Five Weeks at Humanitas. Manfred Jurgensen
community from an old silver fir. Of all the mushrooms, trees and animals I drew, the owl I named Doctor Uhu turned out best — by far. There was a reason for that. I had traced it with a very sharp pencil through parchment paper from a book about native animals. I was extremely proud of my achievement; Dr Uhu was meant to be like a God.
I escaped to Pilzburg whenever I was frightened. Perhaps it helped me suppress my early confrontation with death. Yet it wasn’t always peaceful there. I remember once drawing a large flock of birds attacking a flat mushroom. I drew so many black-winged low-flying aircraft it ended up like a huge thick dark blot. When my grandmother got hold of the picture she asked me why I had drawn so many flies. She knew I was disappointed and tried to comfort me. ‘It’s all in the eye of the beholder,’ she consoled me.
Members of the Board have read what they call the first instalment of my ‘self-analysis’. I still refer to it as life — or bio-fiction. It seems most of the doctors are not happy with what I submitted. Bold Miriam continues to preside over the meeting, not so much chairwoman as presiding judge. This time they take me to a large committee room on the top floor of the building. In my mind I have no doubt I am facing a court of law.
It is early afternoon. Outside the sun is shining. Even with all windows shut I can hear the distant noise of traffic from the street below leading to the German border. Briefly I think I can hear birds singing, but perhaps that is an illusion. None of the group members I face wear white coats. The group consists of five men and three women. On this occasion Dr Miriam Springer calls on the expertise of an older lady who has the unnerving habit of eyeballing me as if I were already a condemned man. Looking like a wax figure, she doesn’t appear to move her head once. Her presence lends the hearing an eerie atmosphere no amount of smiles and encouraging gestures from the others can eliminate.
Bold Miriam opens proceedings with one of her predictably condescending remarks. ‘Good afternoon, Professor. We’re pleased to see you’ve settled in rather nicely. Thank you for the first submission of’ — with gleeful irony she hesitates as she looks across to the other members of the committee — ‘what would you call the pages you allowed us to read, Professor?’
Caught unawares, I instinctively reply: ‘An imposition.’ My answer prompts forbearing laughter among some of the panellists. After an indulgent pause Dr Springer takes a deep breath and resumes her questioning. ‘We’ve read your text very carefully and with much enjoyment,’ she begins again. ‘However, we would like to ask you for a couple of clarifications because, frankly, we’re not quite sure whether we’ve understood correctly some of the things you’ve written. I’m sure you’ll agree we need to exclude the possibility of any errors and doubts.’ She gives me an indulgent look. ‘After all, it’s your life we’re talking about.’
Indulgence has changed into expectancy. I have no objections to clarifying anything not fully understood. Bold Miriam uses the royal ‘we’ to demonstrate she is speaking for the entire group. ‘For instance, Professor, what did you mean when you said you had two mothers, two or possibly three fathers, and why did you say you were given another sister in November 1987? Wasn’t that a time when your father had already died? Or should I say one of your fathers? You must admit it gets terribly confusing. Unless you mean some of these things metaphorically I think you’ll agree a lot of assertions about your family relations simply don’t add up.’
My response is immediate. ‘No, I didn’t mean it metaphorically,’ I reply, ‘unless you think all life is figurative. I also have two wives, two professions, two religions, two languages, two genders and two sisters. I was under the impression you wanted me to write down the truth.’
What I say causes a minor uproar among the professionals working for Humanitas. My words are met with amused disbelief and barely suppressed irritation. It seems what unsettles them most is my reference to two genders.
Dr Springer leans forward in her chair. ‘My dear Professor, we do appreciate embellishment can be an effective didactic tool, but for a speedy recovery your credibility will be of utmost importance. We have to be able to rely on the information you provide. Naturally, from time to time we’re making the necessary adjustments to statements made under duress or in the search for less painful euphemisms. But facts are facts. We realise you’ve been under considerable strain lately, but if you want us to help you get over your present’ — she hesitates for a moment before she finds the word she is looking for — ‘predicament, you need to tell us what is commonly referred to as the truth.’
I fail to be impressed either by the messy language or the curious logic of what she is saying. ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ is the only comment I offer.
At this stage I feel I have to intervene once more on behalf of my friend, to clarify and explain what’s been said. Whilst it is true that during his lectures he was in the habit of enhancing, or perhaps I should say enriching so-called facts or points of argument, he never did so without integrity. It was rather that his range of reality reached further than most people’s.
Ican verify that the man Humanitas has accepted as its patient does in fact have a very complicated family background. He wasn’t lying or boasting. On the contrary. That situation goes to the very heart of his life, not only of his present condition. But it’s not for me to go into details about these circumstances, at least not now. It’s best to wait until my friend has had his say about these matters. For there’s little doubt in my mind that before long his captors (I confess to sharing his assessment of the clinicians trying to rescue him from himself) will demand further biographical details from their victim. I believe this alleged sufferer from a mental illness is quite capable of speaking for himself. The least I can do is listen to him first, which is what I earnestly advise the committee to do.
The older lady with the unnerving stare compliments me on my Swiss-German, yet continues to speak in a very slow, deliberate manner as if she were talking to a retard. Her words are invariably accompanied by a weary smile signalling it’s all of no use. I have the feeling she doesn’t believe anything I’m saying or writing, but that may be the reason she considers me an interesting case. As I listen to her she slowly transforms into a tortoise.
‘You know, of course, the childhood woods you’re telling us about,’ she begins, ‘are a well-trodden locale, Professor. It’s here that most infantile experiences take place, only to be recollected in adult life.’ Then she stops in her tracks. A new thought seems to have entered her head. ‘Or are we dealing here with an unwitting transfer of fairytale lore? You are a literary man, are you not? What do you think?’ Are tortoises capable of a gesture of triumphant apology? Momentarily her melancholy smile becomes jubilant. She’s convinced her contribution to the inquiry has led the committee onto something. As an afterthought she gives me a wistful reprimand. ‘Don’t believe you’re out of the woods yet!’ She shakes her head, and her unnerving stare is intensified by a wicked grin.
As in a game of tennis the spectators’ heads turn back in my direction. ‘I’m not only a literary man,’ I inform the tortoise, ‘I am a book.’ Disappointed and exasperated, the panel collectively groans aloud.
Dr Springer takes off her glasses to signal she’s beginning to run out of patience. She is barely able to suppress her annoyance. ‘Well, yes, we’re all aware of that opinion. Rest assured we’ll get to it. May we return to the woods?’ I don’t know whether Bold Miriam’s call is intended to be equivocal, so I shrug it off.
Dr McAllister turns to me politely. ‘May I ask why you went to — what was the name again? — St Mary’s Wood after you’d been warned of the dangers?’
That seems a reasonable question. ‘It was dangerous everywhere,’ I reply respectfully. ‘Home too was a war zone. I found it easier to hide in the forest.’
‘I see. But primarily