"Doctor, can't you just give her, I don't know, an injection or something?"
Obergruppenführer John Smith sneaked a look at his wife in the adjoining room. She sat there on the couch, staring vacantly at her hand as it stroked the crushed velour upholstery, alternately raising the nap and wiping it back down. He had married her for her face, with its perfect Nordic forehead and cheekbones and the porcelain perfection of its complexion, but now that face was a slack thing, flaccid and dead.
"She just sits there, all day. She'll answer a direct question, but otherwise…"
"Not so easy, this." Dr. Junker was German-born and German-trained; Dr. Adler had called him the finest psychiatrist in the Greater Reich. If he were saying the case was hopeless, then it was hopeless. However, Smith was not a man who was used to hearing "no"—and Dr. Junker had not exactly said "no".
"See here, there must be something. Anything must be better than this. As she is now, I've lost her. My wife is gone. My marriage…" Smith gestured helplessly. Junker had certainly dealt with that problem before. He would understand Smith's frustration without needing it spelled out.
"I have something that will temporary relief provide. But to treat symptoms is most folly. In such cases die Erste Ursache one must find. Give me six months to psychoanalyze her and then a course of treatment I will suggest."
Smith took second place to no one in his enthusiasm for German culture, but Herr Docktor's accent and ridiculous mangling of English taxed his patience.
"Thank you, Junker. I will call you if I need anything else. I believe you know your way out."
"Ja, and good day to you Herr Obergruppenführer."