Five Weeks at Humanitas. Manfred Jurgensen
it was decided to keep me a bit longer for observation. After a couple of weeks I managed to convince the staff it was time to leave, if only because final school examinations were coming up.
I would have liked to stay longer at Bevensen, but school was more important. My mental condition was no longer considered serious, and on a sunny spring morning I took the train back to Flensburg. The thing about madness — let’s call it that, everybody else does — is that it’s tricky, quite literally. Take my grandfather Marius, for instance. He came from the Danish island of Alsen and settled in South Schleswig. In Flensburg he bought a big property at the turn of the century made up of three separate building sections. The front building included a large shopfront with a couple of apartments on top. Here Marius set up our family chemist shop, which turned into a successful business almost immediately. In line with the political situation at the time he called it The Imperial Eagle. The trouble was that the rear buildings could only be described as dilapidated. That was why my grandfather had purchased the property at a very low price. No local investor was prepared to bear the cost of repair and restoration.
Marius’ seemingly foolish investment caused a general shaking of heads. When, half a year later, excavators and other heavy machinery entered the passageway to the property, people openly referred to ‘the crazy Danish guy’. My grandfather began to be mocked by almost everyone. ‘You looking for gold?’ they asked him disparagingly. ‘Have you a mining licence?’ That last comment wasn’t far off the mark. Unperturbed, Marius treated all of them with polite indulgence. The citizens of Flensburg were stunned when my grandfather became the owner of an immensely profitable mine of sodium chloride. At the height of his empire he owned several ships providing virtually the entire Scandinavian fishing fleet with precious salt, the vital sprinkle preserving the catch.
Admittedly, towards the end of his life the same man used to walk around the city of my birth with a hand grenade in his coat pocket. It took a while before local restaurants discovered he would not be separated from the weapon when he entered their premises to join members of his family for a five-course meal. I never knew my grandfather, but can’t help thinking that carrying a small bomb to defend oneself in the company of family might sometimes not be such a bad idea.
So much for the perils of recognising madness and the risks of madness itself. Not the least diagnostic uncertainty is the trickery of language. Like madness it can prove misleading. A life of fiction, for instance, is not the same as a fictional life.
It’s my third day at Humanitas, and I have my first formal appointment. I was given a brief medical on my arrival, but this I’m told will be the introductory session of what they call psychological profiling. The idea that complete strangers seriously believe they can discover who I am just because they are psychiatrists, strikes me as absurd. Who do they think they are? On the other hand, I sense that with complete cooperation my stay at this clinic may well be shortened. So it’s important I give the impression of being responsive and assisting the doctors in their probe.
At ten I’m taken to what is euphemistically identified as the Interview Room. Well, they’d hardly call it the Inquisition Chamber. The front door carries an ominous sign: STRICTLY NO ENTRANCE. CONFERENCE IN PROCESS. I read it and decide to make light of it. This patient will pretend to be cooperative while trying his hardest to protect his mind and soul: Strictly no entrance. As we enter I’m confronted with a group of white-coated people behind a large table, looking not unlike the Last Supper. My inner voice tells me: keep up the gallows humour. You’ve nothing to fear other than being made the victim of grotesque misunderstandings. Perhaps all I have to do is reverse our roles and try to save the doctors from their misguided and ineffectual profession.
Members of the interviewing committee rise as one as I approach, then sit down again. A lady sitting in the centre, taking Christ’s position as it were, welcomes me on behalf of her colleagues. ‘Good morning, Professor! We’re glad you could make it.’ Is she joking? ‘Do have a seat, please. Let me introduce to you members of the panel: on my far right, Professor Odermatt’ — an elderly Swiss lady wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses gives me a fixed stare — ‘next to her Dr McAllister’ — a middle-aged man sporting a shock of blond hair quickly rises and sits down again — ‘at my immediate right our resident research fellow from Cambridge, Dr Enright’ — the man thus addressed gives me a good-natured wave — ‘to my far left, Dr Cohen’ — a grumpy-looking guy of uncertain age gives me a long hard stare — ‘the lady sitting next to him, Dr Leutenegger’ — with her youthful beauty she looks as though she’s made a mistake and come to the wrong hearing; her smile seems almost bashful — ‘then we have Dr Widmer,’ the lady continues with what seems to me a hint of distaste, ‘and next to me Dr Fuessli’ — a mature gentleman with a distinguished face despatches a broad grin and welcomes me with ‘ Grueziwol, Herr Juergensen‘ (it’s only then that I recognise him as a colleague at the University of Basle).
‘And I am Dr Springer,’ the woman finally concludes, ‘the chairperson of the profiling committee.’ She speaks to me in a voice of authoritative charm designed to convey that she and her Board members mean well, but will not tolerate any nonsense from me. I recognise the mixture of encouragement and intimidation. Acknowledging Dr Springer’s tone, I hear myself say: ‘I know I’m in good hands.’
How’s that for a bit of ingratiating? The experts exchange ironic glances. I think I’ve just indicated something like ‘don’t do me any harm. Leave me as I am, harmless.’ Do shrinks realise when patients are toying with them? Dr Springer ignores both my verbal and non-verbal plea. ‘We hope you’re comfortable at Humanitas, Professor. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay with us restful and agreeable.’ After a short breather she adds, ‘Not all of us will be present at every sitting, but we’re all anxious to contribute to your speedy recovery.’ She offers me a forced smile.
Her brief speech doesn’t call for a response. It’s a statement of fact that must not be challenged. To confirm my relaxed state I cross my arms and legs. In reality I’m nothing short of terrified. Eight international experts of thought and reason examining someone who’s lost his mind — isn’t that a bit like using a steam hammer to crack a nut? What’s even more frightening is that I’m beginning to wonder how serious my condition must be to attract such a group of distinguished shrinks. If it should really turn out to be a grave matter, would I ever be released from this luxurious prison?
‘We’ve left some stationery in your room, Professor, in the hope you may be able to assist us by telling us something about your life.’ Before I can say anything, she continues: ‘Of course we don’t expect you to have written enough yet to pass on to us, but do try to write at least a few pages when you feel the time is right. It would be best to think of your notes as stories you might want to tell someone, apart from us. Perhaps you might like to write them just for yourself.’
At this stage I do interrupt, gently and respectfully. ‘How can I do that when you’re going to read them?’
Dr McAllister cuts in briefly. Leaning forward, waves of hair break across his forehead. ‘Just tell it how it is. The story never lies.’
The elderly lady introduced as Professor Odermatt gives me a benevolent smile and says: ‘You’re a man of imagination with a special love and knowledge of books. Why don’t you assume you’re an author and we the readers? Don’t all writers really write for themselves?’
I have no desire to ruminate on first semester literary seminar discussions and simply nod. But when I notice it’s not enough to satisfy the Board I quickly add: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ My inner voice rewards me with a reminder: ‘Quite so! Always appear cooperative!’
Dr Springer listens indulgently before addressing the meeting again. ‘As I say, Professor, it’s up to you whether you want to cooperate with those who are trying to help you.’ Her smile has turned positively deadly, reminding me I have to remain on my guard. I try to convey a deferential bow while assuring her: ‘But of course I will,’ then foolishly add: ‘That’s what I’m here for.’