Every Man Dies Alone (64 page)

But Baldur Persicke’s principal efforts were directed at the resolution of serious business difficulties. His father, old Persicke, had done some stupid things in his drunkenness. There was said to be money missing from funds, and he was even supposed to be put in front of a Party tribunal. Baldur had pulled all the strings he could—he had used medical reports that described the old man as senile, he had cajoled and threatened, he had appeared by turns snappish and conciliatory, he had exploited the break-in, after which the money had gone missing again—and in the end he had succeeded in having the whole rotten business discreetly set aside. He hadn’t even had to sell
anything from the flat: the missing money was booked as stolen. Not stolen by old Persicke—oh, no!—but by Borkhausen and his accomplices, and so the Persicke honor remained unstained.

While the Hergesells were being threatened with violence and capital punishment for a crime they hadn’t committed, Party member Persicke was forgiven for one he had.

All this has been quite skillfully accomplished by Baldur Persicke, of whom nothing less would be expected. He can now go back to his Napola institution, but before doing so, he wants to fulfill his family duties by visiting his father in the drying-out clinic. Also, he wants to forestall any possible repetition of such events and reassure his timid mother that she can feel safe at home in the flat.

As he is Baldur Persicke, he is immediately given permission to call upon his father without the presence of doctors or other medical personnel.

Baldur finds the old man in pretty poor shape. In fact, he looks as shriveled up as a pricked balloon.

Yes, the good days of the rowdy old publican are over. He is just a ghost, but a ghost that still has some bad habits. The father begs his son for something to smoke, and after the son has refused a couple of times (“You don’t deserve it, you old crook”) he breaks out a cigarette for the old fellow. But when old Persicke begs the son to smuggle in a bottle of schnapps—only once—Baldur just laughs. He smacks his father on his bony, shaky knee, and says, “You’d better get used to it, Dad! You won’t be getting any more schnapps to drink as long as you live, you’ve let the side down too badly!”

And while the father glowers angrily, his son complacently enumerates all the steps he’s been forced to take to tidy up the mess the old man made.

Old Persicke was never much of a diplomat. He was always one to say what he thought straight out, and not to worry himself about what anyone else might feel. And so he now says, “You always were a braggart, Baldur! I knew that the Party would never do anything against me, given that I’ve been part of Hitler’s organization these past fifteen years! If you were put to any trouble, then it’s your own silly fault. I would have settled it with a sentence or two, once I was out!”

Stupid father. Had he flattered the son, thanked and praised him, then Baldur Persicke would be in a more generous frame of mind now. Instead he is deeply offended, and says curtly, “Yes, once you’re out, father! But you won’t get out of this bin, not as long as you live!”

These pitiless words give the father such a shock that he begins trembling all over. But he manages to get a grip on himself, and says: “I’d like to see the man that could pin me down here! For the moment I’m still a free man, and Dr. Martens told me himself that if I keep off the sauce for six more weeks, I can leave. Cured.”

“You won’t be cured, father,” mocked Baldur. “You’ll never stay on the wagon. I’ve seen it often enough. I’ll tell the doctor so myself when I go, and make sure you’re sectioned.”

“He won’t do that! Dr. Martens is very fond of me; he says no one can tell stories like I can! He’ll not do that to me! And anyway he promised to let me go in six weeks!”

“But if I tell him you were just trying to persuade me to smuggle in a bottle for you, he might think differently about your progress!”

“You won’t do that, Baldur! You’re my son, I’m your father…”

“Where does that get us? It stands to reason I’m someone’s son, and I don’t think I was exactly lucky in the father stakes…”

He looked contemptuously at his father. Then he added, “No, Dad, I’d get used to it if I were you: you’ll be staying here. If you get out, all you’d do is bring disgrace on the whole family!”

The old man is desperate. He says, “Your mother will never permit that to happen, the thing with the sectioning, or me being detained here forever!”

“Well, I don’t think it’ll be as long as all that, from the look of you!” Baldur laughs and crosses his legs, with their nicely fitted riding breeches. Approvingly he views the sheen—his mother’s work—of his boots. “Mother’s so scared of you, she won’t even come and visit you. Don’t imagine she’s forgotten the times you grabbed her by the throat and choked her! She’ll not forget that!”

“Then I’ll write to the Führer!” yelled old Persicke in a rage. “The Führer won’t abandon an old fighter like me!”

“What good are you to the Führer? The Führer doesn’t give a shit about you; he’ll not waste his time looking at anything you scribble to him! Anyway, with your trembly old boozehound’s hands you’re not capable of writing anything, and they won’t allow any letter from you to leave these premises, I’ll see to that! If I was you, I wouldn’t waste the paper.”

“Baldur, take pity on me! You were a sweet little boy once! We used to go for walks together on Sundays! Do you remember we went up the Kreuzberg one time, and the water was so pretty, pink and blue? I always used to buy you wurst and sweets, and when you got into that trouble with the little girl when you were eleven, I made sure
you didn’t get thrown out of school and sent to a home! Where would you be without your old man, Baldur? You can’t let them keep me in this loony bin!”

Baldur had listened indifferently to this long outpouring. Now he said, “So you’re trying to pull out a few emotional stops, eh, Dad? Good idea. Only that sort of thing doesn’t work with me. You ought to know I don’t care about emotions. I’d rather have a proper ham sandwich than all the emotion in the world! But I don’t want to leave you without one more cigarette—hup, there you go!”

But the old fellow was too agitated to be able to think of smoking now, and the cigarette fell—to Baldur’s irritation—unregarded to the floor.

“Baldur!” wailed the old man again. “You don’t know what it’s like in here! They leave me to starve, and the warders keep on hitting me. The other inmates hit me as well. My hands are so shaky, I can’t fight back, and they even take my little bit of food away from me…”

While the old man was pleading with him, Baldur made ready to leave, but his father clung to him, and went on, even faster now, “And far worse things happen, too. Sometimes, if an inmate makes too much noise, a nurse will give him an injection with green stuff, I don’t know the name of it. It makes you puke and puke, you end up puking the soul out of your body, and then you’re gone. Just like that. Dead. Baldur, you wouldn’t want your own father to die like that, puking the soul out of his body, not your own father! Baldur, be kind, help me! Get me out of here, I’m so frightened!”

But Baldur had heard enough of these lamentations. He broke free from old Persicke, pushed him down into a chair, and said, “Well, so long, Dad! I’ll give Mum your regards! Remember there’s one more cigarette for you on the table. Don’t waste it!”

And with that, the son of his father was gone.

But Baldur did not leave the clinic immediately. Instead, he had himself announced to Dr. Martens. He was lucky: the doctor was present and available. He greeted his visitor politely, and for an instant the two men eyed one another warily.

Then the doctor said: “You attend a Napola school, Herr Persicke, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re quite right, I am at a Napola,” Baldur replied proudly.

“So much is being done for our young people nowadays,” said the doctor, nodding approvingly. “I wish I might have enjoyed such preferential treatment in my youth. You haven’t received your call-up yet, Herr Persicke?”

“I’d be surprised if the regular army bothered me,” said Baldur Persicke, with casual contempt. “I’ll probably be given a large estate to administer, in the Ukraine or Crimea. A few dozen square miles.”

“I see,” said the doctor.

“Are you in the Party, Dr. Martens?”

“Unfortunately not. To be absolutely honest with you, a grandfather of mine committed a little folly, the er, little aberration. You understand?” And quickly going on, “But it’s all been sorted out, my superiors have given me their support, and I’m registered as purebred Aryan. I mean to say, that’s what I am. So I hope to be permitted to wear the swastika before long.”

Baldur sat very erect. A pure Aryan himself, he felt vastly superior to the doctor, who needed to resort to such backstairs methods. “I wanted to talk to you about my father, Doctor,” he said, his tone almost that of a superior.

“Oh, your father’s doing fine, Herr Persicke! I think in six or eight weeks we’ll be able to send him home cured…”

“My father is incurable!” Baldur Persicke brusquely interrupted him. “My father has been drinking ever since I can remember. And if you release him in the morning as cured, he’ll arrive at home in the afternoon drunk as a skunk. We’ve had these sort of cures before. It is the wish of my mother and my siblings that my father spend the rest of his life here. I share their wish, Doctor!”

“Of course, of course!” the doctor hurriedly assured him. “I’ll have a word with the professor…”

“No need. This can be settled between us. The consequence of my father ever turning up at our home will be the arrival, that same day, of a completely inebriated man on your premises! That’s your so-called complete cure, Doctor, and I promise you that the consequences for you personally will not be pretty either!”

They eyed one another through their glasses. Unfortunately, the doctor was a coward: he lowered his eyes before the blatant impertinence of Baldur. He said, “Of course there is always a danger with hardened drinkers, with dipsomaniacs, as we say, of a relapse. And if, as you tell me, your father has always been a drinker…”

“He drank up his pub when he had it. He drank everything my mother earned. He would drink up everything we four children earned, if we allowed him to. My father stays here!”

“Your father stays here. Until further notice. If at some later stage, when the war is over, you form the impression while visiting your father that his condition…”

Again, Baldur Persicke interrupted the doctor. “My father will receive no visits, neither from me nor from my siblings, nor from my mother. We know he is in good hands here, and that’s enough for us.” Baldur looked piercingly at the doctor, and kept his eyes raised. Having spoken thus far in a loud, almost peremptory tone, he now continued more quietly, “My father mentioned a certain green injection, Doctor…”

The doctor gave a little twitch. “Purely a control measure. Very occasionally used for young and difficult patients. The advanced age of your father prohibits…”

Again, he was interrupted. “My father has already been given one of these green injections…”

The doctor exclaimed, “Out of the question! I’m sorry, Herr Persicke, there must be some misunderstanding!”

Baldur said severely, “My father told me about the injection. He told me it had done him good. Is there any reason why he cannot continue to receive such treatment, Doctor?”

The doctor was entirely confused. “But, Herr Persicke! It’s a control measure! The patient vomits for hours, sometimes for days!”

“Well, so what? Let him puke! Maybe he enjoys it! He assured me the green injection had done him good. He can’t wait for the next one. Why do you refuse him the drug, if it helps his condition?”

“No, no!” put in the doctor hurriedly. And, deeply ashamed, he added, “I really think there must be some misunderstanding. I have never once heard of a patient requesting…”

“Now, Doctor, who understands the patient better than his own son? And I’m my father’s favorite son, at that. I would really be most obliged if you would instruct the chief orderly, or whoever’s responsibility it is, to give my father an injection on the spot. It would mean my going home—so to speak—in a more tranquil frame of mind, having managed to satisfy the old man’s wish!”

Very pale now, the doctor stared at the other man.

“You really mean it, don’t you? Right now?” he murmured.

“Can you be in the least doubt as to what I mean, Doctor? I must say, for a senior practitioner, I find you rather, how shall I say, soft. You were quite right in what you said a moment ago, by the way: a spell at a Napola school would have developed your leadership qualities!” And he added maliciously, “And as far as your genetic flaw goes, you must know that there are other control methods…”

After a long pause, the doctor quietly said, “I’ll go and administer an injection to your father…”

“Dr. Martens, please, why go to the trouble personally? Why not leave it to the hospital orderly? Since it seems to be among his duties?”

The doctor was struggling with himself. There was silence in the room.

Slowly he got to his feet. “Then I will tell the hospital orderly…”

“I don’t mind accompanying you. Your enterprise here is fascinating to me. You know, the weeding out of those who are unfit for life, sterilizations, and so forth…”

Baldur Persicke stood by as the doctor gave the orderly his instructions. Patient Persicke was to receive such and such an injection…

“He means, a special puke jab, chum!” said Baldur ingratiatingly “How many cc’s do you give, normally? A few more wouldn’t hurt, in this case! Oh look, I have a few cigarettes over. Take the pack, senior orderly!”

The orderly thanked him and left, the syringe full of green liquid in his hand.

“Your senior orderly looks as strong as an ox! He’s not one to take any nonsense from the patients! Muscles, muscles are half of life, I always say, Dr. Martens! Well, my sincerest thanks, Doctor! I hope the treatment continues successfully! Heil Hitler, eh!”

“Heil Hitler, Herr Persicke!”

Back in his office, Dr. Martens slumped down in a chair. He was trembling all over and could feel a cold sweat on his brow. But he couldn’t calm down. He got up and went over to his medicine cabinet. Slowly he filled a syringe. But it wasn’t the green liquid that he filled it with, however appropriate it might be to puke at the state of the world and of his own life in particular. Dr. Martens preferred morphine.