In the Midst of Life (11 page)

I shook my head.

‘Carl Jung, my friend and mentor.’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of Carl Jung. Who is he?’

‘Carl Jung called himself a psychologist, but I regard him as a philosopher. I was his humble student and disciple in Zürich, thirty years ago.’

I murmured, ‘I don’t think I know anything about him.’ Nor, in truth, was I very much interested. Thirty years ago seems an awful long time past when you are twenty-two, and, like most young people I was convinced that nothing of much interest or importance had occurred before the year in which I was born!

But I had a morning’s work to do and sharply reminded myself of this. The visit to Dr Hyem was only one of a long list, and I had to get on. I questioned him about his diet and fluid intake, about his lifestyle and his symptoms. Checking his medical notes I observed that he had suffered weight loss, polyurea and glycosuria, and had had the good sense to go to his doctor. We, the nurses, had been asked to visit twice daily for a fortnight to test his urine for sugar and ketones, and to balance the insulin level against the sugar, carbohydrate and fat in his daily diet.

I asked if he had kept an early morning urine sample. Yes, he had, and he led me through a tiny kitchen to an even smaller lavatory.

‘This is the best part of my flat,’ he said, ‘a lavatory. To have the luxury and privacy of one’s own lavatory is worth all the gold in Arabia. It was here when I came. It must have been installed in an
earlier decade, and water also in the kitchen. As soon as I saw the lavatory, I took the flat.’

I tested the urine specimen.

‘There is certainly sugar present,’ I said. ‘We shall have to check your diet carefully.’

We sat side by side at the leather-topped desk in order to discuss the diet sheet. I ran my fingers over the surface of the desk and felt the pleasing corrugation of the gold tooling along each edge. Placed centrally on the desk was a small picture in a silver frame of a pretty young woman and four young children. We discussed calorie intake and the need to weigh all foods and to have a daily insulin injection, whilst the books and accumulated wisdom of centuries observed us from the bookshelves. It was elegant and peaceful in the little flat, and I felt reluctant to leave, but I had other work to do and said goodbye.

I stepped out into the noisy sunshine of Canada Buildings, and a football travelling at high speed hit my legs, nearly knocking me over. Dr Hyem grabbed my arm to steady me. A woman screamed at a wayward child, who screamed back, so she boxed his ears until he howled.

Dr Hyem suppressed his laughter so as not to offend his neighbours, whom he greeted courteously and charmingly, addressing them all by name. Everyone seemed to know him, and a woman shouted out,

‘Whassa trouble, Doc? Piles, boils or blisters?’

He responded gravely, ‘It appears that I have developed diabetes, madam, which, with the assistance of this good nurse, I am sure can be controlled.’

And he made a slight bow to the woman, who giggled loudly. His formality and textbook English seemed so out of place in his surroundings that I giggled also, and when I turned to shake hands on leaving I saw that his eyes were full of laughter. I was going to enjoy visiting Dr Hyem twice a day for the next fortnight.

Thereafter, each evening I carefully placed Dr Hyem last on my list of visits so that I did not have to dash off to see someone else,
but could linger if I wanted to. I was hoping to hear more of his violin.

It was a beautiful summer evening as I cycled around, with no wind, and just a few clouds moving lazily in the sky. The stairwell seemed quite light and cheery as I climbed up to level
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, and I came out on to the balcony in the full blaze of the evening sun. At almost every door a woman was sitting, some nursing a baby, some chivvying toddlers, some pruning their tomatoes, scrubbing potatoes or cutting up beans; most of the others quietly and contentedly knitting. I made my way along the balcony, and was much surprised to see Dr Hyem sitting outside on his only spare chair, deep in conversation with a woman. He was listening intently, looking down at the floor, nodding his head as though he understood completely. Every so often he would glance up and look into her face, then make some comment, after which she would continue talking. I saw that she was twisting her apron in her strong hands. The sunlight fell on them both, as it did on everyone, but whilst the relaxing warmth seemed to liberate others’ good humour and sociability, these two seemed to be locked in a private world of trouble. I felt reluctant to intrude.

The same woman who had spoken to me in the morning noticed my hesitation.

‘Oh, go on, ducky, jest chip in. ’E won’t mind. ’E’s lovely, I tells ya. An’ she’ll ’ave to wait, poor soul, she wiv ’er troubles. You got work to do, so jest chip in.’

I approached and coughed. Dr Hyem looked up.

‘Good evening, Nurse. I was expecting you. Mrs Robins, you will have to excuse me. We will continue our conversation later.’

He stood up and opened the door to his flat for me. A blind was pulled down over the window and it seemed quite dark inside after the bright sunlight of the court.

‘I have to keep the blind down,’ he said. ‘I cannot risk the sun damaging my books.’

I tested the sample of urine in the kitchen and it was high in sugar again. I told him that a trace of ketones had been found in
the specimen that I had analysed in our clinical room, and that as soon as he could give me his exact weight we would start insulin. He promised to go to the surgery the next day.

His violin and bow were resting in a corner away from the sun, and music was open on the stand. I had to ask.

‘I have loved music since I was a tiny child. Would you play for me?’

He looked at me with some surprise, but simply said, ‘Yes, of course. It would be a pleasure.’

He lifted a corner of the blind to give more light, then took up the violin and bow and turned the pages of the music.

‘This is a pavane by Cesar Franck. I think you will like it.’

Then he started to play. He was a beautiful violinist - I could tell that by the quality of the tone and phrasing
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and I felt tears coursing down my cheeks. I had to control myself, but too late; he turned and saw me crying.

‘You really love music, then?’

I could scarcely speak, and managed a cracked, ‘Yes’.

‘It was music that saved my life. Without it, I think I would have gone mad, or committed suicide.’

I didn’t like to ask him how music had saved his life - it seemed too personal and intrusive
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but I wanted to. So I said instead,

You have played all your life, then?’

Yes, since early childhood. We all played, my parents and brothers and sisters. It was expected of us for that was the way of life for a good Jewish family in Vienna at the turn of the century. My sister Freya was the most talented. She was the most beautiful violinist I have ever heard.’

‘I suppose she is a professional now?’

‘No.’ He stopped, and turning his back on me, opened the violin case, slackened his bow and put the instrument away. He turned and closed the music book, before saying: ‘No, Freya is dead. She will not play again.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. Was it an illness?’

He hesitated, then picked up the music stand and placed it in the
corner.

‘I suppose it must have been. The body can stand so much and no more. But I’m not really sure. Come now, shall we go outside? On a beautiful evening like this I am going to sit by my door and watch the world go by.’

‘And I must return to the convent.’

We shook hands on parting, then I said, quickly and shyly, ‘You will play for me again, won’t you?’

‘It will be more than a pleasure, it will be a privilege.’

On the following morning as we were going through the day list I asked Sister Julienne, the head of the order of nuns with whom I was working, if she knew anything about Dr Hyem. She said,

‘I only know that he is an Austrian Jew who came to this country shortly after the war. The Jews from all over Europe were looking for somewhere to settle.’

I remembered the photograph of a young woman and four little children, and his saying, ‘I’m not really sure how they died.’

‘Do you think he or his family were in concentration camps?’ I asked Sister Julienne, who knew everything, I always felt.

‘I do not know, but it is very likely. You must remember that over six million Jews died. I doubt if there are any European Jews alive today who have not lost relatives. We must all pray for healing.’

Later I learned that Dr Hyem had tragically lost his wife and four children to starvation in an ill-fated attempt to return to Vienna to save his sister Freya.

It became a real joy to me, visiting Dr Hyem. Controlling his diabetes was not difficult, and we always found time to talk about other things that interested us both. One day I had the sauce to ask him, ‘Why do you live in a place like this. You are a cultivated man. Surely you could find somewhere better?’

His eyes wrinkled at the corners in the way that was so attractive.

‘Now that, Nurse, is where you are wrong. I do not think I could find anywhere better in the world to live. I have two rooms, which are waterproof, and I have a roof over my head. I have my
very own private lavatory. What more can a man ask? And for all this, I assure you, the rent is very low.’

‘But the environment, the people … They are just not your type.’

‘Again, my dear young lady, you are wrong. From my eyrie I look over the docks, a fascination I had not thought possible until I proved it for myself. The light falls upon the water at different times of day and shows me a thousand different beauties, which are never repeated, but always changing. The cargo boats come and go. The men toil and the women work. As for the people, I like them. Canada Buildings can be described as a microcosm of all life, and humanity is my study.’

Once, when I was showing him how to inject his own insulin, and watching his ham-fisted attempts to insert the needle, I said, ‘You are obviously not a real doctor, then?’

‘If by that you mean a doctor of medicine, no, I am not. I am a doctor of analytical psychology.’

A psychiatrist?’

‘No. A psychiatrist in this country must first be a medical practitioner, which I am not. Thirty years ago I studied in Zürich with Dr Carl Jung, the greatest thinker and interpreter of the human mind of the century, in my opinion.’

‘So that was your job?’

His eyes crinkled again and he gave me a funny look.

‘Yes, that was my “job”, as you so accurately describe.’

‘Do you do it now?’ (What a sauce the young have!)

‘No. And I know your next question will be “why?” So I will tell you. Frankly, in this country, under your new National Health Service, I do not think I could earn a living. I am not qualified to practice in this country. So I earn my living as a translator.’

‘What do you translate?’

‘Mostly psychoanalytical treatises and papers for journals in French, German, Italian and Dutch.’

You are very clever to speak and write so many languages.’

‘In my father’s house we all had to learn the principal European
languages. My mother was Swiss and had been brought up to speak three languages fluently, and she taught her children likewise.’

I walked around the room and ran my fingers over some of the leather bindings, which were beautiful to the touch. The titles were in several different languages, including English, but there was a collection that looked like nothing on earth to me.

‘What are these?’ I asked.

Again he gave me that funny look, his eyes smiling.

‘That is my Greek collection. It is necessary for an educated man or woman to be conversant in Latin and Greek. These two are the fundamental languages of civilisation.

I must have looked thoughtful, because he said: ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I love your books, I love your music; I love your elegant rooms … everything.’

The Wigmore Hall was crowded. I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round. Dr Conrad Hyem was smiling at me.

‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ he exclaimed.

It was truly delightful to see him. We had not met for three months because he was controlling his diabetes satisfactorily by injecting himself, and he did not need our visits. I regretted the loss of his wonderful company, and would have liked to continue seeing him, but that was just not possible. As a nurse, I could not visit the flat of a single gentleman who had formerly been a patient, without bringing disrepute not only to myself but also, which was far more important, to the order of nuns for whom I worked. But meeting at the Wigmore Hall, quite by chance, was a different matter.

We went to the bar and he offered me a drink.

‘Well, only water, at the moment. I never drink alcohol before or during a performance because I like to keep my wits about me to listen to the music. But I’ll have a drink later, if the offer is still there.’

‘It will be a pleasure, and I’ll hold you to that. But for now we will have water. I myself can never understand people who come
to hear beautiful music then dull their minds with alcohol.’