Otto Schreyer ushered his last patient out the back door of his office, trying to conceal his irritation that Frau Katz had once again contrived to linger past her hour. She always managed to introduce an important dream five minutes before her time was up. He knew he had to confront her with this behaviour, which was unconsciously intended to make him annoyed with her, but he knew she’d be wounded and then he’d have to deal with that. He sighed. He probably had a counter-transference toward the lonely widow that he ought to bring up at his next supervisory session.
“Gute nacht.”
“Gute nacht, Herr Doktor.”
He locked the door behind her, picked up his jacket and hat from the coat tree, and walked over to the other door. All analysts’ offices were set up so that a patient could enter by one door and exit by another and not run the risk of being seen by the other patients. He opened the entry door and was almost nose to nose with a man in a long leather coat.
“Ah, thank goodness I caught you, Doctor. My name is Bosen. I am from the Security police, and I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
Otto did mind. He had been looking forward to going to his bowling club for a game and a beer. However, there was something about the man that was intimidating. Otto made a show of consulting his watch.
“I am on my way to another appointment.”
“I won’t keep you.”
Bosen extended his arm for all the world as if it were his office and he was ushering Otto into it. Otto had no choice but to return to his desk. He sat down again and the visitor took the other chair.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Doctor, as you are in a hurry. It has come to our attention that this institute, against regulations, has been accepting patients who are non-Aryan, and that some of the analysts themselves are non-Aryan. As you must know, this is against the law.”
Otto stiffened. “That has nothing to do with me. You must take it up with the director.”
“Yes, of course, I intend to do so, but it has come to our attention that you yourself are in violation of these laws.”
“I don’t know to what you are referring,” said Otto, swallowing hard but determined not to be cowed. “I am a pure German. I can show you my papers to prove it.”
“Ah yes. We have checked that, but you are a junior analyst at the institute, are you not? You are still required to be under supervision.”
Otto’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next.
“I am. It is a regulation.”
“Who is your supervisor?”
If he’d checked on Otto’s ethnic status, he probably already knew the answer.
“Dr. Reitman.” He dared a little. “He is also a German, from a well-established family here in Berlin.”
“But he has only been your supervisor for a short time. Before that it was Dr. Bruno Beck? Who is a Jew.”
“That’s correct, but Dr. Beck is no longer here. He has emigrated to England.”
Bosen made a show of fishing out a notebook from his pocket and flipping it open.
“Ah yes. The Jew was here at the institute until August of 1939. Before that, contrary to the law, he was accepting patients and was a fully functioning member of the institute.”
“I believe that Dr. Beck was here strictly as a consultant, which was permitted. If he did have patients, they were Jewish only.”
“I am glad to hear it. However, given this irregularity, I am authorized to examine your papers for the period from January to August of last year.”
Otto gaped at him. “My papers? What do you mean?”
“It’s quite simple,” said Bosen with a touch of ice in his voice. “You take notes on your patients, do you not? I want to see them for the period I just mentioned.”
“But they are confidential. They have nothing to do with what you are investigating.”
“I am the best judge of that.”
Otto could feel his heart beating faster. They were alone in the office, the secretaries had left. It was a lovely summer evening and he could hear the sound of children playing outside. He was a young man, naïve and inexperienced in many ways, yet he could sense that he was facing something more malevolent than anything he had yet known. He put his hands palms down on the desk.
“I’m afraid you will have to speak to the director. I have no authority to show you confidential material.”
Bosen didn’t reply but glanced around the room. In one corner was a filing cabinet.
“I quite understand your scruples, Doctor, and I admire you for them. However, the safety of the fatherland supersedes all such petty concerns. Besides, what would I be looking at? The trivial meanderings of neurotic, self-indulgent intellectuals who should be fighting for their country.”
Stung, Otto replied with more spirit than he’d yet shown. “You’re quite wrong about that. The majority of our patients are women, unhappy women for the most part, and surely they have a right to get to the bottom of their unhappiness? After all, if you had a cancer, you would go for treatment would you not? It is not any different.”
The other man didn’t answer, but the look he gave Otto was full of contempt. “In fact, it is one such woman that I am particularly interested in.” He glanced at his notebook. “Frau Mueller is her name. She was one of your patients. Do you remember her?”
Otto felt himself go cold. Of course, he remembered Frau Mueller. She was his first case, and from the beginning there was something about her that had troubled him.
“Why are you interested in this woman in particular? She was not Jewish. There was nothing illegal in her coming here for analysis.”
“As I said previously, Doctor, allow me to be the judge of that.” Bosen got to his feet so abruptly that Otto jumped. “You said you had an appointment. Let’s not waste time. Give me the notes. I will give you a receipt, all quite above board, and I will let you go.”
Otto shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. If my director says it is all right to hand them over I shall do so, but I’m afraid without his authorization I cannot do it.”
The other man walked over to the window. “You are making things so much more complicated than they need to be, Doctor.” He turned and studied Otto for a few moments. “By the way, as we are talking about confidentiality and you seem to be prepared to defend the principle to the death, were these notes confidential? No little seminar group pored over them, I assume? Just you and Dr. Beck.”
“That’s right.”
“Does he have copies of your notes?”
“Yes, he does.”
Bosen began to pull on his gloves as if he were leaving. Almost abstractly, Otto noted this. A warm summer evening and the man was wearing leather gloves. “One more thing. According to my sources, Frau Mueller sent you some photographs, did she not?”
“I must object to your question, sir. Whether she did or did not is still within the bounds of confidentiality.”
“Ah yes. That word again. You weren’t raised a Catholic by any chance, were you Doktor?”
“No … I don’t see …”
“I was, and you sound like some of the priests I have known.”
He reached into his pocket, took out a thin narrow case, and opened it. He removed a syringe, and before Otto could move, before he could comprehend what was happening, Bosen stepped forward and plunged the syringe deep into the artery in the side of his neck.