Only moments ago, I witnessed a pack of wolves race across the river and pull down a male deer. It happened so quickly, and before the train passed out of view, the deer’s blood began to spread in a slow red dance across the ice. Horrible, yes, but quite amazing.
Ah, Christoph. You say, “Get to the point.” You know I am Master of Procrastination when it comes to matters concerning your mother.
Two months ago, I received a telegram from Superintendent Hastings of the Rochester Asylum for the Insane. The message contained three words:
Come at once.
What trouble has your mother gotten into this time? I will not allow myself to waste energy on premature worry. If she is dead or dying, I shall find out soon enough. Am I callous? It is only because I learn from the past.
Let me say this; here, complete honesty is in order. You know how I skip timidly around the subject of Gerta, but to do so would be a disservice to you. So let’s cast all molly-coddling aside, and I shall treat you like the man you’d be if you were still with us.
And of course you are still with me here, Christoph, in my heart.
January 13, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
To travel so far, only to find I’ve been the subject of a hoax. I should’ve known from the beginning. I should’ve confirmed the telegram with Superintendent Hastings, but what does your father do when it comes to matters of family? He does not question. He drops everything, his appointments, his classes, his studies, and tramples like a blind rhinoceros into the glass factory.
I arrived in such a state of excitement, not bothering to shave or comb my hair, that Dr. Hastings didn’t recognize me. He pushed away from his desk as if ready to fend off a bear.
I held out my hands in supplication. “Please.” I showed him the telegram. “What is this?”
He stared hard at me, and then relaxed. “Zwick? Is that you?” He squinted at the telegram. “I didn’t send this.”
“Surely, you joke?”
Hastings grinned perplexedly and adjusted his red velvet tie. His black double-breasted suit hung loosely on his small frame. “Wouldn’t be much of a joke, would it?”
“Then who—”
It was your mother, Christoph. Who else could it be?
You laugh. You say, “Father, surely you knew.” And you are so right. But I was too stubborn to listen to myself!
Hastings led me out of the red brick receiving building and into the frozen night. We trudged through fresh snow to the women’s wing of the dormitory. My eyes stung with cold. I had to rest in the entryway of the building to stop shivering. “How in God’s name could a patient send a telegram from these grounds?” I asked.
Hastings stomped the snow from his boots. “I’m sorry, Brahm, but you know the liberties our patient’s enjoy. Gerta has vacated the premises twice in the last year, and was found both times in Rochester. She obviously sent the telegram during her last absence.”
“Take me to her, then.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy on her. Surely you realize the guilt she feels for the loss of your son. The telegram was merely a cry of loneliness. It’s been years since you visited.”
Gerta’s room is small and smells of tulips. She lay asleep on a single bed beneath a blue quilt. I quietly sat on a wicker rocking chair next to her bed. On top of a dresser I recognized her wedding ring sitting in a glass dish like a piece of candy. And her necklace — do you remember the one? A modest braid of gold, around which hang five small crucifixes.
She stirred. “Do you recognize my wedding present?”
The sweetness of your mother’s voice surprised me. She sat up in bed, the quilt falling from her naked bosom.
“Cover yourself,” I said.
“Must I be so modest in front of my husband?”
I glared at her and thrust forth the telegram. “Did you send this?”
She barely gave it a glance. “I had no choice.”
“Do you understand how difficult it is to drop everything, rearrange everything to come here?”
“Isn’t that why you chose this place?”
I threw up my hands. “I only chose it so you’d receive the best care.”
Gerta slid her legs out from beneath the covers. She held out her hand. “I missed you.”
I pulled her from bed, but refused her embrace. Instead, I turned her around and examined her. Scratches covered the backs of her arms and legs. “What have you done to yourself?”
She twisted away and fell on the bed, burying her face in the pillow. “It was a mistake to send for you.”
“What do you want with me?”
She raised her head from the pillow.
Christoph, I have never seen such a pitiful face, so wet with tears, her lips swollen and cracked, cheeks mottled and puffy.
She whispered, “I want nothing. Go back to Berlin.”
She spit.
I left her naked and crying on the bed.
More later. May God bless and keep you,
Brahm.
January 14, 1898
My Dearest Christoph,
Your mother rests.
Superintendent Hastings urged me to stay at least one more day. He was eager to show me the improvements in the buildings and grounds since my last visit. I slept on the sofa in his office, and despite my temper, fell quickly asleep.
It is indeed a remarkable place. Many of the patients, including your mother, are free to roam the grounds at their leisure. There are no gates, nothing to keep them locked in, yet they stay of their own free will. Far removed is this institution from the asylums of mere decades ago, when for a small fee, the public could stroll through them as if touring a zoo.
Christoph, a limestone quarry sits on the asylum grounds and employs a dozen patients. More are employed on the farm where they grow all manner of things: peas, squash, corn, green beans, apples — they even have a greenhouse in which they cultivate bananas! They raise and slaughter hogs and cattle. And next to the slaughterhouse, a soap house makes use of the fat. Did you know, Christoph, that they provide soap for all the other institutions in this state? Truly amazing.
Every Tuesday night, entertainers arrive from Rochester. Singers, musicians, thespians, magicians. The patients are encouraged to share their own talents, and today as we toured the grounds, we passed a trio equipped with banjo, clarinet, and tambourine. They’d cut the fingers from their mittens in order to play their instruments even on these coldest of days. They begged Hastings to sing a verse with them, but he politely declined with promises to join them later with his ukulele.
Then there are the caves, dug by the patients themselves. The largest of them is U-shaped for a horse and cart to enter, unload its produce in one of numerous storage niches, and exit the cave without having to back up and turn around. A smaller cave, more recently dug, is used to store bodies during the winter until the ground thaws in the spring. Three unfortunate souls rest there now, none with relatives to claim them.
Your mother wakes.
Later—
My last entry was made in a state of serenity, but now my hand shakes, and I don’t know how to get the words out.
I must pace myself.
When your mother woke, she looked at me as if I was a stranger, but recognition crept over her face like the wax of a melting candle. “Did you hear him?” she asked.
“Whom?”
She rushed from the bed and fell to her knees in front of me. “Christoph. Have you heard him?”