Morbid Outlook - The Patient

The patient breathed slowly and heavily as the decadently soft cushions of the chestnut colored leather couch almost seemed to envelop him in a warm, welcoming embrace. The office was painted a soothing pastel blue shade. It reminded the patient of the color of a swimming pool he had seen on a long ago vacation. Every aspect of the office seemed to be designed to produce a calming effect in all those who entered its confines. Even the carpet was of such a thick and luxurious nature that it seemed more suited to a royal audience chamber than a doctor’s office. One of the office walls was completely lined with books. The scent of freshly oiled leather gently wafted through the air. It was obvious that the doctor took very good care of his literature. A framed diploma adorned the wall to the left of the patient’s head, along with pictures of people he presumed to be the doctor’s family. The door was situated behind him. Directly facing him was the doctor’s oak desk. Judging from the amount of intricate carvings that decorated it, the desk was surely an antique. Only the telephone and message spike kept it solidly rooted in the present day.

In spite of the room’s atmosphere of serenity, the patient found himself to be nervous and apprehensive. He hoped that the doctor would be able to explain things to him. He was supposed to be here at ten in the morning, and the clock tower outside chimed ten bells quite some time ago. Perhaps he just got held up in traffic, or what if... The patient’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Without a word to his receptionist, the doctor strode boldly and confidently into the room. He was a tall, solidly built man with closely cut blonde hair and nordic features that looked as though they had been plucked straight off the stage of a Wagnerian opera. The doctor hung his long black leather coat and cap on a wooden stand near the door, and with manilla folder in hand seated himself in the high backed chair behind the desk.

The doctor opened the folder and read. “It says that you suffered a complete mental breakdown, and that while crying, you not only refused to carry out your duties, and that you were having some very serious delusions.” Mueller could see the pain of remembrance begin to creep its way onto Schroeder’s features.

“Everything was fine at first. Then in mid-morning they brought in a bunch of pups. They were so adorable, and so innocent. I... I just couldn’t. I wanted them to be anywhere but there. I couldn’t do it.” Schroeder paused and the doctor jumped in.

“Is that when you refused to pull the switch?” Arthur nodded. The doctor’s voice took on a chiding tone. “You realize that we all have duties to perform, some of which can be... unpleasant.” Mueller winced inwardly as soon as the word escaped his lips. More tact was required and he knew it.

“Unpleasant?! Being late for the theater is unpleasant. Missing one’s weekly card game is unpleasant,” Schroeder’s voice trailed off but then he continued, “Hmmm... the theater. I enjoy the theater very much. At least during Henry V you know that the violence and death is pretend. It’s drama.”

“Now Arthur, you know perfectly well that there are many viable reasons that your work must be carried out. Not only is it the law, but you must understand this is in the best interests for all parties involved. You are carrying out a vital task. In time, once things become more... settled, it will not be necessary to continue this endeavor, but for now you must believe that the work you are doing is good.”

Resolutely the patient shook his head. The doctor’s pronouncement went against everything he had been taught as a child. He could not understand how killing these animals could ever be considered good or useful. He’d had enough killing and had enough of death.

“We have no business killing them.” The doctor sighed in disdain. He began to wonder if this man could ever be brought back to being a fully functioning member of society. Surely after all the education and training this man received he could not be this troubled over the daily service he provided. How could he not understand?

Dr. Mueller cursed himself for not realizing the extent of this poor man’s delusion. He clipped the photo of his patient back into the folder and closed it. This man’s condition was much more serious than initially suspected. The strain of his duty had not only done superficial damage in the form of delusions about his work, but had somehow caused his grasp on his identity to slip away. This would have to be reported through channels. If this man who up until recently had been a rock could crack so dramatically, anyone in his vital position could be subject to such mental collapse. It was difficult enough to find many men of quality for this work, and it would not be tolerated if production was slowed due to something that was foreseeable and perhaps preventable. The doctor excused himself and exited the office for just a moment and returned with what appeared to be a small magazine. He tore out a small square. He handed it to his patient and inquired, “Do you know who this is?”

With a pained look on his face the doctor handed the magazine to his patient. The title read Playbill. The patient opened it to the page where the picture had been torn out. The name under the ripped portion was still readable. It said “Arthur Schroeder as Henry V.” The patient’s eyes widened and his face was etched with a look of utter puzzlement. The doctor took back the theatrical program and handed his patient the same torn photograph of Arthur Schroeder along with a small shaving mirror. The face in the mirror did not match that of Arthur Schroeder.

“I don’t understand.” The patient’s mind began to coil in on itself, and the doctor, sensing opportunity made his next move. He reclaimed the picture of Arthur Schroeder and replaced it in the patient’s hand with the photograph from the manilla folder. This face matched the troubled visage in the mirror. The features in the portrait were much less careworn, and had a younger, livelier look to them, but there could be no question about it. The face in the portrait was his. The voice of the therapist intruded. “Can you tell me your name?”

Stammering and confused the reply came. “A-A-Arthur Schroeder... I-I-I am Arthur Schroeder.” The patient’s voice had a knowing ignorance, like an only child professing that he had no knowledge of who broke the cookie jar. Dr. Mueller took the photo and clipped it back into the manilla folder, and held it open to his patient. Cautiously and reluctantly, the troubled man with a trembling hand took it and began to read. Tears began to well up in his eyes. His lower jaw quivered, and within moments he could be heard whispering under his breath.

The patient’s mental barriers cracked and collapsed like a house of cards. He began sobbing loudly, all the while pleading, “No, this can’t be me! I don’t want to hurt anyone! Please, you can’t make me go back there! I can’t do that again! You’ve never been there, you don’t know! Their screams stay with you! I don’t want to kill anymore!”

Overwhelmed with pity, the therapist embraced this poor, broken man, who continued sobbing heavily against his chest. “It’s alright Frederick. It’s alright.” Over and over again Dr. Mueller reassured his shattered patient that things were not as bad as they seemed and that he didn’t need to be afraid anymore.

“Don’t worry Frederick. We won’t be sending you back.” After many moments, Frederick’s sobs began to quiet, and the doctor could feel the tension slowly flowing out of this deeply disturbed man. In the back of his mind, Doctor Victor Mueller began to wonder. Maybe the system had its flaws. True, nothing was perfect, but any idea that could do this sort of damage to a man who was a part of it, had to have some base flaw in its design. He wondered.

A soft chime sounded in the doctor’s pocket. He retrieved his watch and saw that his hour with this patient was complete. Frederick had a more relaxed look on his face, (probably due to the doctor’s promises that he would not be sent back to work) and seemed to be relatively at peace. A soft knock on the door signaled the arrival of the attendants that were to take Frederick back to a room that had been prepared for him. After he shook hands with Frederick and the attendants departed with his patient, Dr. Mueller walked into the receiving area to steal a cigarette from his receptionist. She made conversation as he lit up.

After deeply inhaling the strong fragrant cigarette smoke and staring at the portrait of the Fuhrer on the wall, the doctor exhaled and replied, “He has a long way to go. In time he may be able to go back to a normal life, but it would be useless to try and send him back to Auschwitz again.” The receptionist shook her head in pity for the troubled officer. Dr. Mueller advised her that he was taking the rest of the day off. He donned his black SS death’s head cap and long black leather coat as he strode toward the exit.

“Where are you going to go?” The doctor turned and thought for a moment, thought about all that Frederick Hoffen had said to him. He thought about all the things that man must have seen during his tenure in Poland. He thought of the speeches and the rallies and how he shouted right along with the others, but now he had his doubts. And along with that he had some very serious thinking to do.