GEORGE KONRAD
545
grin passes, however; the chief is sensitive, so the patient must pay
for his transgression with enforced insensibility. He staggers in a
drugged stupor amid the imposing columns of the hospital lobby.
It's foolish to want to leave this place; most mental hospitals are
worse.
If
you want it badly enough, you can get transferred-all it
takes is a friendly telephone call from one smiling chief
to
another.
Two husky male nurses in a white car deliver a patient from the
other place and take one of ours away. In our hospital there are no
bars on the windows; they don't stick us in beds with netting over
them, and we are even allowed to use knives at the dinner table.
There is free love; we are taken to see shows and movies.
If
we work
without making trouble, a few of us privileged inmates can live in
the village, and then it's almost like going to work in the asylum.
But if all these concessions prove to be insufficient , we can find out
in the neighboring town what it's like
to
stay in a hospital that 's
ruled with an iron hand.
There queer, ex-con nurses take strapping alcoholics on com–
pulsory withdrawal and train them to become supervisors. At the
wink of an eye, the drunkards surround inmates who are reluctant to
service the nurses, or who try to get out of electrotherapy by stuffing
themselves with bread , and in a slu ggish, almost leisurely way, beat
their victims until they are more pliable. Everyone hears them
scream, but common sense requires that neither the doctors nor the
patients be too inquisitive.
We, forcibly committed inmates who have been placed here
after criminal proceedings, go about our business quietly. We don't
give the higher-ups any trouble; the director couldn't let us go even
if he wanted to. Only the senile old people and the hopeless schizo–
phrenics are as placid as we are. The rest of them wait around in
clusters for the white-robed personnel to scurry by, and keep asking
them mechanically when they will be allowed to go home . The
answer is gentle and routine: When you're well, my dear, when you
behave yourself, next fall, next winter, next year. There is always
that person who stamps his foot and insists that he is leaving next
Monday. Oh, yes? the doctor inquires with interest. That very after–
noon he might have the patient brought into the treatment room, to
subdue his vehemence with a quick electroshock.
Some patients are aware of this and try to ingratiate themselves
with the doctors, thanking them profusely for the treatments,
informing them radiantly that they feel just fine. Then why are you
