Nightmare in Berlin (18 page)

He particularly loved sitting around — against the rules — in the ‘tea kitchen', where nobody ever made tea any more but only washed up, and chatting for ages there with the nurse who had known him for many years … She gave him extra food whenever she could. He liked the woman, who was still quite young, still attractive, and had been living for twenty years now among these men who were slowly dying; despite the loss of all her illusions, she had retained her helpful disposition and mother wit.

And he loved the ward rounds, when the doctors came around in their long, spotlessly white coats; for them, each patient was just another case, which held no more interest for them once the illness had passed through the acute stage. He was quietly amused by these psychiatrists, who studied the slightest mood swings in their patients in minute detail, but for whom physical ailments simply didn't exist. He loved these doctors precisely because the older and more knowledgeable they became, the more they seemed to resemble their patients, because they seemed to be so disconnected from real life.

He loved the walks in the little, high-walled gardens, which looked nothing like gardens at all, being places of the utmost dreariness. He loved the sudden eruption of noise out in the corridor, when an agitated patient was being hustled into the padded cell or the bathroom. He loved the whole building with its dense, stifling atmosphere, its enveloping feeling of security, the life behind the narrow iron windows. It was like home to him.

‘Tell me', he asked the night nurse Bachmann later, ‘why am I in the bunker? Was I that agitated? Did I smash something up?'

‘Not at all!' replied the nurse. ‘You were as gentle as a lamb. But there were no rooms free when you arrived, so they put you in there.'

‘Were you here when I arrived? Have you seen my wife?'

‘No, you arrived before I came on duty, in the afternoon. I don't know anything about it. You were pretty well drugged up, I think, but then they gave you something more.'

‘I see!' said Doll. And then again: ‘I see!' But he didn't continue the conversation; he just sat there quietly, and drew the bed cover more tightly around him. He suddenly realised that he didn't even know which hospital Alma had been admitted to. He couldn't write to her, send her a message, or call her. He was alone: for the first time in ages, he was completely alone again, and suddenly he felt how weak he still was, and how unwell.

He stood up. Without even thinking about it, he began to walk up and down, the bed cover draped around his shoulders, just as he had spent many previous nights wandering up and down this long corridor, getting through the endless hours of insomnia.

And that was how the old night sister found him. She called out to him in her high-pitched old woman's voice, with no regard for the other patients who were sleeping: ‘And here's our very own Dr. Doll again! So how are you, Doctor? How do you like it in our little room?' And with a little giggle: ‘Sister Emerentia has been having a little joke, putting Mr. Doll in the little room, our old regular! Well, you needn't worry, Mr. Doll, we'll get that sorted out. It's just that we've had over two hundred notices of admission, and not a single bed free for weeks. So when someone turns up without any notification …'

‘But they did notify you', grunted Doll. It wasn't strictly true, but …

‘Of course they did!' cried the sister, becoming more and more animated and high-pitched. ‘It's no disgrace to be put in the cell if you're as good and well-behaved as Dr. Doll, is it, Mr. Bachmann?' The night nurse grunted in agreement. ‘But now it's time to get back into bed. It's much too early to be running around like this — it's only half-past two … You'll catch cold otherwise!'

‘Never get colds—'

‘Of course you do; of course you catch cold! And if you can't sleep, I'll give you a little something to help you. What would you like to help you sleep?'

If he hadn't already been thinking it, this question was all it took to transport him back immediately to the old game they used to play there, namely to inveigle as many sleeping tablets out of the staff as they possibly could. He said dismissively: ‘Look, just let me walk around for a bit! You're not going to give me anything that does any good — you're all out to cheat a poor, wretched, sick man!'

Night nurse Trudchen uttered a horrified shriek. ‘Doctor, how can you say such a thing, an educated man like yourself! When have I ever cheated you? But of course', the night nurse went on, ‘if someone constantly misbehaves and is always kicking up a racket, then I sometimes give him scopolamine instead of Luminal. But that's not cheating by any stretch — that's a medical procedure!'

‘Aha!'

‘But such a thing has never been necessary in your case, Doctor! I tell you what, I'll give you some paraldehyde. You always called that your tipple — you always liked taking that!'

‘Well, yes, but how much are you going to give me?' asked Doll, now suddenly very interested. Paraldehyde was not a bad suggestion from Trudchen; she'd got the measure of her patients, having done night duty in the sanatorium for over thirty years now. She took the place of a fully qualified night-duty doctor, so the privy councillor gave her a free hand when it came to prescribing and dispensing drugs.

‘How much am I going to let you have?' asked the night nurse, and gave Doll a quick, searching look to appraise how much he needed. ‘Well, I'll give you a three-line dose of paral …'

Doll yanked the bed cover around his shoulders again and made as if to carry on pacing up and down. ‘You can keep your three lines, Sister Trudchen!' he replied contemptuously. ‘I'd rather carry on walking all night than be fobbed off with kiddy portions.' And as he turned away, he said insistently: ‘I want eight lines, at least!'

Squeals of protest, much babble, and earnest entreaties: ‘You know very well, Dr. Doll, that five is the maximum dose!' But Mr. Doll was not a bit interested in such absurd made-up notions as a ‘maximum dose': he was immune to poison! He'd had sixteen once (a complete fabrication). The negotiations began, with Sister Trudchen imploring and pleading, Doll acting like some stiff-backed Spaniard spurning beggarly gifts, ready to walk away at any moment, but inwardly pumped up with the excitement of the chase. He thought to himself:
You lot are pretty dumb! I'd sleep just fine without a sleeping draught — I'm still full of the stuff from before. But I'm not letting on!
In the end, they settled on a six-line dose. Doll promised to go straight to bed, and the sister agreed not to dilute the paraldehyde with water. ‘And if it burns your throat, Doctor, it won't be me who's hurting!'

Doll lay in his bed again, in the little room. This hospital was all right; in its way, it was a terrific hospital. He lay in bed at his ease, hands clasped behind his head, waiting for his bitter-tasting sleeping draught. He thought briefly about Alma, but now without any sense of yearning, without feeling an urgent need to rush off and see her. That wasn't necessary. Alma was also lying in a hospital bed, her wound was being treated and dressed every day, so she too was in good hands, just like himself — no need to worry!

As always in this place, the sleeping draught was a long time coming. This was a ploy by the staff to make the drug seem like a really precious commodity — either that, or they were just slow and disorganised. The patients weren't going anywhere, after all: they could wait. Doll heard Sister Trudchen talking to the male night nurse in the nurses' room, making no attempt to keep her voice down. In the past, he had sometimes kicked up a fuss about this lack of consideration, which showed no regard for the patients' need of a good night's sleep. But now he just smiled. It was just part of life in this place. And kicking up a fuss only created problems for the management: it just meant that even more sleeping draughts had to be administered.

For a moment, Doll saw clearly that this had been a stupid conclusion to draw: it wasn't bad for the doctors if the patients were given too many drugs to make them sleep; it was only bad for the patients, who then went around all next day in a semi-stupor. In terms of Doll's case, Sister Trudchen couldn't care less whether Doll received three, eight, or sixteen lines of paraldehyde. In actual fact, he didn't need any more at all, and he felt very relaxed in bed. His limbs, which had been icy cold, were gradually warming up again; he only needed to turn over in bed and fall asleep.

But no, it was better to be knocked out all at once, to not be there any more.

There was a poem that was printed at the front of a collection of short stories by Irene Forbes-Mosse. It was called ‘The little death', and began something like this: ‘The little death, how gladly would I die, the little death as stars light up the sky …'

The poet was undoubtedly talking about a very different kind of death, but Doll called this sensation of being knocked out quickly by drugs his ‘Little Death'. He loved him. Recently he had thought so much about his big brother, ‘Big Death': he had lived with him, cheek by jowl, so to speak; he had grown used to seeing him as the last remaining hope, which would surely not disappoint him. He just needed a little more resolve than he could summon up at the moment, and then it was done. And until he could muster that little bit more resolve, he had ‘Little Death'. Right now, he was waiting for his six grams of paral, and as soon as they were inside him, he was done with all this reflection and analysis. He didn't have to torment himself any more, he didn't have to justify anything to himself any more, why Dr. Doll did this and didn't do that, because there was no Doll any more …

All the same, it was high time they showed up with their sleeping draughts. Doll leapt out of bed and went across to the nurses' room. The door was open, and the night nurse had already seen him. ‘Here's Dr. Doll again! Come on, Sister, give him his stuff now!'

The sister had already picked up the brown bottle, and said (still smarting from Mr. Doll's unwarranted suspicion): ‘The Doctor can see for himself that I'm not cheating him! As if I ever would! I'm more likely to give you too much than too little!'

And she poured it out. The characteristic smell of paral wafted through the room — and a vile smell it is, if truth be told. But to Doll it smelt good, wonderful! He watched closely as she poured it out, and even nodded in agreement when the sister exclaimed: ‘You see that, you've nearly got seven there! Now, aren't I good to you, Doctor?'

But he was no longer in the mood for talk. He had the little medicine glass in his hand; at last, at long last, he had deep sleep, Little Death, in his hand, and was completely enveloped by the scent. He was done with talking now. His face had taken on an earnest, almost sombre, expression: he was by himself now, just him and his sleep. He tipped the entire contents of the glass into his mouth at once. It burned his throat more fiercely than the strongest schnaps, it felt like it was eating into the lining of his mouth, and made it impossible to breathe. Much as he didn't want to, he had to take two little gulps of water to dilute this — wonderful — taste of death. Then he looked at his two companions again, murmured a brief ‘Night!' and went back to his cell, into his bed. He lay there for a moment, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the light.

His head seemed to fill with moving clouds, he tried to focus his thoughts on this and that, but already he was gone from this world, into the arms of his beloved Little Death …

At some point he would wake up again, and each time his mood was different. Sometimes he would lie sullenly in his cell for hours, hardly speaking at all, and when the doctor came on his ward round he refused to volunteer any information. Or else he would cry quietly to himself for hours on end; at such times, he felt full of pity for himself and his wasted life, and felt as if he was going to die. On days like these, he wouldn't eat or drink anything: let them watch him croak in his stinking cell … And then on other days he was in a sunny mood, and with his bed cover wrapped around his shoulders he would scoot around all over the place, talking to the other patients.

The young ward doctor was friendly with him, tried to help him, and wanted to understand where this mixture of apathy and despair in Doll came from. But Doll didn't want to talk about it; maybe he would never be able to talk about it, not even to his wife, to Alma. Maybe he would be able to write himself free of it one day — but only when it was all behind them. Sometimes he believed he would get well again, that there would be something there again to fill up the emptiness inside him. But those times were the exception.

Mostly he tried to throw the young doctor off the scent; he would tell him something about his life, talk about books, encourage the young doctor to talk about himself — about the bad pay, the even worse food, the long hours he had to work, the arrogant way the privy councillor treated his staff. Or else he tried to winkle information out of the young doctor about the different ways of committing suicide. He was very clever at doing this: he found out about cyanide, morphine, scopolamine, about dosages that were guaranteed to be fatal; about how to inject air into the veins to cause an embolism; about insulin, which enabled someone to commit suicide in a way that was virtually undetectable later. He was gathering information: he wanted to be ready when the time came and he felt strong enough to do ‘it', to take the only way out that was still left to a German today.