On impulse, I slipped into a nearly empty café that had a telephone in a corner. I dialed Feinstein's office, feeling foolish and embarrassed. He'd said he treated other people just like me. Could he help me with the nightmares, make the bad memories bearable? Could I find peace in my new home, like the hard-bought peace I had felt in Germany?
The phone rang eight times without being answered. I figured Feinstein had gone home for the weekend. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I was to see him on Sunday to get the rest of the money for our mission in Germany. Perhaps he would be able to give me some advice then. I had taken the phone away from my ear when I heard his voice.
"Hello? Hello?"
I talked in a low voice, even though the proprietor of the café was well out of earshot. "Dr. Feinstein? Felix?"
"Adam? Is that you?"
"Yes."
"Sorry it took me so long to answer. I was on my way out when the phone started ringing." He did not sound hurried. His voice was as soft and controlled as it had been during our meeting. "What can I do for you, Adam?"
"I would like to meet with you," I said.
"If this is about the rest of the money, I won't have it until Sunday."
"No. It's…it's not about the money."
"Ah," he said, and there was total understanding in that single syllable. "I see."
In a rush, I said, "But you were going out, so I won't keep you. I'll see you Sunday and—"
"No. That's no problem. I can make the time. Come right over."
I hung up, paid for the call, and headed out into the street. I walked quickly to Feinstein's office, my hands in my pockets, my shoulders hunched. My eyes shifted from side to side, hoping not to encounter anyone who knew me. My fear was silly, I realized. I had been in Feinstein's office just the other day. Anyone could have seen me walk in. But I had a different purpose then. Now I was coming to talk, professionally, to a psychiatrist. And that said something about me. Something I did not want to face.
He had left the outer door open for me and was waiting at his desk when I entered. He smiled at me and told me to pick either couch or chair. I took the chair. I noticed that his bad hand was hidden away in his pocket again. For some reason that made me feel better. Feinstein himself was hiding a part of him. Like I was ashamed of my scars, he was ashamed of his.
I sat in the chair, feeling out of place, unsure what to say. We looked at each other across the desk for a moment. Then Feinstein said, "I'm glad you've come."
"You are? Why?"
"I sensed you might find talking to me useful."
"I'm not sure how I feel about being here," I said.
"Embarrassed," Feinstein suggested. "Ashamed, unsure of what it says about you?"
"All of the above."
"That's natural. Many of our fellow citizens do not believe that people can have mental issues and still be good, functioning members of society. One day this will change."
"So I'm not crazy."
Feinstein smiled comfortingly. "I did not say that. Not yet. I need to know what brought you here first."
I worked my jaw from side to side, wondering how best to begin. He sensed my hesitation and said, "Do you have bad dreams?"
"Yes."
"Often?"
"Yes. Almost every night."
He nodded, pursing his lips. "About the war? About the camp?"
"And about my family."
"Ah. You lost them all?"
"Yes," I said, and I told him about losing my mother, my four sisters, my wife, and my two daughters. "I am the only one left." My voice had become brittle, and I found myself kneading my fingers in my lap.
"Do you wake up from these dreams?"
"Sometimes. Other times I just suffer through them."
"Anything else? Apart from the nightmares. What other things do you experience?"
"I have flashes of memory. Anything can ignite them. A smell, a sound, a sight."
"I know what you mean," Feinstein said. "And you don't want to remember?"
"No," I said.
"That is understandable. There aren't many of us who do. I daresay most of my patients would gladly take a pill or undergo a treatment that would wipe their memory clean of those years." He sighed, and I got the sense that he might have stood in line with his patients for such a cure. "What else?"
I paused, uncertain, and then I told him about the Hunger attacks.
He listened to me intently. When I finished describing what the attacks felt like, he let out a held breath and said, "Extraordinary. I've met all sorts of patients, encountered so many different symptoms, but never this. Oh, all of us have an attitude toward food that people who've never starved cannot understand, but this sort of attack…" He looked at me, eyes bright and probing. "But these things are not what's brought you here. At least not just them."
"Why do you think so?" I said, and realized I was stalling.
"Because I have a sense of who you are, Adam. You're adaptable. You're the sort of man who manages to keep going, even in rough conditions, even when beset by all sorts of agonies and miseries. This is what got you through the war, but it didn't stop there. It's part of how you live your life." He paused, searched my face, and when I was silent, said, "But it's not the full way you live your life. And perhaps that is why you are here."
"What do you mean?"
"I know a little about you: a part of your history, your heroism during the war. You could easily have been an officer in the army or a detective on the police force. But you choose to work as a private detective. Why?"
"There are many reasons."
"Such as?"
"Not being told what to do. Not having to follow orders."
"Being your own man?" he suggested.
I nodded. "There is that."
"You're a loner. You didn't use to be, but this is who you are now. Correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you like it? Being alone, working alone?"
I thought about it. "I handle it well."
He smiled. "As I said—you're adaptable. You lost everyone, so you've grown into your solitude. But being able to handle things well is not the same as liking them or wanting them to remain as they are."
Neither of us said anything for a moment. My hands were sweating. He had seen through me with amazing ease. I sensed that he had come close to some integral place in me. A place I did not wish exposed to the eyes of anyone.
He shifted in his chair, tapping on the desk with a forefinger. "There is something more. Something you're not telling. I can see it in your eyes. Not what it is, of course, but that it is there. Tell me what it is."
His voice was not commanding but inviting. I found myself wanting to share with him.
"When I was in Germany after the war, hunting Nazis," I said, "and later during the War of Independence, I had no bad dreams. And in my work, there have been times when I used violence, and that also helped."
"It quieted you down."
"Yes."
"And it brought you some enjoyment."
I nodded, my mouth dry.
"And you're worried about this fact?"
"Shouldn't I be?"
He pondered this and said, "Are you violent toward the innocent?"
I shook my head. "Never."
"Are you more violent than you have to be?"
I thought for a moment, shook my head, though I wasn't entirely sure that I was being perfectly truthful.
"Then the problem, if it is one, is not of immediate concern. We can work on it, if you like. In time, we may be able to change your reactions."
I frowned. "But for now," I said, "what do I do for now?"
He stared at me, his eyebrows rising an inch. He drew out his damaged hand, brandished it before me, and smiled wistfully at it.