Horst told him to stand, turned him, told him to walk.
Virág obeyed.
“Get dressed,” said Horst.
Lucius stepped forward. “Please. You can’t take him, Lieutenant. Even yesterday, he thought we were under attack. He’s still sick. He doesn’t even know where he is.”
Horst ignored him. “Dress,” he said.
Again Lucius interrupted. “Lieutenant. These are my patients. I have my duties.”
Now Horst turned to look at him again. He said, “Your patients? These men belong to the Emperor.” He paused. For a moment he looked at Lucius as if seeing something he hadn’t seen before. “How old are you anyway? Nineteen? Eighteen?”
Lucius didn’t answer. “You can’t send him back into battle. He’s as sick as any of my amputees.”
“Then I will take your amputees, too. I’ll take you and your nurse; I’ll put you in an ambulance team in a real zone of battle. So you can see real bravery. Then you can tell me what constitutes health.”
They had reached Horváth.
“And what is wrong with this man?”
If only I knew. But the lesson from the first two men was clear. He didn’t hesitate.
“Dementia praecox, Lieutenant. Catatonic type, most likely a primary presentation. Quite classic per the descriptions set forth by Professor Kraepelin of Munich. Highly unstable vital signs with hypertension and tachycardia, which you might know forebodes progression to the fatal form.”
“He’s been here a month,” said Horst, studying the manifest.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Lucius.
“That’s a long time,” said Horst. “If he is so sick, why wasn’t he evacuated?”
“There is always a question of priority. There were other men…”
But Horst had turned from him. “Stand,” he said.
There was silence. Horváth stared up at them. He said nothing.
Again, Horst said, “Stand.”
Again nothing. Lucius said, “He speaks Hungarian…”
“All soldiers understand basic orders in German,” Horst answered, looking at the patient on the ground. “Are you showing disrespect for a senior officer, Private?”
In answer, József Horváth squeezed his eyes shut very, very tight.
Outside, a cloud must have passed before the sun, for the room grew dark.
Horst looked to his batmen and then turned away from Horváth. For a moment, Lucius thought he had decided to leave the soldier alone. Then, with a swiftness that seemed impossible for such a massive person, Horst turned back and brought the heel of his boot down into Horváth’s belly.
Horváth doubled over, heaving pale green soup onto the floor. He began to cough.
“I said stand, you piece of shit.”
Again Horst kicked him. Horváth writhed, burying his face in the straw. The lieutenant put his steel-toed boot to Horvath’s neck. He pressed. A low groan came from Horváth’s mouth.
Beneath his head, beneath the coat Horváth used as a pillow, Lucius could see some of his drawings.
Lucius said, “Lieutenant, you are going to break his windpipe. I assure you the man means no disrespect. This is classical negativism… catatonic symptoms… common, Lieutenant, you can find it in every textbook.”
“Insubordination is what it is called. I said stand, soldier.”
“Lieutenant,” said Lucius. “He is not resisting you. It is a symptom of his condition.”
Horst pushed harder. “It is a symptom of disrespect,” he said. He drew on his cigarette.
A horrific wheezing rose from Horváth. Lucius looked to Margarete, trying to find some mooring, now afraid that she would try to intervene. “I said…,” he began again, turning back to the lieutenant. “I said he has dementia praecox. This is classic catatonic stupor. It is not purposeful. It—”
“And I said I’ve never heard those words,” said Horst. “I think you are making this up. If it is a disease, then why haven’t I heard of it?”
Now a taunting smile flickered across Horst’s lips.
“Because you’re ignorant and never went to school.”
The two guards exchanged glances. Margarete took a step forward. “Herr Lieutenant,” she began in hesitant German.
Horst turned, his face suddenly red with anger. “A nurse dares speak to me!” He met her eyes and pressed his foot harder into Horváth’s neck until she backed away. The soldier gasped and twisted. Horst turned to Lucius. “Who else are you hiding, Doktor?”
“No one.”
Again Horst pushed down harder. Horváth was clawing at the officer’s riding boots. The lower part of his body flopped like a fish. “Who else?” Horst shouted.
“I said, no one,” said Lucius, and against all wishes, he felt tears begin to well behind his eyes. “Take your foot off him.” But then Horváth had writhed off his mat, and the papers were in full view.
Horst motioned toward a guard, who picked them up.
“And what are these?” On the piece of paper, a wreath of little Grottenolm circled a sun.
“Drawings,” Lucius said, miserably.
“Drawings. He’s not well enough to fight, but he’s well enough to draw.”
Lucius said, “It’s treatment… it… distracts him. Otherwise I waste morphine on him. I let him draw because it distracts him. It keeps him from disturbing the other men.”
“He must not be very disturbing if you’ve kept him for a month,” said Horst. Now he let the papers fall. “You understand there are punishments for desertion.”
“This man is not a deserter, sir.”
The lieutenant released his boot, and Horváth broke into a spasm of gasping. Horst turned to his guards. “Anbinden.”
Lucius looked to Margarete, but she was still as stone. “Lieutenant,” he said, taking a step closer. “I take full responsibility for this patient. I… I understand the principles of medicine in war. Were there a coward among these men I would happily punish him myself. But this man is sick. He has no visible wound, I know, but he is very sick. He sees… spirits. Hears them speaking to him.”
“Then his spirits can tell him how to hold a rifle, how to behave.”
The batman yanked Horváth to his feet. He began to moan, that same cry as when he had first arrived. There was a foul smell, and looking down at Horváth’s trousers, Lucius realized to his horror that Horváth had defecated. Horst had also noticed, and his lip curled with disdain.
“Lieutenant,” Lucius begged. “He’s terrified. Please. It is twenty below zero. It’s too cold.”
Horst turned back to the batmen. “The doctor, who spends his days in this nice warm church, worries it’s too cold!”
Lucius was frantic now. “I take full responsibility. Send him before a medical review board. If I am wrong, I will take whatever disciplinary measures…”
But Horst wasn’t listening. He turned and walked toward the courtyard exit. His guards followed, Horváth struggling in their hands, the moans growing louder. Throughout the church, many of the patients were watching. “Back to your beds,” said Lucius, weakly, but bereft of any authority now.
Outside, in the courtyard, the men stopped at the beech tree. They stripped Horváth of his clothing, first his shirt, pulling it over his head without unbuttoning it, then yanking down his soiled trousers. Shit streaked his trembling legs. The soldiers made a sound of disgust and tried to pull the trousers off, but the cuffs got stuck over his ankles, and Horváth tumbled facedown into the snow. They roughly yanked each pant leg off, then threw the trousers into a heap and heaved him up. They tied his hands behind his back and bound him to the tree. Now the moans became words. “Kalt!” he shouted, in heavily accented German. “Cold. Cold! Oh! It’s so cold!” He struggled against the rope. Lucius looked back at the church. Patients were gathering at the door. Lucius started toward the struggling man, then turned. Then back again. There are forty of us, three of them, he thought. The church is full of weapons. We could overwhelm them.