took one last look at Sabine, who stayed on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. She would have liked to have gone to her, to brush her hair, to comfort her. To promise it would all be fine.
“Well my girl,” she said. “It was lovely to see you and to meet the baby. I wish you all the best. Tomorrow I will book a flight back to Switzerland.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabine muttered, without raising her head.
Chapter Ten
Another Plan
Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1934
Arnold found Rigmor’s gloves on his sofa the next morning. He wanted to return them, but could not get himself to walk to the Blumenthals. Although he preferred to think of anything but his encounter with Rigmor, his brain replayed the scene over and over, and shame became a constant.
He waited three days to phone her, and when he did, the butler informed him that she was unavailable, a clear message that she wanted nothing to do with Arnold. Or so he assumed.
Still, he could not give up and telephoned two days later. Again she wouldn’t speak to him.
On December twentieth, he sat in his chilly office. A blanket covered his shoulders. He wished for hot tea and a warm fire. But he refused to
give in to his physical desires and scribbled notes for a paper he’d been working on for months.
A knock jolted him. The blanket slid to the ground as he stood. He moved toward the door, but before he opened it, Inga strode in wearing a long fur coat, a stylish hat and black leather gloves.
Arnold froze. There was something about Inga that always pushed him left of center. Most people had good and bad thoughts, kind and unkind, but they chose to reveal more of the good. Not Inga. All thoughts and judgments seemed to be delivered with equal frankness.
She stared at him expectantly. “May I take your coat?” he finally asked.
“Rigmor is in a terrible way,” Inga replied, showing no sign of removing her coat. “You have not come to see her.”
Arnold stepped backed, knocking into his desk. “I have telephoned, but she won’t take my calls. I thought it might be best to wait until after Christmas.” He glanced out of the window. A slate of fog obscured the Cathedral.
“Christmas is just another day. Why would that make a difference?” Inga asked.
He wished she would keep her voice down. It had a piercing quality that made him wince.
“It has nothing to do with Christmas, per se,” he began. “It is only that some people get more anxious around a holiday. Of any sort of religion.”
Her fingers brushed the air. “I’m not interested in religion. I am only interested in helping my sister.”
He glanced down, needing to shield himself from her glare. “Can you tell me a bit more about her symptoms?”
“The same. Not sleeping, not eating. She feels as if she can’t go on. She imagines things that aren’t there—shadows at night, insects under her skin. There seems to be no relief. I just can’t understand. She seemed hopeful before this episode, and then it was as if she fell off a cliff. You must have some idea of why. You are her doctor.”
“I am not her doctor.” He held up his hand. “I didn’t mean to sound so gruff. But it’s important that you know that I can’t be her doctor, as our relationship is not a doctor-patient one.” He bumbled on. “It could be the lack of light. I have a number of patients who find the winter months more difficult, and there are papers that have been written on the effect of reduced sunlight. Would you like me to find those for you?”
