|
Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 |
part 2
At seven o’clock in the evening, as I was locking my office, I received an unexpected visitor. It was one of the Gestapo agents who had come for me in the past. Hamburger was already gone for the day, so there was nobody to rescue me this time. Oddly, the prospect of being taken away did not terrify me.
“Do not be alarmed,” the agent began. “I’m not here to arrest you.”
I believed him. The Gestapo agents did not usually operate solo. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair.
“It’s late,” I said. “My family is waiting for me.”
“I know. I was waiting to speak with you in private. It’s a delicate matter.”
“Make it brief.”
“My nephew... He’s two years old and doesn’t speak at all. We suspect he cannot hear very well... or the sounds simply don’t register.”
“What does his pediatrician say?”
“He hasn’t been seen by one... in over a year. That’s the delicate part. I’d like you to be the one to examine him. I’d be much obliged.”
“Bring him to the clinic during the working hours.”
“I was hoping you’d make a house call. Is it too much to ask?”
“My schedule at the clinic is rather full.”
“I’m aware of that. You’ll be compensated for your time.”
“Why me? I’m not the only pediatrician in Vienna, you know.”
“But you’re the best, Dr. Asperger. You write the best notes. They are known to seal fates.”
“You need a referral to Am Spiegelgrund? I can write it without seeing the child.”
“No!”
The exclamation came out a little louder than he intended. His voice echoed through the empty halls of the clinic.
I felt a dormant beast stir within me. It was my turn to torment another man, to induce anxiety.
“You don’t want your nephew to go to Am Spiegelgrund? He’ll be in expert hands. They are miracle workers there.”
“I need you to write a note stating that my nephew wasn’t born defective. There aren’t any problems with our bloodline. No deafness or muteness. I don’t know why he still isn’t speaking. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to write something convincing.”
How could I refuse a man with a Walther pistol? We went back inside the office. I turned on the desk lamp and pulled out a blank form used for recording diagnoses.
“What’s the child’s name?”
“Felix Koch.”
“Date of birth?”
“July 16, 1941.”
That was easy enough.
The patient’s partial hearing impairment is a complication from scarlet fever. No genetic component suspected. Institutionalized care not recommended. The child is expected to thrive under the supervision of his parents.
Heil Hitler
I put the form in an envelope and slid it across the desk without looking the visitor in the eye.
“I hope this is sufficient. Now, I’d like to go home to my family.”
The man continued standing in front of me, blocking my exit, his attitude more desperate than menacing. “Don’t you remember me, Hans?”
“I honestly don’t.”
“We went to the same church.”
“It was a big parish.”
“It surely was. It’s not as big anymore. Catholic masses seem to have fallen out of fashion. It’s a pity. I was a few years younger than you. My name is Robert Koch.”
“A very common name.”
“We sang in the children’s choir together. That was before you started wearing glasses. Then your voice changed, and you were moved to the tenor section.”
“You must be mistaking me for someone else. I don’t sing.”
“Don’t be coy, Hans. Your singing may not have been worthy of the Vienna Opera House, but it wasn’t painful to the ears either. You could carry a tune. I look back on those days fondly. We were doing God’s work. And now...”
We’re doing the Führer’s work. Some of us more enthusiastically than others. I knew what the man was doing. He was trying to lure me into a trap. He already saw that I was willing to forge a diagnosis. Now he wanted to see if I would say something out loud against Hitler. Then he would have a legitimate reason to arrest me and drag me to the Hotel Metropole that served as the Gestapo headquarters.
“I didn’t have your brain, Hans,” he said. “I wasn’t good at science. I couldn’t become a doctor or engineer. So, I became a policeman instead.”
What a fool! Did he think that engineers were safe from the regime? If you live in Austria, you work for the Reich. That includes street sweepers and shoe shiners.
“Herr Koch, you got what you wanted,” I said. “This concludes our visit. I hope there will be no reason for us to speak again. Now, if you would kindly step out of my way.”
That night I did not go home right away. I got inside my car, turned on the engine and just sat there for about ten minutes, rocking back and forth and moaning, a secret self-soothing technique I used very seldom. I have seen many of my patients engage in this behavior that served no apparent purpose. They could keep it up for hours.
Oddly, their joints did not seem to be damaged by this prolonged reeling. I examined their spines, and there was no evidence of wear and tear. To be truthful, I see so much of myself in my patients. We have a tacit, intuitive understanding. Before the war, Frankl used to joke that I was a little autistic myself. What’s a few cheeky taunts between colleagues, dispensed in private? Frankl’s comments were not intended to provoke or incriminate me, but they were not entirely off the mark. He saw something in me, something I could not dispute. As a child, I was solitary and distant, prone to reciting poetry to my uninterested peers. Though they made no active effort to torment me, they ignored me.
My name is Hans Asperger, and I am an autistic psychopath. I am also a coward and a liar, unworthy of life.
I did not have to go home that night. I could drive into a wall and make my death look like an accident. Hanna and the children would be spared the stigma from my suicide. The Reich would take the widow under its black wing. She would want for nothing. And I would never have to write another referral, another death sentence. Someone else would have to take over this dirty job. I know that the church frowns upon such drastic measures, but in my case, it would be the lesser of two evils.
There are quite a few prominent Austrians who took that path. Arthur Schnitzler, one of my favorite authors known for his psychological dramas, lost a daughter to suicide. I remember reading the newspaper article. She was only eighteen when she shot herself in the chest with a revolver. Stefan Zweig, another prominent Viennese author, overdosed on barbiturates in Rio de Janeiro just a year ago. His wife Lotte joined him in death. And how can one forget the Mayerling incident of the past century! It was another famous suicide pact involving the crown prince Rudolf and his seventeen-year old mistress.
And all those Jewish colleagues of mine who poisoned themselves in ’38? Hamburger forbade mentioning their names, as they were part of the clinic’s shameful past, but I thought of them often. There are so many clean, painless ways to exit this world. I may not be ready to take that leap just yet, but it’s comforting to know that it’s an option.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Marina J. Neary