IT WASN’T JUST THE STORM THAT HAD DRIVEN MOST of the internees into the mess tent. The nervousness was palpable. Groups of men huddled together or wandered around the various tables, seeking reassurance, questioning, fearful.
Dr. Beck had gone to meet with Fordham early that morning and now the men were waiting eagerly for him to return. They went quiet as he entered and walked briskly to the podium. He cleared his throat. “The commandant himself will address us all later this evening, but he assures me that there will be no more searches. He is content that we are not criminals and we are hiding nothing. I reported the incident of a guard pointing his rifle into the compound and he has promised to deal with the young man in question. He also says we will be transferred to better quarters soon. That is to the Isle of Man, for some of us. He will do his best to speed up the tribunal process so that we will not be held longer than is necessary.”
Some men let out a cheer. The slowness of the tribunals – the only chance they had to plead their cases – was a source of great aggravation.
“Now I suggest we return to our regular activities,” continued Beck. “I do believe the chess championship will soon be decided, not to mention the football cup.”
The men began to gradually disperse. Father Glatz and the seminarian approached Beck.
“How is Herr Hartmann?” asked the priest.
Howard Silber was nearby and jumped in. “I hope he’s not going to accuse me of being a spy again?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Beck. “He’s back in the real world today. But his lucidity is tenuous. I wondered if I could leave him your care, Father, while I have my meeting with the policeman.”
“So that’s why you’re all dressed up,” chuckled Silber. “I thought it had to be for more than just the major.”
Beck was wearing a neat navy blazer, white duck trousers, and a straw panama.
“Obviously an important meeting,” said the actor. He brushed some hairs off Beck’s lapel. “You have trimmed your beard for the occasion, I see.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m going to present the inspector with an article I wrote.”
Silber threw up his hands in mock horror. “Let me guess. The game of chess as a manifestation of the Oedipal conflict. The entire aim is the capture of the king, the queen is all powerful, and the pawns are like children, weak and disposable.”
“That is not the subject of my article,” said Beck. “However, you make a good point. I have noticed that it is particularly men who are drawn to the game. What does it say of our own Oedipal complex, that Father Glatz and I are both compulsive players? Are we resolved or unresolved?” He smiled a rather professorial smile intended to disarm.
The priest smiled back good-naturedly. “I was always of the opinion I had grown up with respect and admiration for my father and a normal healthy affection for my mother. Shouldn’t that make me rather bad at chess?”
“I cannot tell from what you are saying whether or not it is a good thing that I am mediocre at the game,” said Hans Hoeniger. “Do I therefore have a well-balanced personality?” His eyes danced with mischief. Beck came in for a lot of teasing in the camp. Although he was highly respected, many of the internees considered the practice of psychoanalysis perilously close to the art of telling fortunes through the cards or tea leaves.
Beck wagged his finger at them. “You are both being far too simplistic. Unless I analyze you, I cannot determine all the complexities of your respective personalities.”
“Remind me not to start,” laughed Hoeniger. “But I am all ears. What is the article you are presenting to the inspector?”
Beck tapped at his pocket. “I presented this to the London Psychoanalytic Society in thirty-eight. It is entitled ‘The Urge to Confess: an Analysis of the Criminal Mind.’ Given the recent circumstances, I hope it will be helpful to him.”
“A provocative title. I would like to read it. Do you have another copy?”
The professor looked pleased. “I’m afraid this is the only one and it’s an English edition. But I would be happy to present the gist of my argument at the psychology club meeting, if you wish. However, you will have to be content with something a little less polished than I would like. I have not yet been able to obtain my complete files.” He shook his head. “I was arrested quite abruptly and had hardly time to pack anything.”
“As were so many of us, Herr Doktor,” said Silber. “Fortunately, a dear friend sent me a few books, so I am not totally bereft. Surely there is somebody who would do that for you?”
“I have sent word to my landlady, but so far she has not replied.”
“I think everybody would be delighted to hear what you have to say, polished or no,” said Glatz. “Don’t you agree, Herr Silber? Hans?”
“No good asking me,” said Silber. “I don’t have time for anything except the drama club. I’ve promised to do a version of Henry V before we disband.” He shrugged at their expressions. “If you want to understand the English soul, you have to be familiar with Henry V.” He thrust his fist into the air. “ ‘God for Harry, England and St. George.” ’ With a theatrical swirl he strode off, shouting out, “Gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here …”
Father Glatz looked at Beck. “Is the man a genius, do you think?”
“He thinks he is,” said Hoeniger.
A football suddenly bounced toward them, almost hitting the professor on the head. A tanned and lithe young man in a singlet and shorts came darting between the tents.
“Oops, sorry gentlemen.” He grabbed the ball and dashed off again.
“Bader, you shouldn’t be playing so close to the tents,” Father Glatz shouted after him.
“There’s another subject worthy of your analysis, Dr. Beck,” said Hoeniger. “The obsession mankind has with trying to get round objects of various sizes into some kind of crevice, also of variable size.”
Beck chuckled. “Very good, Hans. Very good. You’ve been paying attention to my talks I see.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I must get to my appointment. Good luck with the championship. Father, if Herr Hartmann gets restless, see if you can persuade him to do some violin practice. That usually soothes him.”
Beck headed off toward the gate.
“You can use my chess set for the game,” said Father Glatz to the seminarian.
Hoeniger beamed in delight. “How generous of you, Father.”
The chess set was the Jesuit’s prized possession, brought out only under special circumstances. The pieces were polished rosewood and exquisitely carved; each one, including the pawns, had different features. Philipp Glatz obeyed his vow of poverty, but had never been able to relinquish this set, which was a gift from his father.
Hoeniger nodded in the direction of the guard tower. “They don’t seem to be interested in us today, thank goodness.”
“Keep your eye out. Any further infraction and we’ll report it again. Come on, I’ll give you the chess set and collect Professor Hartmann, poor fellow.”