A Child Lost Page 12

“A couple of months!” he groaned. “I must go there. I must find way to go there.”

  “As it happens, Clive is suggesting that we meet them there tomorrow morning. Can you make it? Surely, Sister Bernard will let you off, won’t she?”

  “Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose yes, but what am I to do with Anna? I went to get her just today. But I cannot take her to such place to meet her mother, can I? It has been years—”

  “No, Gunther. We mustn’t take Anna there,” Elsie whispered. “I’ve heard it’s a . . . it’s a terrible place.” She could not resist putting her hand on his.

  “But Liesel will want to see her. I am sure of it. I cannot take Anna back to orphanage already tomorrow,” he said, absently rubbing Elsie’s forefinger with his thumb.

  “It . . . it might be for the best, Gunther,” Elsie said softly, thrilling at his touch. “Until you find out what’s happened to poor Liesel. It will be a shock for her to see even you . . . and who knows what the state of her mind is, especially after she has been sent to such a place.”

  “You are right,” Gunther said sadly as he looked over at Anna, who seemed to have finally drifted off. “I pray she does not blame me.” Gunther slowly pulled his hand from Elsie’s, as if suddenly aware that it was there.

  “Liesel, or Anna?” Elsie asked softly, acutely feeling the withdrawal of his hand.

  “Both.”

  Worriedly, Elsie tried to think of an alternative. “I suppose we could . . . we could take Anna to my mother’s house in Palmer Square,” she suggested finally. “She could spend the day in the nursery with Doris and Donny. I’m sure Nanny Kuntz wouldn’t mind. With a name like Kuntz, maybe she even speaks German,” Elsie urged, though she scolded herself for not knowing this about a woman she had been living with for months and months.

  Gunther looked at her for such an extended time that Elsie began to wonder if she had somehow offended him.

  Finally he spoke. “You would do this for me?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she said, a smile of relief breaking out across her face. “Yes—of course I would.”

  “Elsie,” he said, taking her hand back and squeezing it. “I do not deserve this kindness. Thank you, but no. You and your sister are already doing enough for me. But I feel your offer. Very deeply. It will be better anyway for Anna. Better not to risk a new place and new people. Who knows what brings on these fits,” he added, letting go of her hand again.

  “Then . . . then why don’t I stay with her? I’ll sit here with her while you go and meet them. That seems the best, doesn’t it?” she suggested. She desperately wanted to go and meet this Liesel and be part of what was seeming to be an adventure, but more so, she wanted to be of service to him. “You don’t really need me there. I’m sure you can find the way.”

  “But I . . . I do need you there. I want you there. I . . . no, I will have to take Anna back tomorrow, very early.”

  Though she was sad for Anna, of course, Elsie could not help her heart from fluttering a little, and a smile inched across her face. “Are you sure?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

  “Yes, yes, I am sure.”

  They looked at each other for several moments, the air between them charged with something warm and static.

  “I should go,” she said, standing up awkwardly.

  Gunther stood as well and after hesitating a moment, went to get her coat.

  “Henrietta suggested we meet them at Dunning at nine, but that doesn’t give you much time to get Anna back,” she mused, putting on the coat he held out to her. “I’ll telephone her from Philomena and ask them to meet us at eleven instead. Is that enough time, do you think?” She buttoned up her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck.

  “Yes, that is fine.” He stood before her with his hands in his pockets. “Would you like me to walk you back?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, no! Don’t leave her,” she whispered with a nod toward Anna. “It’s just across the way, anyway.”

  There was silence between them as she pulled on her gloves.

  “Thank you, Elsie,” he said finally.

  He was standing very close to her now, looking at her so longingly that he seemed almost in pain. Why would he not kiss her? she wondered, sensing this to be his desire. It was her desire, too, she knew, her heart pounding. Why did he never do so? What held him back?

  He surprised her then by taking a step closer so that they were just inches apart, so close that she could see his chest rising and falling. Tentatively, she reached out and put the tips of her fingers on his chest and felt his trembling beneath the linen of his shirt. He leaned forward, and she closed her eyes, waiting . . . wanting to feel his lips on hers . . . but instead she felt him take her fingers from his chest and hold them gently in his.

  “Ach, Elsie,” he said, his breath catching, as he turned his head.

  Without thinking it through, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, feeling the stubble there and inhaling his scent as she lingered there for a few seconds.

  “Good-night, Gunther,” she whispered and then turned and opened the door. She hurried out, bending low against the wind as she stepped onto the wet path, her pulse positively racing at what she had done. She had kissed him! Only once did she look back. He was leaning against the doorway, his hands returned to his pockets, watching her go as the wind tousled his hair. He looked sad and forlorn, like a man lost; but perhaps she was only imagining it. She waved to him, but he did not respond. She turned and hurried on.

  Chapter 8

  The Chicago State Hospital, or Dunning, as it was more popularly called, lay on a sprawling 320 acres on Chicago’s northwest side. When it was built in 1854, it was designed to be an almshouse for the city’s poor and destitute, but it had gradually, over the years, evolved into a place to primarily house the insane or the mentally disturbed. It was believed that the open space and the country air would be calming and restful for the inmates—but ironically, it was anything but a serene or peaceful place for these lost souls.

  Dunning, almost from the beginning, was shockingly overcrowded and rife with abuse. In fact, most people began to refer to it as a veritable “tomb for the living.” And while it had come under the scrutiny of the state at the turn of the century, which had resulted in many reforms being instituted, the mention of the word “Dunning” still sent shivers up people’s spines. Indeed, many parents throughout the city still used it as an effective threat for naughty children by telling them that they would get “sent to Dunning” if they didn’t behave.

  Clive himself was not immune to a decided feeling of unease as he and Henrietta drove up to the front gates the day after their initial inquiries at the seminary and then at Victory Memorial. He had been hoping, when they had driven over to the hospital immediately following their visit to the seminary, that perhaps Teresa Wolanski had somehow been mistaken. As it turned out, unfortunately, she had not, and this was becoming a more complicated case than Clive had first imagined.

  Having first inquired at the front desk at Victory Memorial, Clive and Henrietta had eventually been escorted to Medical Records, which was housed, depressingly, in a gloomy subterranean part of the building. There, they were greeted by an older woman with glasses so thick that her eyes were difficult to even see, swimming behind the glass in a foggy blur. She stood behind a counter of sorts with a lone light hanging above her, which gave the woman an odd glow and simultaneously cast the rest of the long, low cavernous room in shadow. No other staff seemed about to help her, which may have explained why she did not seem overly pleased to assist them when they had asked to see Liesel Klinkhammer’s chart, saying that she had stacks of filing to do, and it wasn’t really her job to pull individual charts for general members of the public.

  “You have a written release?” she asked in a gravelly voice, pausing in her work long enough to study the two of them. The woman’s large, distorted eyes shifted from one to the other, as if looking at them from inside a fishbowl.r />
  “No, not exactly.”

  “You relatives?”

  “I’m her cousin,” Clive said with a false smile.

  The woman merely grunted.

  “Look,” Clive said, reaching inside his jacket for his wallet and smoothly pulling out a five-dollar bill, which he carefully placed under the corner of her desk blotter. “I understand your time is valuable, Mrs. . . . ?

  “Nicholson,” she said, looking at them uneasily before finally reaching out and taking the money, which she held up in front of her glasses, examining it closely before slipping it quickly into her dress pocket. She stared at them for a few more moments before asking, “Who’d you say you’re looking for?”

  “Klinkhammer. Liesel.”

  Mrs. Nicolson shuffled away and disappeared down one of the many rows of metal filing cabinets lined up behind her, which almost resembled tunnels. Clive and Henrietta stood in the feeble light, peering after her. Henrietta looked about to whisper something to him, but she stopped when they heard a drawer scrape open. After just a few moments, they heard it scrape again and close with a click. Mrs. Nicolson reappeared then from the depths of the tunnel, holding the open file very close to her face and reading aloud as she walked.

  “Name: Liesel Klinkhammer,” she said tremulously. “Address: Mundelein Seminary, Date of Admission: September 28, 1935, Date of Discharge: October 12, 1935, Place: Chicago State Hospital.” Having reached the counter, she looked up at them questioningly as if to see if this was the information they sought.

  Clive groaned internally. So it was true—Liesel had been sent to Dunning.

  “What was her diagnosis?” he asked, arching his neck in an attempt to see the contents of the file himself. He wasn’t able to make anything out, but he did observe that there was precious little written at all.

  “Says here ‘schizophrenia,’” Mrs. Nicholson mumbled.

  “Schizophrenia? What’s that?” Henrietta asked, looking at Clive.

  “That means crazy,” Mrs. Nicholson answered for him. “You know—hearing voices and all that.”

  “We understood she was here due to an epileptic fit,” Clive said, ignoring her explanation.

  “Doesn’t say anything about epilepsy here,” Mrs. Nicholson said with a shrug. “Says schizophrenia.”

  “Are you sure? The light is quite dim in here and, forgive me for saying, but your vision seems to perhaps be somewhat impaired,” Clive suggested tentatively.

  “What do you mean by that?” the woman said indignantly, her eyes enlarged and blurry behind her glasses.

  “Listen, can I take a look at that?” Clive asked, holding out his hand.

  “What’d you say your name was, again?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I didn’t. My name is Clive Howard. This is my wife, Henrietta,” he added, noticing that she was looking at Henrietta now.

  “You aren’t really her cousin, are you?”

  “Does it matter?” Clive asked. When she didn’t respond, he let out a deep breath. “Look, Mrs. Nicholson, I’m a detective. We’re trying to locate Miss Klinkhammer.”

  “Well, I’ve already told you where she is,” Mrs. Nicholson said, straightening up and taking a small step back. “Or where she was discharged to, anyway.”

  “Indeed. But you see, that’s what’s puzzling us. To our knowledge, she wasn’t mentally unstable. What were her symptoms? Does it say?”

  “No,” she said, pressing the file to her chest. “That’s confidential information.”

  “But isn’t what you’ve already told us confidential?”

  “Not exactly. Oh, fiddlesticks! Listen, young man, I’ve told you all there is to tell. Now . . . good day,” she said curtly.

  “I see,” Clive said, rubbing his chin. The woman’s shoulders relaxed a little at his apparent acceptance of her dismissal, but immediately stiffened again when he slyly threw in another question. “Does it say that she was hearing voices? That’s one of the more obvious symptoms, as you’ve said.”

  “I really couldn’t say,” she faltered.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Nicholson, do you have a German interpreter on staff?”

  Mrs. Nicholson stared at him blankly, her big eyes swimming in panic.

  “Because she was German. Does it say that there?” he asked, pointing to the file, which she pressed even tighter to her bosom. “Miss Klinkhammer doesn’t speak any English, so I’m sure it was quite difficult to diagnose her, is all I’m saying.”

  “What police force did you say you’re from?” Mrs. Nicholson asked nervously.

  “None, as a matter of fact. I’m acting in a private capacity.”

  Mrs. Nicholson pulled herself up as straight as her sagging shoulders allowed. “Well, you can be certain, Mr. . . . what’d you say your name was?”

  “Howard.”

  “Mr. Howard, that the hospital did not do nothing wrong. Now, I’ve told you that Liesel Klinkhammer was a patient here, and I told you where she was released to. That’s all I can say.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve told you more than I’m s’posed to, now that’ll have to be good enough. Best be on your way, or I’ll have to call one of the security guards,” she said, her eyes darting reassuringly toward the big, black telephone on her desk.

  “We’re just leaving,” Henrietta said, speaking for the first time. “Weren’t we, Clive? Thank you very much, Mrs. Nicholson. You’ve been very helpful.” She looped her arm through his.

  “Yes, thank you,” Clive said gruffly, and after giving her a nod, thrust his hat on his head and led Henrietta up the stairs and out into the fresh air.

  It occurred to Clive as he nervously put the Daimler in park in front of the vast expanse of Dunning before them, that, from a distance, anyway, it almost resembled the heavily wooded campus of the seminary with its collection of beautifully designed buildings, set back from the road and built, one imagined, to offer troubled souls a place of respite and peace. But looks could be deceiving, Clive knew, having accompanied the chief here years ago in pursuit of a murder suspect and being summarily shocked by what he had witnessed. And, unlike the seminary, which was bordered only by woods and pasture, Dunning was surrounded by a tall, spiked fence on all sides, culminating in the massive, locked gates of iron bars before which Clive and Henrietta now sat, giving the whole place the decided feel of a prison rather than a place of healing and compassion.

  Clive looked over to the left of the gates at the brick guard building, one corner of which appeared to be sinking into the muddy ground around it, making it look slightly lopsided and precarious, as if it might eventually topple over at some point. He could see two guards standing inside, but when neither of them seemed in any hurry to come out and open the gates for them, Clive gave the horn of the car an impatient toot.

  One of the guards looked out the tall, rectangular window of the booth. “Hold yer horses! Most people is dying to get out, not in!” he shouted with a gruff laugh. A moment later, however, he sauntered out, scratching his whiskers, clipboard in hand. He was a heavily formed man with a thick, bushy moustache that curled up at the ends.

  Clive rolled down the window as far as it would go, which was only about halfway, and the guard bent down and asked their business.

  “Just visiting,” Clive said as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Name?” asked the guard.

  “Clive Howard.”

  “And the little lady?” he asked, looking up briefly from his clipboard where he was scratching down their names.

  “Mrs. Howard.”

  “Christian name?”

  “I daresay that’s not necessary, officer.”

  “Eh?” he said, looking up.

  “It’s Henrietta, officer,” Henrietta said, leaning over Clive to answer for herself.

  “Thank you, miss,” the guard said, scratching it down, and then waved to his associate, who had meanwhile made his way over to the big wrought iron gate and was in the process of unlocking it.

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p; “It’s madam to you,” Clive said in a clipped tone as he put the car back into gear and began to ease it forward through the now-open gate.

  “Don’t get all high and mighty with me, bub,” the guard shouted after them, but Clive did not respond.

  “You sounded surprisingly like your mother there, you know,” Henrietta said to him with a grin as they drove slowly down the main lane.

  “That’s not amusing, Henrietta,” Clive said clearly annoyed.

  “Clive! I was only joking!” she said, and he could feel her looking at him closely.

  He pulled at his tie with one hand.

  “You’re very cross today,” she said more seriously now. “Are you nervous?”

  “Of course, I’m nervous,” Clive said shortly, as he followed the drive around the main building to a sort of parking lot. It was filled with potholes and stray bits of garbage, which had presumably escaped from the large trash barrels lined up at the far end of the lot. Some kind soul at some point in time must have attempted to beautify the grounds with small planted patches of daffodils here and there, a few of which had already managed to bloom despite their mean surroundings. Clive absently stared at them through the car window as he put the car in park, and felt a sudden odd sadness that their beauty was marred by bits of trash that had blown up against them and gotten entangled. “You should be, too,” Clive said sternly.

  “Well, I am, actually, but there’s no need to bark at me. Or the guard, for that matter. He was only doing his duty.”

  “Henrietta, I’m sorry,” he sighed. “But you have no idea what this place is like. I wish you would have stayed home as I asked you to. This is no place for a lady.”

  “I wasn’t always a lady. Remember, Clive? I know what poverty looks like.”

  “Yes, you were so a lady,” Clive said irritably, looking over at her. “Despite your circumstance.”

  “Until I met you, that is,” she said, playfully putting her finger under his chin.

  He had to fight down the conflicting turmoil and desire rising up in him even now. How could she always have this effect on him?