THE AIR WAS HEAVY. ANOTHER STORM WAS THREATening and the V-shaped black clouds were like eyebrows scowling down on the camp. At least that’s how Dr. Beck rather saw them. The camp was quiet. Out of deference to the observant Jews, all activity was curtailed on the Sabbath. No football, no chess, no poetry being bellowed through the tents. He was sitting on a canvas chair in the “reading room,” where he had more space than beside his tent, which was cheek by jowl with the others. Beck often yearned for the privacy of the bed-sitting room that he’d rented from Mrs. Swann in the centre of Birmingham. He’d even started up his therapy practice again, and had three patients undergoing analysis when he’d been arrested. He hoped they were all right. He’d barely had time to relocate them with his colleague, Dr. Binswager, a fellow German who had been in England for some time and whose papers were quite in order.
Beck sighed. He should write to his wife but he’d already sent one of his two allowed letters to her. She had remained behind in Dover while he was establishing himself in Birmingham, and she too had been swept up in the surge of fear about aliens. Margareta wasn’t a strong woman and she was finding the quarters where the women were interned very uncomfortable. Understandably, as they were incarcerated in the old Holloway prison for women, a relic of the Victorian era. He was looking forward to seeing her when they were all sent to the Isle of Man. Surely, they’d be released soon.
He took his notebook from his box, wrote the date in one corner of the page, then chewed on the pencil. A shadow fell across his paper. He hadn’t seen Hoeniger approaching.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Beck. You are looking far too serious. Shall I disturb you or go away and leave you in peace?”
The seminarian was smiling at him mischievously.
“By all means disturb me. I am completely unproductive today.”
“I see you have your writing box with you. What are you working on today?”
“A paper for the London Journal of Psychoanalysis. It may or may not see the light of day but it keeps me occupied.”
“And the topic?”
“Do you really want to know? It’s quite esoteric.”
“I have already benefited from being in this camp with so many brilliant men, a little psychoanalysis would be a nice addition.”
Hoeniger plopped himself down on the grass, tucking his long soutane under his knees as a woman would. His gold cross glinted in the sun. Beck often thought the religious restrictions Father Glatz placed on the young seminarian might be oppressive, but Hoeniger always seemed agreeably compliant.
“All right. You asked for it. Perhaps explaining it to you will help me clarify my thoughts.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I am exploring the role of the analyst when presented with what appear to be paranoid delusions on the part of the patient.”
“Ah … will you explain that?”
“Certainly. Some more orthodox practitioners believe the analyst must under no circumstances break the bubble of delusion. That the patient will eventually come to see the reality if one simply continues with the psychoanalytic process … Others think that the patient must be presented with evidence that his beliefs are delusional, rather like metaphorically dousing them with cold water to bring them to their senses.”
“What view do you side with?” asked the seminarian.
Beck chewed more on the pencil. “It requires a lot of patience to wait out the paranoia, and sometimes, especially if an underlying psychosis is present, the delusions are never relinquished. What I have always taught my students is that trying to force the patient to face their own paranoia is a mistake. They will often end the analysis in a state of what we call negative transference, and the delusions will continue and proliferate.”
“This is all going over my head I’m afraid, Doctor. Can you give me an example? I do better with examples.”
“Certainly. Look at Professor Hartmann. It was imperative that he felt his, shall we call them, delusions were not being dismissed.”
“You mean when he was convinced that Herr Silber is a German spy?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe he is a spy? If not Silber, perhaps somebody else in the camp was coming and going. Maybe the professor wasn’t delusional.”
“Believe me, the poor man is in a severe fugue at the moment. I’m very concerned that he might not come out of it. On the other hand, you’re quite right. There can be a grain of truth in even the most outlandish belief.”
Hoeniger looked alarmed. “Oh dear, I was just playing the devil’s advocate. That’s a rather frightening thought.”
“Paranoia grows like a disease in times of war. But we cannot abandon trust and common sense. You should know that as a good Catholic.”
“I stand corrected.”
Both men were momentarily distracted. Alice Thorne was fastening her cart to one of the fence posts.
Hoeniger nodded in her direction. “In my opinion, there is a woman of courage. She is always trying to persuade us to take the peace pledge. Many people see that as supporting our enemies. I’ve seen men here get really angry with her, calling her traitor and so on.”
“What about you, as a man devoting his life to the Christian God of peace, have you taken the pledge?”
The seminarian grinned. “Of course. Does Mrs. Thorne live in town, by the way? I’d think she runs the risk of having people burning crosses on her lawn if she does.”
“Oh, no, she told me she has her own cottage in the woods. Perhaps for exactly that reason. She raises rabbits and fresh vegetables. She rescues unwanted dogs.”
“She is indeed saintly.”
Alice had put a wooden yoke around her neck from which dangled two baskets of apples. It was an old-fashioned but effective way to transport them. She disappeared into the mess tent.
Hoeniger lay back on the grass, his hands underneath his head. “Pretend I am one of your patients. Let’s say one of the three H’s.”
“Who?”
“Herr Hitler, Herr Heydrich, and Herr Himmler.”
Beck chuckled. “I have to say that one man I would truly have liked to have on my couch would be Herr Himmler.”
“Good heavens why? The man is a devil incarnate.”
“I don’t believe in devils, my dear Hans, just troubled men.”
“But why Herr Himmler? Why not Heydrich? Or the Fuhrer himself?”
“I have heard on the absolutely best authority that Herr Himmler suffers dreadfully from his stomach. I have no doubt that it is his guilt that is eating at him.”
Hoeniger squinted up at him. “Guilt about what?”
“He has acquired much power, but temperamentally I believe he is a timid man whose more natural inclination would be to follow a leader. However, he is also extremely ambitious, and the two opposing drives are creating an internal conflict which is causing his stomach distress.”
“Bah. And not that he eats too much sauerkraut and sausage for instance?”
“That too,” said Beck with a laugh. “So there you have it. Are you more enlightened now?”
“It’s been most edifying. Do you miss being in Berlin?”
“Very much. I joined the Berlin Psychoanalytic Institute in 1920, and was most content until the Nazi menace began to make itself felt. I had no choice but to leave.”
“When did you get out?”
“Right before the declaration of war in ’39. I was lucky.”
They heard a familiar clanging of the warning bell. A voice came over the loudspeaker.
“All internees to gather immediately in the mess tent. The major has an important message. All internees to gather immediately.”
“What’s that all about?” asked Hoeniger. “I must say, I always get the shivers, thinking that they’re going to announce England has been invaded.”
“Let’s hope not. We’re all sitting ducks in here. Come on, we’d better go.”
Beck closed up his file box and tucked it under his arm, and the two of them joined the flow of men walking to the tent.
The doctor felt chilled to the bone. He’d been quite sanguine when he was talking to Hoeniger, but there was a terrifying tide of evil that had been unleashed upon the world, and he had a sinking feeling that this little backwater was far from exempt.