I Confess (34 page)

"You pig!" he screamed. "You filthy pig! You filthy liar! The mouse is mine! Mine! Mine!"

I rammed his head under one of the pillows, I wound the sheet around his legs, then I ran out the door and locked it behind me. The next thing I heard was him pounding against it, yelling obscenities. I took the box and carried it into the kitchen and cut the mouse loose with a knife. The little creature was terrified, she could barely crawl. But I couldn't leave her in the kitchen. I could hear Martin's ravings in the bedroom.

At the back of the apartment there was a balcony. I poured a little milk into a small bowl and put it, and the mouse beside it, out on the balcony and locked the balcony door. I hid the key. Then I went back into the bedroom, made uneasy by the sudden stillness there. Perhaps

Martin had choked to death or jumped out of the wm-

dow.

He was sittmg on the edge of the bed as I came in. By the dim Ught of the lamp standing on the bedside table his huge pale face bore a startling resemblance to Yolanda's painted features. He was looking at me with eyes that gUt-tered with maniacal hatred.

"You took her away from me,** he said softly.

"Yes, Martin. A hving mouse is not a toy."

He wasn't listening. "I hope you die," he said. *T hope you have to die soon and that it hurts you to die and that you have to scream all the time and that nobody and nothing can help you. That's what I hope."

He fell back on the bed and turned over on his stomach. I turned out the hght. "Goodnight, Martin."

He didn't answer. I walked into the next room and began to pack hastily. I took ver>^ few things with me; there was room for them in Martin's suitcase. I put the money for him in an envelope and laid it on the table. Then I opened the bedroom door softly and hstened to his quiet breathing. He was asleep.

I put out all the hghts and left the apartment. It was eleven-fifteen. I knew that at eleven forty-five the Arlberg Express left Vienna. I had enough time. I crept through the dark hall to the front door of the house and opened it. It wasn't raining anymore. The night was lit milkily by the street lamps, their light filtered through the fog. The house door fell shut behind me and I began to walk quietly down the street.

Ten steps later I saw him. He was leaning against one of the lamp posts, smoking. His spectacles glistened. I stopped.

"I was expecting you," Dr. Freund said quietly.

I leaned against the wall of the house behind me and breathed deep. It hurt me to breathe. "You were running away?"

I nodded.

He looked at me for a long time. Not angrily. "Herr

Frank," he said finally, in his soft voice, "you can't run away anymore. No man can run away forever. For every human being there comes a day when he must stop running and stand with his back to the wall, as you are doing now, and face reality."

"And why," I asked, "can't I flee anymore?"

He was smiling. The light from the street lamp cast something akin to a halo around his absurd hat. "Because you promised me that you'd stay, Herr Frank. Decent people keep their promises."

"I am not a decent person," I said.

"Oh yes you are," he replied. "You've got to be a decent person."

"Why do you say that?" I cried wildly. But I knew that this ridiculous little man would turn out to be stronger than I.

"Because I believe in you," said Dr. Freund. He took my hand. "Come," he said and led me like a child back to my house. "Go to bed now. And sleep. Tomorrow we'll talk about it."

I nodded. I was so tired I could barely stand on my feet, and I longed for sleep. I gave him the key to the gate and he opened it for me. "Good night, Herr Frank," he said. "And one more thing. I'm going home now too. I know I don't have to stand watch any longer." And with that he left me.

I looked after him until he disappeared around the next comer. Then I went back to the apartment. Martin was fast asleep; he was snoring a little. I lay down on the second bed on which Yolanda had once slept. I didn't undress that night. I lay there, staring up at the white ceiling. The branches of the bare trees outside the window cast restless shadows on it.

"Pedagogues the world over have come to the conclusion that the fate and development of a man depends on the influences ^of his environment in early childhood," said Dr. Freund. He was sitting opposite me in his office at the school, a large room with walls tinted light yellow and enormous windows overlooking the tracks of the West-bahn. The furniture was painted in bright colors and on the walls hung framed drawings by children.

I had arrived at the school with Martin at eight a.m. He was still furious and refused to pay any attention to me. The school—a former Nazi structure—had been built in that cold, colossal style favored by the Third Reich and was very ugly. The new owners, who had taken over the building from the City of Vienna after the war, seemed also to have found the building hideous and had done what they could about it. The stairwell and the wide halls had been decorated by children with painted flowers, little villages, animals, humans and trains—all out of proportion to one another, but all of them colorful, executed boldly and full of fantastic detail. Plants and flowers stood in every window niche, and show cases had been attached to the walls, filled with all sorts of toys made by children, needlework and educational aids.

I could see that Martin was attracted to it all. His eyes darting nervously, he walked with me through a crowd of lively children, hurrying to their classes. What fascinated him most was a large; modem kitchen which we passed on the first floor. The door was open, and he stopped to watch six girls who were at the range, cooking, cleaning

vegetables and peeling potatoes. His first question after Dr. Freund had greeted him warmly was concerned with this kitchen.

"Oh," said Dr. Freund. "Didn't I tell you that we do our own cooking here? We cook for everybody in the school, and at midday we all eat together. Cooking is part of the curriculum, just like arithmetic and German. The girls cook one week, the boys the next."

Martin snorted derisively. "Boys can't cook!"

"That's what you think," said Dr. Freund. "They can cook very well."

"How is that possible?'*

"Because they've been taught how to. You can be taught anything. You won't beheve me, I know, but during the week that the boys cook, the girls have carpentry. Our girls can saw wood, drive in nails, solder ... and our boys can crochet and knit and darn socks."

Martin's snort had turned into genuine laughter. "WeU, this Is a funny school."

"I told you it was a funny school," said Dr. Freund, "and I think you're going to like it. What do you want to start with—needlework or cooking?"

"Cooking!" cried Martin.

Just then a young teacher came in. She smiled and shook hands with Martin and told him to come with her. Every child had to undergo a thorough medical examination before being admitted.

"But I thought I was going to cook!" Martin cried angrily.

"Tomorrow,'* said Dr. Freund. "First you have to go with Fraulein Friede. In two hours you'll be back. Then you can stay with us."

"All right," said Martin.

When he had left, I asked Dr. Freund if he wasn't apprehensive about accepting Martin in a well established little community like this, and he began to explain his method. He spoke about the decisive role the feeling for one's environment played in the life of a human being.

i

"This feeling for his environment, or, if you like, his sensitivity toward the community, gives man the ability to relate to his surroundings, to estabUsh contact; to seek friendship and to give it, to love and to receive love, to enjoy normal relationships and to live a normal hfe in a normal environment with all its privileges and responsibilities," He lighted a cigarette. He was evidently a heavy smoker; it had yellowed the tips of his fingers. "The first person with whom the child establishes contact is his mother. She is the first human being from whom he receives kindness, love, friendship, who feeds, warms, caresses and protects him, and the child reacts to such treatment reciprocally, by developing the same characteristics."

It was warm in his office; the central heating under the window chcked and rumbled. I leaned back in my chair. The atmosphere of the place was beginning to have a comforting effect on me.

"We have examined the reactions of a large number of children to certain events and have divided-them into three groups: those with an undisturbed childhood, with a mother who was always there for them; another group who grew up completely separated from their mothers; a third group who started life with the mother present, then were separated from her, and after a long time were brought together again." Dr. Freund leaned forward; his voice became penetrating. "We came to the conclusion that a separation of six months—six months," he repeated, "in a child's early development, sufficed to reduce his sensitivity toward his surroundings, reduce it considerably and irrevocably."

"What do you mean—irrevocably? You mean for his entire Hfe?"

"For his entire life, Herr Frank."

"And this sensitivity can't be recharged?"

"It is possible to recharge it, but it is an enormously lengthy and complicated procedure."

"But good God!" Suddenly and quite illogically I was

terribly excited. "What if the mother dies? That's no crime. She can't help it."

"If there is someone to take her place right away, the unfortunate results I have described can be avoided. Then the child seeks, in this surrogate, a person to whom he can relate similarly. However, in the cases I have treated, there was no surrogate." He looked at me and suddenly, like Martin, I looked away from his clear sharp eyes. "I understand," I said.

(Dear God, what had happened to me? Where had I landed? Was I to pay for the crimes of strangers? Perhaps. Somebody always paid. Life was a good bookkeeper.)

"And how . . . how do you hope to restore Martin's damaged sensitivity?"

"By giving him someone to take his mother's place."

"Whom?" I asked, panicstricken.

He smiled gently. "Me."

I sank back in my chair. "Yes," I said. "You are in a position to do it, and you know how."

His eyes were still boring holes into me. "Herr Frank," he said softly, "did you grow up with both parents?"

I didn't think. My words came of their own accord. "No. Only with my father. My parents were divorced. My father was the injured party."

He nodded and lit a fresh cigarette on the stub of the old one. Suddenly I was afraid of him! "What do you mean? Why do you ask?" I said and had the feeling that with my answer I Jiad betrayed everything—the embezzlement, the murder—everything! Now he knew me inside out, I thought. My God, what an idiot I was!

"It isn't important, Herr Frank. I was just interested. Let's go on talking about Martin."

"Yes," I said. "Let's go on talking about Martin." (We were talking about me while we were talking about Mar-tin, that was clear as daylight, )

"It may prove very difficult to repair Martin's sensitivity to his surroundings. So much time has passed since the disappearance of the mother and my entrance as a substi-

tute. You mustn't expect miracles. Martin's recovery, even if it's possible, will take months . . . years. All I can say is: what we are trying here is the only thing that can still be tried. Moreover—even if we can't cure him, we can certainly improve his condition."

"I'm sure of that," I said. "But there's one thing that disturbs me. If it is your intention to be the someone to whom he will relate normally, then I am only in the way. Isn't that so? Under the circumstances, wouldn't it be better if he were living with you, here in the school?"

He shook his head. "No, Herr Frank. On the contrary. You are a highly important figure in my plan. You are his father. But he has established no relationship with you yet. You are a stranger to him, whereas me he knows, and to some extent trusts."

"All right then," I said. "But if he doesn't trust me, then he probably doesn't even like me, then he's in a state of opposition toward me, perhaps even afraid of me."

Dr. Freund nodded. "Good. He should be afraid of you."

"He should be afraid of me?"

"Yes, Herr Frank. You see, fifteen years ago, the ideal thing was an upbringing in a life without fear. But a life without fear no longer exists. If we raise a child today without fear, then it will be helpless when it has to face fear." He shook his head. "No, Herr Frank, in our time, with its social needs, its threat of war, it would be a crime to raise a child to a life without fear. We must educate him to face a Ufe filled with fear . . ."

"But . . ."

"... yet at the same time condition him to overcome this fear," said little Dr. Freund and threw back his head with the regal gesture of a monarch.

"And how are you going to proceed with Martin?" I asked after a pause.

He got up and began to pace up and down. "In a case as advanced as his, we must use force. A shock treatment. I don't mean physical shock," he went on hastily as he saw my expression of alarm. He was standing in front of j me now. "Come along with me," he said.

"Where to?"

"We are going to prepare a little drama before Martin gets back."

I followed him through the building, where it was quiet now, and up to the next floor. He stopped in front of a door. "This is a classroom. Next door there is a room where we run films. The wall has a few small windows for the projection system. You can watch the class through them and hear everything that's being said without being seen."

He opened the door and led me into a small projection room. In one wall I could see the openings he had mentioned. I walked up to them. Dr. Freund closed the door behind me and I was alone in the dark. Through one of the openings I could see a big, light classroom. About thirty boys and girls were seated. A teacher was standing at the blackboard, explaining something. Arithmetic. Subtractions. I could see Dr. Freund enter the classroom. The students rose. The teacher went to him and they shook hands.