High School Runner’s Up for Art or Science Projects - $100
Julienne Lachine (Wolcott High School, Wolcott, CT)
 

Short Story: untitled

September 1939

Germany

            It is a great gift that I am alive- if only temporarily- to write; yet I fear that this may be my last entry, dear journal.  I have already written of the terror and misfortune of the battlefield, but my imprisonment is equally as trying.  I fear for my sanity, but nevertheless I will attempt to recount this morning’s woeful events.

            The Nazis wasted no time in their mistreatment toward our line of ragged Polish soldiers.  We were beaten, kicked, and thrown to the ground in a vain attempt to break our morale- in preparation for the interrogation that was to come.  My handsome older brother Erich (the leader of our unhappy group) would occasionally smile weakly to encourage us, and even tried to fend off aggressive Germans from the frail boys among us.  However, it was to no avail- soon we stood nervously before an imposing German official.

            “So, Jungen. Das Genießen Ihres Morgens?”  He spoke with a frighteningly easy tone, reminiscent of a tiger about to pounce.  His eyes scanned the dejected, drooping crowd; we awaited his wrath.

            Suddenly, his eyes grew cold.  He swiftly strode up to Erich, their noses almost touching.  But Erich did not flinch, and he stared into the eyes of the German.

            “Ich verlange, Polens beleidigende Pläne zu wissen.”  The Nazi demanded to know Poland’s offensive plans.  Erich was close enough to feel his breath.

            Erich would not be called a traitor.  He smirked, and firmly placed his hand on the man’s chest, pushing him away.  “I would never betray my country.”  Then Erich turned his head and glanced purposefully at a young Nazi watching the proceedings from the corner of the room.

            Enraged, the official raised his gun and shot Erich square in the chest.  What more is there to say?  A quick pull of a trigger and my brother fell in seconds.  And so I, too, fell- passing out on the hard stone floor.

            In my final seconds of consciousness I saw my brother’s strong, blank face, and the mysterious young Nazi rushing to my aid.  Then the world was black.

            This seems to be a horrifyingly brief description of the most traumatic experience of my life.  But the war has taught me to push many emotions away- and so they build up for a time when I can analyze them in peace.  I had always imagined this time of reflection as the end of the war, but now I fear that I will not make it that far.

            After what seemed to be an eternity, but which was probably only several minutes, I awoke.  I was in a cold, dank, and grey prison cell (where I remain), and the young Nazi was poring over me, looking concerned.  Suddenly it occurred to me who this stranger was.  I blearily sat up.

            “Paul?”  I asked, curiously.  Erich and Paul often played together as children.  For years I had wondered where he had gone.  Our small Polish town was indeed near the German border, but to think that he was fighting against us...!  It was quite a concept.

            “Quiet,” he whispered in Polish.  “I told the others that I had seen you before and that you were insane.  Just... I don’t know... act crazy if any guards come by.  This group is to be executed tomorrow.”

            I was shocked, yes.  But at this moment I first saw the other people in the cell- two men huddled close (no doubt for warmth), and a woman and child sitting apart.

            “But Paul!  You can’t do somethi...”

            “I’m sorry,”  Paul hung his head and stood.  Then he added loudly, for German ears: “Und nehmen Sie Ihr dummes Buch, auch, Sie polnisches Schwein!”  And take your stupid book, too, you Polish swine!  He threw down this leather-bound notebook, which was previously hidden under my shirt and which must’ve fallen out when I collapsed.  (I was immensely glad to have you back, old friend.)  Paul sprightly left me alone with... the insane people.

            Naturally I was bewildered; not to mention frightened...  I was in part numbed by the loss of Erich- my valiant older brother whom I had always looked up to.  And then, Paul?  And being deemed “crazy” by the Nazis?  In the back of my mind the word executed rung through my head, as it still does now.  Executed tomorrow.  Executed.  A word much too powerful and significant for my youthful vocabulary.  So, I sat in silence pondering this foreign idea. 

            Later, when the chilly September sky grew pitch black, and the moon rose over our German prison, a lone voice rose up out of the night.  It came from a white-haired, scrawny old man sitting in a dark corner of my cell.  He wore thin-rimmed, silver glasses and was comforting a frightened-looking man sitting with him.

            The old man said, “Well.  Quite the predicament we’ve gotten into, yes?”  Based on the man’s accent, he was probably Swiss.  I turned to face him.

            “I suppose,”  I replied, waking from my trance.

            “My name is Doctor Orel Zuelle.  For many years I have worked with the mentally ill.”  We spoke in German.  I introduced myself, just as the man beside Doctor Zuelle stood up.

            “Hans, where are you going?”  inquired the doctor, and Hans crossed the room, sat on the cold floor, and began to weep.  I glanced at the doctor who did not seem at all concerned about Hans’ behavior.  Zuelle motioned for me to come nearer, and so I complied. 

            “Tell me, boy, what do you know of mental illness?  Or, ‘lunacy’, as they say?”

            I shook my head.  “Not much.  A personal failing, isn’t it?  Don’t they usually live in madhouses...”

            “...asylums...” he corrected.

            “...asylums.  Right.  No, wait.  Doesn’t it have to do with psychoanalysis?  Negative childhood events and whatnot?  Anyhow, I’m pretty sure they’re restrained with straightjackets and the like and injected with tranquilizer drugs.”

            The doctor sighed deeply.  I cringed, sensing my own ineptitude on the subject.

            “Unfortunately,” he began, “Some of what you said was true.  Many of these people are placed in asylums, or jails, and are treated with ineffective drugs.  However...,” at this the doctor stood and paced the room, as though giving a lecture, “you seem to be misinformed like most of the public is these days.

            “Thankfully, science is beginning to look at the biological causes of mental illness.  A great deal of people have false beliefs, in my opinion, as to the causes.  They think mental illness is caused by such factors as evil spirits, witchcraft, and even the moon!  Thus the term ‘lunacy’.”

            “Is that right?”

            “Yes.”

            “And why are you so certain of your opinion?”

            “Because, sir, I have worked with Swiss psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler.  That is the man who coined the term ‘schizophrenia’ in 1911.”

            “I’m sorry.  What is that again?”

            “It was once known as dementia praecox.  But I will tell you about that later.  Anyway, I am personally disgusted at the treatment of patients. as you described earlier.  The mentally ill are indeed forced to wear ankle and wrist restraints, and even straightjackets.  They are injected with bromides (imagine- they are tranquilized- like animals!) and are given virtually untested drugs.  Patients undergo insulin shock therapy, Metrazol, hydrotherapy, fever therapy, and so on!  Not to mention electroshock therapy...”

            “Electroshock therapy?  Zuelle, are you sure they’re really sick?  I’ve heard they’re not even true illnesses.”  I’ve always been difficult, I guess.

            “Not true illnesses?  My, you sound like an antipsychiatrist.  It is a disease of the mind.  Just picture a person getting sick, except the illness destroys the way you think.  Your personality, your reasoning, and your temper management, oftentimes.  What must it be like to lose everything you have ever known?”

            Weary from his animated discussion, the doctor sank back down to his original seat.  He took several deep breaths, and whispered, “Which is why I wanted to help them...” before dozing off, asleep.

            It is difficult to sleep for very long in a cold, damp prison cell in the face of an uncertain death.  Other than Hans’ echoing sobs, I sat in silence until the doctor awoke, trying to imagine living in a world of uncertainty... a world in which one is mocked and abused for having a different mind.  The woman and child were also in the cell, sleeping.  Zuelle finally lifted his scruffy, white-haired head and rubbed the fog out of his shining blue eyes. 

            “Hey,”  I whispered, “You promised to tell me about... schizophrenia, yes?”

            The doctor smiled sleepily.  “I will, then.”

            He gestured towards Hans.  “Hans, here, is one of my patients.  Or at least, he was before the Nazis invaded.  I had set up a small business in Leipzig, but the Nazis are out to create their ‘master race’, and the mentally ill are apparently not part of Hitler’s plans.”  Zuelle sighed.  “I, of course, would not support his horrendous deeds, and was thus imprisoned as well.  I take it you are a Polish solider?”

            I nodded.

            “No surprise, then.  But anyways, Hans suffers from schizophrenia.  To have schizophrenia is to live life as if it is a nightmare- experiencing hallucinations and delusions, and feeling constant fear and paranoia.

            “What exactly is the difference between hallucinations and delusions?”

            “A hallucination is a false perception- such as when Hans hears a voice no one else hears, or smells smoke from an imaginary house fire while in fact nothing a is burning at all.  A delusion is a false belief.  This includes deep paranoia- as if someone were trying to hurt them in some way, or that people are conspiring against them.  In both cases, the schizophrenic person believes something exists which in reality does not.  Their perceptions are altered.”

            “Oh.  So,” I leaned in closer, “what else is wrong with Hans?”

            “Hans was brought to me when he was in his twenties.  Unlike many other doctors, I have begun to see patterns in the illnesses of my schizophrenic patients.  I believe that there are several different subtypes of schizophrenia, but unfortunately I fear that my breakthroughs will be lost to the world.  Hans seems to be afflicted with the ‘paranoid type’ of schizophrenia, as I call it.  This means that he experiences auditory and visual hallucinations, and expresses anger, anxiety, and a tendency to argue.”

            Meanwhile, Hans had noticed that the doctor was awake and moved to sit by him again.  Zuelle asked him, softly, “Hans.  Are you feeling better now?”

            “No,” replied Hans, bitterly.  “He doesn’t like that we are here.”

            He?  Who is he?  I raised my eyebrows, silently questioning the doctor.

            “He is Hans’ imaginary friend.  Except lately he’s been a lot more demanding and definitely less friendly.  He tells Hans what he should do and criticizes him when something goes wrong.”

            “Yes.  Something goes wrong.”  repeated Hans.

            “Hmm,” remarked the doctor, “Affective flattening.  It is common among schizophrenics, but Hans’ type rarely shows such symptoms.  He has been exhibiting such behavior frequently ever since we were arrested.”

            “Do you know what’s wrong with these other people?”  I whispered, but Hans broke in before Zuelle had a chance to speak.

            “They’re Germans,” he said, firmly.  “He said we’re to be executed tomorrow.” 

            I was faintly surprised at this outburst.  I replied, “Actually, I was referring to the woman and child in our cell.”

            “Hans knows that,” said Zuelle, “That’s who he was referring to, also.  Hans is under the impression that they work for the Germans.”

            “Do they now.”

            “I have yet to fully diagnose the two.  Many of their symptoms- such as anxiety and a sort of depression- seem perfectly normal in our current situation.  The boy becomes troubled when the Germans bring us food; I’m not sure why; but he seems fond of strict schedules.”  The child ignored our conversation.  His eyes scanned the dark brick wall, and I could see his index finger tracing the pattern.  He seemed to be counting the bricks.

            “Did you learn about all this in medical school?”

            “Heavens, no.  They spend little to no time at all on the topic of mental illness.  Especially years ago, when I became a doctor.”

            “Well, it’s only 1939.  Perhaps the science will grow after the war?”

            The doctor chuckled.  “Right.  After the war.  Young man, I doubt we’ll make it that far, if we are indeed to be exterminated tomorrow.  But if it does expand, I hope doctors will try to look for biological causes of the illnesses, and develop cures based on sound scientific methods.  If only I could record my findings for a later time.”  On the other side of the room, the child was attempting to wash his hands in the dirt between the cracks in the stone floor.  The woman near him, who looked irritated, shivered from the cold.

            I looked at my notebook, and then back at Zuelle.  He quietly sat with his old friend Hans, thinking of the countless other patients who would not receive his treatment and would not benefit from his new ideas.  So now, at this late hour, I’ll finish my own selfish writing to turn over this notebook to the doctor.   

January 2007

Germany

            Kira Reszch was a student of Psychology at the Universität Leipzig in Germany, one of the oldest universities in Europe.  A friend of the family had asked her to examine an old journal found buried beneath the floor of a cell in a former Nazi prison camp.  Eager to impress her professor with the find, Kira quickly drove out to the dreary, decrepit building to see the book.  It was bound in leather and caked in layers of dirt.  The girl thanked her friend, and rapidly flipped through the ancient pages as she walked away.  A single, torn page fell from the notebook on her way back to the car.  She picked it up and began to read it as she sat in the driver’s seat of her tiny green automobile.  It read:

 1939

Dr. Orel Zuelle’s Notes on Schizophrenia

 • Caused by biological factors- could they be triggered by events in the course of one’s life?  Possibly a factor since birth; but most of my patients are over 16, or at least in their twenties.  This age factor I have noticed is a common thread and should be looked into by the person who discovers this book.

• Symptoms include: delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, disorganization/ catatonic behavior, alogia, affective flattening, avolition, slow thinking, poor memory, difficulty expressing thoughts, etc.

• Most likely different types of schizophrenia- includes “paranoid type” (hallucinations, delusions, thoughts of conspiracy), “disorganized type” (difficulty communicating and show little emotions), “catatonic type” (negative behavior, withdrawn, psychomotor disturbances), and other types which include schizophrenics with varied symptoms who do not fit in any other category and also those people who show few schizophrenic symptoms but lack interest in day-to-day living.

• I am not against the use of electroshock therapy- could it possibly be beneficial to the patients?  However, I see little scientific basis for many of the drugs and treatments used in recent times.  I believe a cure can be found through the research of biological factors as a cause of schizophrenia. 

• Many patients are misdiagnosed.  I recommend that doctors examine the list of symptoms of schizophrenia listed above- and the different types I have found- to see if their patients truly fit the description of a schizophrenic.

• Based on accounts from family members, early signs of schizophrenia include: declining interest in daily activities, discontinuation of longtime friendships, difficulty concentrating, neglect of hygiene, irregular sleeping patterns, poor eating habits and weight change, lack of emotion or depression, inexplicable reactions to events, odd expressions and behavior, and/or blank stares.  Many schizophrenics resist evaluation.

• It is best to educate the public.  The mentally ill should not be abused nor imprisoned as they are in modern times- I feel that the use of wrist/ankle restraints and straightjackets is obscene.  Rather, the mentally ill have a great deal to give to the community and should be treated like any other sick human being.

• I realize that my practices are unorthodox yet they seem to be a more humane approach to the treatment of the mentally ill.  Hopefully my ideas will become widespread in the years to come.

            Kira suddenly became immensely interested.  Dr. Zuelle’s observations were years ahead of his time.  Imagine what modern treatments for the mentally ill would be like if this book had been discovered earlier!  After flipping through the rest of the book and finding nothing of interest, she glanced at the doctor’s page again.  At the bottom scrawled a brief note:  I found out the child’s name.  He claims to be a German boy by the name of Luke Pfizer. 

            A month later, Kira approached Luke Pfizer’s door.  By this time, the importance of the discovery of the book had been confirmed, and Kira’s professor believed it to be imperative that she locate Luke.  He lived in a small town in Switzerland in a handsome stone house.  Luke greeted Kira warmly in German, and invited her inside.  He did indeed suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, but years ago a modern treatment facility helped him to overcome most of his fears.  When asked about the doctor, he knew only information already written in the book.  He recalled the doctor- an easily excitable man who paced around the room; the author of the journal- who sat by miserably considering his life and writing in the book; Hans, who frequently cried out about some thing he imagined; and the woman, who by modern terms would probably be said to have bipolar disorder- a mental illness characterized by alternating periods of depressed moods and periods of excited moods.  Kira showed him the journal, pointing out in particular the ripped page of Dr. Zuelle’s notes. 

            “You see,” she said, “he seemed to understand the importance of biological factors in schizophrenia and also the significance of faulty treatment methods- including untested drugs and therapies.  He even identified the specific subgroups of schizophrenia which are observed today.”

            “Well,” pondered Luke, “What are the causes of schizophrenia?  Everyone seems so intent on attributing everything to genetics...”

            “That’s right.  Genetics seems to play a huge role in schizophrenia, but we’re still not sure of the exact causes.  No specific gene has been linked to schizophrenia.  Other theories as to the cause of schizophrenia include improper functioning of neurotransmitters, blood flow within the brain, and structural abnormalities within the brain.”

            “So basically it’s a result of chemical imbalances or problems in the brain.”

            “Probably,” agreed Kira, “but we can’t be sure.  Symptoms are often triggered by drugs and substances which may alter a person’s psychotic state, like alcohol.  Even traumatic events, worry, and tension are potential factors.”

            “Do these drugs include caffeine and over-the-counter drugs, like cold medicine?”

            “Yes, they do,”  Kira was in a good mood.  She was forced to do a lot of research on this illness by request of her professor after the discovery of the journal.  Now she had finally found someone who was interested enough to discuss the topic with her.  “But luckily, real drugs have been developed to ease the symptoms described by Doctor Zuelle.  Today, we have phenothiazines such as Thorazine and Mellaril, which work by blocking the neurotransmitter dopamine.  Others include Haldol- which is a drug also used to help certain symptoms of Tourette’s syndrome; Clorazil- which is chemically related to Valium and Xanax; and Risperdal- which acts on brain receptors for neurotransmitters such as dopamine and serotonin.  And thankfully, electroshock therapy and many others described by the doctor are no longer commonly used.  We now utilize treatments such as psychotherapy and support groups.”

            “That’s good.  Years ago those people would just be locked up- or killed, in the case of Nazi Germany.” remarked Luke.

            “I know; it was all recorded in this man’s journal.  So, what ever happened to you?  The journal says that your group was to be exterminated the next day.”

            “True.  I think it had something to do with that ‘Paul’ kid.  That morning, the Germans learned that Zuelle was a doctor, and it just so happened that one of the officer’s children was ill.  I guess there were no German doctors available.  So, Zuelle was sent to care for the patients, and he insisted that we should be treated as well.  In a few months, I fled to Switzerland, with Dr. Zuelle’s assistance, and have been here ever since.”

            “What about Zuelle?  And the others?”

            “The last I heard, Zuelle still worked in the Nazi camp.  He had no means of escape, and anyhow he was treated well because of his useful skills.  Hans, unfortunately, committed suicide before I left.”

            “Really?  That’s awful.”

            “I know.  I think his ‘master’ or whoever he was- the voice in his head- prompted him to do it.”

            “I doubt it, actually.  Many schizophrenics commit suicide during a period in which the disorder has eased somewhat- a time to look back at their unfortunate lives.  The suicide rate is quite high: ten percent of schizophrenics take their own lives.”

            “Ten percent?!” said Luke, bewildered. 

            “Yes, so think how much higher the rate would have been back then.  Still, I don’t mean to interrupt.  What about the author of the rest of this book?”

            “Ironically, he suffered from a mental disorder himself.  He had a form of post-traumatic stress disorder.”  Kira was not surprised.  More and more war veterans were being found to have this illness, and Erich’s death would have been enough to push him over the edge. 

            So, Kira and Luke spent the rest of the afternoon conversing over tea, and finally Kira left, driving down the English countryside alone, with a leather-bound journal in the empty seat beside her.  Perhaps she would go on to publish it, she thought, or at least share it with the scientific community somehow.  As her mind drifted, she wondered, like the author of the book so many years before, what it must be like to live with a mental illness.  Hopefully a cure will soon be discovered for all the people losing touch with reality.