I perched on the edge of the recliner while Don took the couch. Wiell sat in her office chair, her hands loosely crossed in her lap. She looked like Jean Simmons in Elmer Gantry.
“When we saw you on Channel Thirteen the other night, I immediately realized you had a very powerful story to tell, you and Paul Radbuka,” Don said. “You must have thought about putting it into a book before I called, hadn’t you?”
Wiell smiled faintly. “Of course I’ve wanted to: if you saw the whole program, then you’re aware that my work is-misunderstood-in a number of circles. A book validating the recovery of blocked trauma would be enormously useful. And Paul Radbuka’s story would be unusual enough-powerful enough-to force people to pay serious attention to the issue.”
Don leaned forward, chin on his clasped hands. “I’m new to the subject-my first exposure came two nights ago. I’ve been cramming hard, reading a manual on hypnotic suggestion, looking at articles about you, but I’m definitely not up to speed.”
She nodded. “Hypnosis is only one part of a total therapeutic approach, and it’s controversial because it isn’t understood very well. The field of memory, what we remember, how we remember, and maybe most interestingly why we remember-none of that is really known right now. The research seems exciting to me, but I’m not a scientist and I don’t pretend to have the time to follow experimental work in depth.”
“Would your book focus exclusively on Paul Radbuka?” I asked.
“Since Don-I hope you don’t mind my using your first name?-Don called yesterday, I’ve been thinking it over; I believe I should use some other case histories, as well, to show that my work with Paul isn’t-well, the kind of fly-by-night treatment that Planted Memory therapists like to claim.”
“What do you see as the book’s central point?” Don patted his jacket pocket reflexively, then pulled out a pen in lieu of his half-smoked cigarette.
“To show that our memories are reliable. To show the difference between planted memories and genuine ones. I began going through my patient files last night after I finished work and found several people whose histories would make this point quite strongly. Three had complete amnesia about their childhoods when they started therapy. One had partial memories, and two had what they thought were continuous memories, although therapy unlocked new insights for them. In some ways it’s most exciting to uncover memories for someone who has amnesia, but the harder work is verifying, filling in gaps for people who have some recall.”
Don interrupted to ask if there was some way to verify memories that were uncovered in treatment. I expected Wiell to become defensive, but she responded quite calmly.
“That’s why I earmarked these particular cases. For each of them there is at least one other person, a witness to their childhood, who can corroborate what came up in here. For some it’s a brother or sister. In one case it’s a social worker; for two, there are primary-school teachers.”
“We’d have to get written permission.” Don was making notes. “For the patients and for their verifiers. Witnesses.”
She nodded again. “Of course their real identities would be carefully concealed, not just to protect themselves but to protect family members and colleagues who could be harmed by such narratives. But, yes, we’ll get written permission.”
“Are these other patients also Holocaust survivors?” I ventured.
“Helping Paul was an incredible privilege.” A smile lit her face with a kind of ecstatic joy, so intense, so personal, that I instinctively shrank back on the recliner away from her. “Most of my clients are dealing with terrible traumas, to be sure, but within the context of this culture. To get Paul to that point, to the point of being a little boy speaking broken German with his helpless playmates in a concentration camp, was the most powerful experience of my life. I don’t even know how we can do it justice in print.” She looked at her hands, adding in a choked voice, “I think he’s recently recovered a fragment of memory of witnessing his mother’s death.”
“I’ll do my best for you,” Don muttered. He, too, had shifted away from her.
“You said you’d be concealing people’s real identities,” I said. “So is Paul Radbuka not his real name?”
The ecstasy left Wiell’s face, replaced again by her patina of professional calm. “He’s the one person who doesn’t seem to have any living family left to be upset by his revelations. Besides, he’s so intensely proud of his newly recovered identity that it would be impossible to persuade him to use a cover name.”
“So you’ve discussed it with him?” Don asked eagerly. “He’s willing to take part?”
“I haven’t had time to talk about it with any of my patients.” She smiled faintly. “You only broached the idea yesterday, after all. But I know how intensely Paul feels: it’s why he insisted on speaking up at the Birnbaum conference earlier this week. I think, too, he’d do anything he could to support my work, because it’s changed his life so dramatically.”
“How did he come to remember the name Radbuka?” I said. “If he was raised by this foster father from the age of four and wrenched from his birth family in infancy-have I got that chronology right?”
Wiell shook her head at me. “I hope your role isn’t to try to set traps for me, Ms. Warshawski. If it is, I’ll have to look for a different publisher than Envision Press. Paul found some papers in his father’s desk-his foster father, I should say-and they pointed the way to his birth name for him.”
“I wasn’t trying to set a trap, Ms. Wiell. But it would certainly strengthen the book if we could get some outside corroboration of his Radbuka identity. And it’s remotely possible that I am in a position to provide that. To be candid, I have friends who came to England from central Europe with the Kindertransport in the last months before the war began. Apparently one of their group of special friends in London was named Radbuka. If it turns out your client is a relation, it might mean a great deal, both to him and to my friends who lost so many family members.”
Again the rapturous smile swept across her face. “Ah, if you can introduce him to his relatives, that would be an indescribable gift to Paul. Who are these people? Do they live in England? How do you know them?”
“I know two of them who live here in Chicago; the third is a musician who’s visiting from London for a few days. If I could talk to your client-”
“Not until I’ve consulted with him,” she cut me off. “And I would have to have your-friends’-names before I could do so. I hate to have to be so suspicious, but I have had too many traps set for me by the Planted Memory Foundation.”
My eyes narrowed as I tried to hear behind her words. Was this paranoia born of too much skirmishing with Arnold Praeger, or a legitimate prudence?
Before I could decide, Don said, “You don’t think Max would mind your giving his name, do you, Vic?”
“Max?” Wiell cried. “Max Loewenthal?”
“How do you know him?” Don asked, again before I could respond.
“He spoke at the session on the efforts of survivors to track down the fates of their families and whether they had any assets tied up in Swiss or German banks. Paul and I sat in on that: we hoped we could learn some new ideas for ways of looking for his family. If Max is your friend, I’m sure Paul would be glad to talk to him-he seemed an extraordinary man, gentle, empathic, yet assured, authoritative.”
“That’s a good description of his personality,” I said, “but he also has a strong sense of privacy. He would be most annoyed if Paul Radbuka approached him without my having a chance to speak to Mr. Radbuka first.”
“You can rest assured that I understand the value of privacy. My relations with my clients would not be possible if I didn’t protect them.” Wiell gave me the same sweet, steely smile she’d directed at Arnold Praeger on TV the other night.